preface

gary genosko and nicholas thoburn

WHAT HAPPENS to political thought, practice, and imagination when it loses hold on the future? It goes into crisis. The analytic, psychological, and libidinal structures of twentieth-century revolutionary politics were beholden to the temporal form of the future—it even gave the first movement of the avant-garde its name: Futurism. The future was on the side of the revolution. It was a great and empowering myth, but few believe it any longer: the future is over. Its last vestiges were squandered in the schemes of a heavily futurized financial capitalism.

This is Franco Berardi’s radical diagnosis. It is a clinical diagnosis as much as it is a political one, for Berardi traces the symptoms of the end of the future across the social and corporeal body. Cognitive, affective, linguistic, semiotic, desiring, economic, organizational, and mediatic processes are the matter of this assessment of the contemporary malaise. Symptoms point backwards to repressed contents, and lean into a postfuture that is still finding a way to coalesce. Such symptoms are not very enjoyable.

But the diagnosis is even more radical. The point isn’t to revive the future in a new vanguard. The future was itself a highly suspect temporal form—for Berardi, the imaginary effect of the capitalist mode of production, with its expansive pursuit of surplus value. Things started to turn in 1977, the beginning of the progressive dissolution of the century that trusted in the future. It is here identified in British punk, but also in the Italian Movement of ’77 that Berardi is so closely associated with.

Franco Berardi, or Bifo, is principally known to Anglo-American readers for his association with operaismo (workerism) and the movement of autonomia (autonomy). This current in Italian thought and extra-parliamentary politics came to prominence and considerable influence in the 1970s for its transformative approach to communist politics—placing workers’ needs, desires, and organizational autonomies at the center of political praxis—and for the wave of repression unleashed against it (Wright 2002). Since then, and under the rubric of postautonomism and postworkerism—what Bifo prefers to call compositionism—this current has come to have considerable influence in activist circles, postmedia cultures, and the university. Antonio Negri is, of course, the principal figure here, but it would be a great mistake to take his work as an emblem for the historical forms and contemporary parameters of this mode of thought and politics as a whole.

A comrade of Negri’s in the key workerist organization, Potere Operaio, Bifo’s politics have continued to display the signs of the workerist current. This is not least in his insistence on engaging and researching the most contemporary technical and antagonistic composition of any class formation, never falling back on a preconstituted, identitarian understanding of political subjectivity. The deployment of the autonomist talisman of Marx’s concept of the general intellect is perhaps the most enduring sign of this mode of intellectual commitment in his work. But Bifo’s relation to the critical current of operaismo is something of a zigzag, a transversal connection that is as much open to the outside of autonomist politics as it is an elaboration of it.

This is no more apparent than in the Bologna collective A/Traverso (In-between) that Bifo helped establish in the mid-1970s, and in the associated free radio station, Radio Alice. In these technocultural experiments in publishing, research, organization, and broadcasting, autonomist theses were enmeshed with pop-cultural styles, media capacities, the urban rebellions of proletarian youth, sexual politics, modernist poetics, and the conceptual innovations of poststructuralist thought, most especially those of Deleuze and Guattari. Shutdown by armed police for its contribution to the Bologna uprisings in the Spring of 1977, Radio Alice has taken on something of a mythic aspect, one confirmed in the highly evocative recent film about Radio Alice, Lavorare con lentezza, in which Bifo takes a cameo turn as a Marxist lawyer.

Bifo’s transversal politics, writing, and media practice have since developed through numerous organizational and media forms, as radio waves have been joined by digital technologies in the field of political composition—the movement of community television, Telestreet, and the Web forum, Rekombinant, are notable instances. But returning to the themes of this book, how are Bifo’s arguments different or transversal to the positions that have come to be associated with postworkerism?

