adrielcloud

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Identity Thinking, The Artworld, and the Complexities of Belonging

In 2017, I was exchanging messages with a now well-established when they casually dropped into conversation; “I just think all white cis-male artists should be killed.” I was shocked, though not entirely surprised. By then, identity politics had gained significant momentum, fueled by massive political shifts—Trump’s election, Brexit, and the growing polarization of online spaces. The art world, long dominated by patriarchal structures, seemed ready for a reckoning. The curator’s words, however extreme, reflected a sentiment that had been brewing: a desire to redress centuries of exclusion and domination by white male artists. This period marked a turning point in deciding who was allowed to participate in the artworld.

The push for greater inclusion of non-male, non-binary, and non-white artists was both necessary and overdue. For far too long, these voices had been marginalized, their contributions ignored. But this shift also revealed a troubling dynamic. The mechanisms used to challenge exclusion were beginning to replicate the logic of the systems they sought to dismantle. Categories of identity—race, gender, class, and age—became tools for gatekeeping, determining who could or could not be included. This approach risked reinforcing the same biases it claimed to oppose, turning identity into a rigid framework that flattened individual complexity and making it the ultimate judgement. Suddenly, one might find themselves “not black enough,” “not marginal enough,” or “not working-class enough” to participate in the discourse or authentically represent a group.

The Fear of Speaking Out

I wanted to critique the curator’s statement, but I hesitated. As someone from a working-class background, I was acutely aware of how my own identity shaped this fear. I felt haunted by the notion that I didn’t have the “right” vocabulary or the polished academic language required to dismantle their sentiment effectively. This insecurity left me questioning whether my perspective would be dismissed outright, not because of its substance, but because it lacked the articulation or perceived legitimacy expected in such circles.

At the time, cancel culture was gaining momentum, and even well-meaning people were starting to feel silenced by the fear of missteps. While online activism has united many against hate—combating sexism, racism, and injustice—it has also fostered a climate of fear and division. Calls for inclusion too often rely on identity markers as unifying mechanisms, but these markers can divide rather than unite. None of us are pure archetypes of our identities, and no one fits neatly into these constructed boxes. For me, this divide was heightened by my working-class roots, making me feel like an outsider in art-world conversations often dominated by polished academic modes of expression.

Adorno’s Concept of Identity Thinking

The philosopher Theodor Adorno’s concept of identity thjnking describes a form of reasoning that reduces individuals to representatives of abstract categories, erasing their unique specificity. Bureaucracies, for example, classify individuals into groups, treating them as data points or numbers rather than as unique people. Similarly, identity politics, when applied reductively, risks turning individuals into symbols of their race, gender, or class, overlooking the rich and nuanced intersections of their lived experiences.

Flattening Identity and Its Consequences

Identity thinking flattens the complexity of human experience, distorting reality by subsuming distinct phenomena under generalized classifications. While it offers the advantage of organizing and mobilizing collective action, it sacrifices attention to the particularities that make each individual unique. This oversimplification is not new; it underpins systems of oppression such as apartheid, segregation, and racial supremacy, which rely on rigid categorizations to enforce dominance and hierarchy. Ironically, the same mechanism now appears in progressive spaces, where identity is wielded as both a weapon and a shield.

In Paul Clinton’s article One Man Protest, also written in 2017, he argued that modern solidarity groups often emphasize “expressions of belonging,” which can unintentionally entrench the very problems they aim to dismantle. By lumping people together under broad categories, these movements risk reinforcing essentialist ideas about identity rather than challenging them. Similarly, Mark Fisher’s Exiting the Vampire Castle critiques the rise of “hierarchical leftism,” where individuals condemn one another in a way that ultimately serves capitalism’s divisive interests. Fisher’s essay was prophetic, foreseeing a world where both the left and the right are fragmented, with people drawn into polarized and alienating political identities.

Toward a Multitude of Differences

If identity politics as currently practiced risks reproducing exclusion, where do we go from here? The concept of the “multitude,” as articulated by Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri, offers a compelling alternative. Unlike “the people,” which implies a singular, unified entity, the multitude is plural and heterogeneous. It recognizes the varied experiences, desires, and identities of individuals, allowing them to collaborate through shared struggles rather than shared identity. This model resists the flattening of individuality, embracing difference as a source of strength rather than division.

In the art world and beyond, we must move away from frameworks that reduce people to their identity markers. Human differences—shaped by culture, geography, and personal experience—are not obstacles but sources of power. True solidarity comes not from erasing these differences but from recognizing and respecting them. Instead of asking whether someone is “enough” of something to belong, we must embrace the idea that none of us are meant to fit neatly into any category.

The State of the Art World

The conversation with the curator in 2017 continues to linger in my mind, a microcosm of larger tensions within progressive spaces. While the push for inclusion has been necessary and transformative, it has also revealed the limitations of identity-based frameworks. We must resist the urge to define people by their identities alone; we are complex beings of contradictory traits. By embracing the multiplicity of human experience, we can build communities and movements that are genuinely inclusive, not bound by the same divisions they seek to dismantle. None of us are pure representations of our identities, and that is where our strength lies.