Bifo’s diagnosis is considerably darker than that of Hardt and Negri, as we can see with regard to the theme of immaterial labor. In the rise to prominence of the intellectual, semiotic, and affective content of work and its product, it’s now well known that Hardt and Negri detect a tendency toward workers’ autonomy, where capital becomes a parasitic agent of capture external to the self-organization of labor. Bifo’s conclusions are rather different. The agential force in contemporary configurations of work is not labor, but most decidedly capital. In a dozen pages of the Grundrisse known by operaismo as the Fragment on Machines, Marx (1973, 692) observed that the capitalist production mechanism is a vast automaton consisting of numerous mechanical and intellectual organs. Here, as he continues,

Labor appears … merely as a conscious organ, scattered among the individual living workers at numerous points of the mechanical system … whose unity exists not in the living workers, but rather in the living (active) machinery, which confronts his individual, insignificant doings as a mighty organism. (Marx 1973, 693)

In After the Future, Bifo iterates Marx’s thesis in the radically new times of digital capitalism. And he finds that the automaton has multiplied its powers to disaggregate and orchestrate the parts or organs of labor; the whole psychosphere of the human being becomes subject to the movement of capital, now operating at digital speeds. With the networking powers of information technology, the capacities of capitalist work processes to orchestrate labor have not only been extended spatially, across the globe, but have intensified temporally also. Today’s firms don’t purchase workers as a whole, but a fragment of their activity, sensibility, attention, communicative capacity. One of Bifo’s most compelling contributions to the theory of semiocapitalism—capitalism that makes signs, affects, attitudes, and ideas directly productive—is the cellularization of labor. As production becomes semiotic, cognitive workers are precariously employed—on occasional, contractual, temporary bases—and their work involves the elaboration of segments or semiotic artifacts that are highly abstract entities combined and recombined through an exploitative digital network only at the precise time they are required. The social field, as he argues here, is an ocean of valorizing cells convened in a cellular way and recombined by the subjectivity of capital. These infolaborers are paid only for the moments when their time is made cellular, yet their entire days are subjected to this kind of production, pulsating and available, like a brain-sprawl in waiting, Blackberries and mobile phones ever ready.

The psychic and somatic form of the human cannot take this, and as our cognitive, communicative, and emotional capacities become subject to cellular fragmentation and recombination under the new machine-speed of information, we get sick. Depression, panic, unhappiness, anxiety, fear, terror—these are the affective conditions of contemporary labor, the psycho-bombs of cognitive capitalism, each, naturally, with its own psychopharmacology. Nonetheless, we actively submit ourselves to this regime; this is the perversity of contemporary culture. Of course, the vast majority has no choice—these are the structural conditions of work. But the progressive commercialization of culture, deadening of metropolitan life, loss of solidarity, and insidious dispersal of mechanisms of competition are such that we have come to fixate our desires on work. Even as it pushes human affective and cognitive capacities to breaking point, the entrepreneurial form is the only adequate expression of our current communicative and affective qualities, the one most able to confirm our increasingly competitive and narcissistic drives.

Such existential precarity is not to be solved by a return to the Fordist model of labor time and contract security. This was not only a temporary and now passed formation in the long history of otherwise precarious labor (and one that was even then peculiar to a particular racialized and gendered fragment of the working population). It was also the specific object of workers’ resistance in the 1970s, resistance that Bifo and autonomia valorized as the refusal of work. Neither are the militant strategies of the past any longer viable, and Bifo has no interest in reviving the corpse of orthodox communism. His opinion of this tradition is abundantly clear in The Soul at Work:

The only relation between the State Communism imposed by the Leninist parties in the Soviet Union and elsewhere, and the autonomous communism of the workers, is the violence systematically exerted by the first over the second, in order to subdue, discipline, and destroy it. (Berardi 2009, 85)

There is, then, no return to Lenin or Mao. Alongside Hardt and Negri, perhaps the most prominent and influential efforts to reestablish a communism adequate to the current conjuncture are to be found in the work of Alain Badiou. In his later work, Badiou has turned away from vanguard models of the party. Yet this is because we have entered a new sequence, beyond that which was characterized by the Leninist party form and Mao’s Cultural Revolution (Badiou 2008). Bifo’s difference is that, whether correctly characterized by a series of sequences or not, communism proper never went by the name of Lenin or Mao (the Mao-Dadaism of Radio Alice signified something quite other than identification with China’s Great Helmsman). As shorthand for this critique, we would signal the affirmation and intensification—not refusal or overcoming—of work in the Soviet and Chinese regimes. But the problem that Bifo isolates in these pages is the subjective political model inherent to such orthodox communism, the militant, and its not so distant cousin, the activist.

Activism, Bifo argues in these pages, is the narcissistic response of the subject to the infinite and invasive power of capital, a response that can only leave the activist frustrated, humiliated, and depressed. Bifo here locates this modern political configuration in Lenin, and makes a most heretical statement: I am convinced that the twentieth century would have been a better century had Lenin not existed. He arrives at this diagnosis through a reading of Lenin’s bouts of depression, but the condition is not exclusive to Lenin. Indeed, elsewhere Bifo identifies a similar fixation in Félix Guattari, a most surprising move, given the sophistication of Guattari’s schizoanalytic critique of authoritarian political subjectivation. Bifo developed his friendship with Guattari while in exile from Italy in the 1980s, a period that Guattari characterized as his winter years, the coincidence of personal depression and neoliberal reaction. Under these conditions, a certain political activism appeared central to Guattari, but not so to Bifo: I remember that in the 1980s Félix often scolded me because I was no longer involved in some kind of political militancy.… For me, militant will and ideological action had become impotent (Berardi 2008, 13). For Bifo, in times of reaction, of the evacuation of political creativity from the social field, activism becomes a desperate attempt to ward off depression. But it’s doomed to fail and, worse, to convert political innovation and sociality into its opposite, to replace desire with duty:

Félix knew this, I am sure, but he never said this much, not even to himself, and this is why he went to all these meetings with people who didn’t appeal to him, talking about things that distracted him.… And here again is the root of depression, in this impotence of political will that we haven’t had the courage to admit. (Berardi 2008, 13)

We would isolate two aspects of Bifo’s analysis of depression. It is a product of the panic induced by the sensory overload of digital capitalism, a condition of withdrawal, a disinvestment of energy from the competitive and narcissistic structures of the enterprise. And it’s also a result of the loss of political composition and antagonism: depression is born out of the dispersion of the community’s immediacy. Autonomous and desiring politics was a proliferating community. When the proliferating power is lost, the social becomes the place of depression (Berardi 2008, 13). In both manifestations, depression is a real historical experience, something that must be actively faced and engaged with—one cannot merely ward it off with appeals to militant voluntarism. We need to assess its contours, conditions, and products, to find an analytics of depression, and an adequate politics. And that is the goal of this book, a first step toward a politics after the future, and after the redundant analytic and subjective forms of which the future was made.

Bifo makes use of many resources in this venture of diagnosis and escape, traversing the Futurist aesthetics of speed, the psychic corruption of Berlusconi’s mediatic empire, transrational language, senility, the dotcom bubble, the Copenhagen climate summit, the dynamics of semiocapitalism, and the possibilities of a Baroque modernity. This book begins and ends with a manifesto. The first, Marinetti’s Futurist Manifesto, opened the century that trusted in the future. Written a century later, Bifo’s Manifesto of Post-Futurism, is a rather different entity, a love song to the infinity of the present. As the cognitariat reconnect with their bodies and collectivities and cast off the shackles of self-entrepreneurship, then song, poetry, and therapy freely mix into a cocktail that clears the head of any further illusions of the FUTURE.

introduction

I WROTE THIS book in different moments and circumstances during the last decade. Its parts were therefore conceived and structured in different ways and with varying aims. Readers will not be surprised to find that these compositional features are expressed in the style of the different texts they encounter here. Recent events, like the student revolts in Athens, London, and Rome, the Arab insurrections of the first months of 2011, and the Fukushima nuclear meltdown, did not find a place in the book, but they are fully inscribed in its spirit and conception, and stand as a confirmation of the irreversible devastation of the modern values of social civilization that neoliberal dogmatism has provoked. Taken together, these processes of conception, structure, aim, and style have composed a book about the end of the future, immersed in the complex constellations of the present.