Unfortunately, I don’t hold much hope for the artworld in its current state. As Dean Kissick highlights in his recent article The Painted Protest, the art market’s emphasis on identity often leads to the tokenization of artists, elevating works that align with socio-political trends at the expense of artistic innovation and quality. Kissick calls for a more nuanced engagement with identity in art—one that celebrates individual complexity without reducing artists to representatives of their demographic categories. To move forward, we must recognize the intrinsic value of art beyond identity markers and advocate for a balance between acknowledging identity and upholding artistic integrity.

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Rethinking Death Through Regeneration and Resurrection Ecology

The history of the world, as natural history, is nothing more than a stratification of events and processes that are never definitively ‘dead and buried’, but which continue to flow and exert an active force from a lower, or even subterranean, dimension than the present—events and processes that can also reappear in an altered form, upsetting our temporal perception. This characteristic pluriversality amounts to the preeminence of reality over imagination, i.e. the hierarchical superiority of natural processes over thought. 

- Chapter ‘For a chaotic vision of time’, Gruppo di Nun, Revolutionary Demonology

Death in secular societies is often viewed as the ultimate, irreversible conclusion to life. This perception is deeply rooted in our understanding of human biological mortality, where once the brain stops functioning and the heart ceases to beat, life is considered to be over, with no continuation beyond the bodily processes. This perspective is not universal, it's profoundly influenced by cultural, religious, and philosophical belief systems that offer different interpretations of what happens after the physical body ceases to function. In many spiritual and religious traditions death is not seen as the end of life but rather a transition to a different form of existence. For those who believe in reincarnation the end of the physical body does not signify the end, instead it is believed that the soul after leaving the body is reborn into a new one, continuing its journey through successive lives. This cyclical view of life and death suggests that death is merely a passage from one form of life to another, rather than an absolute conclusion.

The idea that human life can be prolonged, renewed, or even reanimated has been portrayed in diverse and evolving ways, from the pages of early science fiction to the screens of modern cinema, and increasingly within scientific laboratories. These portrayals reflect humanity’s enduring fascination with mortality and the relentless pursuit of ways to transcend it.  

Real-world efforts by the biotech industry pursue the reversal of ageing and, by extension, death itself. Peter Thiel, the tech billionaire known for his ventures into disruptive technologies, is one of the prominent figures leading the charge against growing old. His investments in biotech firms that focus on anti-aging research aim to challenge the inevitability of death by targeting the biological processes that cause ageing. Thiel and other tech entrepreneurs are exploring various avenues, from cellular reprogramming to extending telomeres—the protective caps on chromosomes that shorten with age. These efforts are rooted in the belief that ageing is a disease that can be cured and that, by doing so, the human lifespan can be dramatically extended, potentially leading to a future where death is no longer an unavoidable fate.

Immortality finds parallels in nature, where certain organisms possess regenerative abilities that defy the typical constraints of life and death. The immortal jellyfish (Turritopsis dohrnii), for instance, can revert to its immature polyp stage after reaching adulthood, effectively resetting its biological clock. This form of biological immortality allows the jellyfish to escape death, at least theoretically, by continuously cycling between life stages. Such natural examples of regeneration challenge our human-centric understanding of mortality, suggesting that life can persist in forms we barely understand.

Resurrection Ecology, which studies species that can revive after long periods of dormancy is an example of how life adapts and persists through extreme environmental conditions. This fascinating field studies the potential for ecosystems to recover or "resurrect" from extreme disturbances by analysing ancient organisms and their genetic material. A notable example involves the freshwater crustacean Daphnia, which can produce eggs that remain dormant in sediments for decades or even centuries. When environmental conditions become favourable again, these eggs can hatch, effectively resurrecting a population that had seemingly vanished. This process not only illustrates the resilience of certain species but also provides valuable insights into how ecosystems might regenerate after severe disruptions, such as climate change or human-induced environmental damage. As Gruppo di Nun notes in Revolutionary Demonology, the history of the natural world is one of "pluriversality," where even buried processes exert their influence across time. This suggests that nature operates with a chaotic, layered temporality, where the past re-emerges in altered forms, reshaping the present.

Cryptobiosis (literally meaning hidden life), is where the metabolic rate of an organism is reduced to an imperceptible level, showing no visible signs of life.' Cryptobiosis includes anhydrobiosis (life without water), cryobiosis (life at low temperatures), and anoxybiosis (life without oxygen). In the cryptobiotic state, all metabolic procedures stop, preventing reproduction, development, and repair where an organism can live almost indefinitely while it waits for environmental conditions to become better.

Within the human body, certain tissues and organs possess a remarkable ability to regenerate. The liver, for example, can recover from substantial damage by regenerating its lost tissue, a phenomenon that was mythologized in the story of Prometheus. Chained to a rock, Prometheus’s liver was eaten by an eagle each day, only to regenerate by night—a tale that ancient Greeks may have used to symbolise the resilience of this vital organ. Modern science confirms that the liver’s regenerative capacity is indeed exceptional, but it also highlights the limits of human regeneration. While some tissues like the endometrium and fingertips can regenerate to some extent, the loss of limbs or severe damage to the brain remains beyond our bodily capacity to repair.