In the first chapter—The Century that Trusted in the Future—I retrace the history of the imagination of the future over the twentieth century, from the enthusiastic expectations and proclamations of the Futurists to the punk announcement of No Future. This part, which I wrote in 2009, ranges from the Futurist Manifesto of 1909 to the digital Futurism of the Wired ideology that blossomed in the last decade of the twentieth century.

If the first chapter follows a precise outline and was written in a consecutive period of time, the second is a constellation of articles and short essays that I published during the last ten years in the midst of the movement for global justice. These have appeared previously in Rekombinant. org, Generation Online, SubStance, and Occupied London.

The third chapter is dedicated to the concept of semiocapitalism and to the emergence of a societal form where Baroque spirit, plebeian violence, and high-finance criminality commingle: Italy in the age of Berlusconi.

The fourth chapter is focused on activism and current ideas about subjectivity. I try to answer the question: how can we imagine a future of conscious collective subjectivation? How will it be possible to create a collective consciousness in the age of precariousness and the fractalization of time? How will it be possible to practice social autonomy in a world where capitalism has instituted irreversible trends of destruction?

The vertiginous zero zero decade has changed our views and our landscape in an astounding way. From the dotcom crash to September 11th 2001, from the criminal wars of the Bush administration to the near collapse of the global financial economy, the recent history of the world has been marked by shocking events and surprising reversals. For me, this decade, heralded by the uprising of Seattle, and initiated by the spreading of the counterglobalization movement, has been exciting, surprising and exhilarating—but it has finally turned sad.

By the end of the decade, notwithstanding the victory of Barack Obama in the United States, the prospect was gloomy. Corporate capitalism and neoliberalism have produced lasting damage in the material structures of the world and in the social, cultural, and nervous systems of humankind. In the century’s last decade, a new movement emerged and grew fast and wide, questioning everywhere the power of capitalist corporations.

I use the word movement to describe a collective displacing of bodies and minds, a changing of consciousness, habits, expectations. Movement means conscious change, change accompanied by collective consciousness and collective elaboration, and struggle. Conscious. Collective. Change. This is the meaning of movement.

From Seattle 1999 to Genoa 2001 a movement tried to stop the capitalist devastation of the very conditions of civilized life. These were the stakes, no more, no less.

Activists around the world had a simple message: if we don’t stop the machine of exploitation, debt, and compulsory consumption, human cohabitation on the planet will become dismal, or impossible.

Well, ten years after Seattle, in the wake of the 2009 Copenhagen summit failure, we can state that those people were speaking the truth.

The global movement against capitalist globalization reached an impressive range and pervasiveness, but it was never able to change the daily life of society. It remained an ethical movement, not a social transformer. It could not create a process of social recomposition, it could not produce an effect of social subjectivation. Those people were silenced by President Bush, after the huge demonstrations of February 15, 2003, when many millions of people worldwide gathered in the streets against the war in Iraq.

The absence of movement is visible today, at the end of the zero zero decade: the absence of an active culture, the lack of a public sphere, the void of collective imagination, palsy of the process of subjectivation. The path to a conscious collective subject seems obstructed.

What now? A conscious collective change seems impossible at the level of daily life. Yes, I know, change is happening everyday, at a pace that we have never experienced before. What is the election of a black President in the United States if not change? But change is not happening in the sphere of social consciousness. Change happens in the spectacular sphere of politics, not in daily life—and the relationship between politics and daily life has become so tenuous, so weak, that sometimes I think that, whatever happens in politics, life will not change.

The fantastic collapse of the economy is certainly going to change things in daily life: you can bet on it. But is this change consciously elaborated? Is this connected with some conscious collective action? It isn’t. This is why neoliberal fanaticism, notwithstanding its failure, is surviving and driving the agenda of the powers of the