Scientists are exploring ways to harness the body’s own regenerative mechanisms or induce regeneration in tissues that typically do not regenerate. The goal is to develop therapies that can restore lost or damaged tissues, effectively turning back the biological clock on a cellular level. 

Axolotls are remarkable for their ability to regenerate lost or damaged body parts, which has long fascinated scientists, particular for stem cell research. Beyond limbs, axolotls can regenerate vital organs like the heart, lungs, and even segments of their spinal cord, restoring function. They can also regenerate parts of their brain and eyes, something highly unusual in vertebrates. Unlike most animals, they heal without scarring, maintaining the full functionality of the regenerated tissue. This regenerative ability holds potential for human medicine, if researchers can unlock the genetic and cellular processes enabling axolotl regeneration, it might one day be possible to apply these insights to humans. This could revolutionise treatments for injuries like spinal cord damage, heart disease, or limb loss.

The implications of these developments reach far beyond individual organisms, extending into the broader ecological context. Just as a liver or jellyfish can regenerate, so too can ecosystems—though with varying degrees of success. For example, forests can regrow after fires, but this regeneration is influenced by a multitude of environmental factors, leading to variable processes and outcomes. Similarly, the global ecosystem, under increasing threat from climate change, will inevitably undergo its own form of regeneration. Some life will persist, some species will go extinct, and others may enter strange states of dormancy.

These ideas challenge our Western notions of life and death. Traditionally viewed as a final, irreversible state, death can instead be reimagined as a transitional phase—one that contains the potential for the (re)emergence of life.

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Abiogenesis

Abiogenesis is the leading scientific theory on how life began; that life arose from non-living matter through increasing complexity. This theory raises an immediate question: what defines something as “living” in the first place and who defines this? Where is the tipping point between non-life and life?

Miller-Urey experiment

In 1952, Stanley Miller and Harold Urey conducted the famous Miller-Urey experiment, simulating early Earth conditions to explore how life's building blocks might form naturally. Using a closed system containing water, methane, ammonia, and hydrogen, they introduced electric sparks to mimic lightning. After a week, amino acids, the essential components of proteins, had formed. Their findings suggested that complex organic molecules crucial to ‘life’ could emerge from simpler compounds under the right conditions, lending support to theories about life’s potential origins.

There are various theories as to how the transformation occurs, but nothing is proven. Several scientific papers have attempted to link the process of Abiogenesis to Systems thinking - that life could be an emergent property from the dynamic interaction of different elements. 

At this critical moment of environmental and societal crisis, many are arguing for a radical reimagining of life in response to the unsustainable extractive practices of late capitalism. Recent advances, particularly AI, further blur the Western distinctions of life/non life. Machines are evolving forms of agency and decision-making, raising questions around intelligence, consciousness, and sentience.

In Geontologies: A Requiem to Late Liberalism, Elizabeth Povinelli examines the Western concept of life, especially through the lens of Indigenous Australian perspectives. Povinelli introduces “geontology” as a framework to understand the impact of late liberal governance on these relationships, suggesting that life and non-life should be rethought to address the ecological and social crises emerging today. Her focus is to ‘unsettle the governance of the difference between Life and Nonlife’ and to make visible the biontological orientation distribution of power. She stresses that the destabilising of life and non life as categories is not just a philosophical exercise of deconstructing binary oppositions, but to analyse the forces that course through these categories. She critiques the tendency to divide existence into "life" and "non-life," arguing that this fails to capture complex relationships between people, land, and non-human entities. 

Indigenous belief systems are rooted in Animism where life and death are not rigid categories but phases in a relational cycle where spirits of people, animals, objects and elements are constantly in interaction, all having agency. Death does not separate one from this world but transforms the spirit’s role within it, often enabling it to guide, protect, or support the living and the land. This view fosters relationships where beings coexist, and ancestral spirits, deeply rooted in place, actively contribute to the vitality of the world. In this framework, death is less a termination and more a continuation in a different form, reinforcing the connection between the individual and the ecosystem that sustains all beings. Distinguishing between "living" and "non-living" becomes more or less obsolete, rather, everything is understood as "alive" in its own way, with a unique essence or spirit. It acknowledges that rocks, rivers, wind, and mountains—things that Western science might classify as "non-living"—have intrinsic agency, awareness, or purpose. Animism suggests that all entities, regardless of their physical characteristics, are part of a sentient, interconnected world.

Radical Animism: Reading for the End of the World by Jemma Deer explores the concept of animism in the context of contemporary environmental crises. The book describes how animistic thinking can offer new ways to understand and engage with the world during a time of ecological collapse. Deer rethinks the boundaries between human and non-human life, critiquing the separation imposed by modernity and advocating for a return to a relational understanding of existence. This perspective redefines "living" as a quality that isn’t limited to biology but extends to everything in existence. If we expand our definitions of life, emerging from this animistic potential, can we reconcile with the network of relationships, energies, and inherent agency within all things?