Writing’s element is time. When a mark is made, it is made, as a sound is uttered, at a certain time, and in a certain place. But the time of writing, as we have by now been so thoroughly taught, is the time, or the unpredictable many times, of its revisitations. Writing writes in anticipation of these revenances; it is pitted by the impact of all these foreseen, unforeknown futures.
Time is therefore written into writing with invisible ink. According to a trad- itional metaphor, the skin is written by time in just the same way as time is written into writing; its lines and furrows being said to be the work of time’s pen, or chisel, or plough. Time’s writing on the skin, or the concealment of that writing through cosmetics or cosmetic surgery, is our meaning: but a meaning that was never meant in the way that a written mark inscribed on a surface represents a decision. It is the way we come to mean, the meaning we come to have, through time. In this sense, the figure of time writing on the skin is itself a protective anthropo- morphism, which projects a scene of here-and-now writing on a here-and-now surface – as though time could gather to a point and make its mark at a moment in time – to make sense of a writing of time that is really a writing through time.
If time writes the skin, then the skin can also be thought of as writing time. Assailed by marks, the skin possesses the capacity to regenerate itself, to grow out of, as well as into, disfigurement. The skin marks time partly by effacement: by the healing of lesions and the reassertion of the surface against every assault. The skin’s way of writing time is indeed to write it out. The skin is a soft clock, which we wind up whenever we mark it; and when we mark the skin, and await its healing, we can make time run backwards. No other feature of our physical lives offers so magical a promise of reversibility. When we attempt to countermand time by artificially effacing its writing, smoothing out wrinkles with emollients, hitching up the face and the breasts, sucking out the fatty tissue from thighs and belly, we attempt to mimic the skin’s own powers over time. So the skin is nothing but time, and yet, because the skin marks time, and can even reverse it, it can sometimes seem, like us, to be at odds with time, and therefore on our side against it.
It is for this reason that the mortified skin comes forward so insistently in the contemporary world, in which time, no less than place, has become multiplied and immaterialised. Mortification used to be a making visible of the here and now of the body, of the body as the here and now, in order to point away from it, to a longer, or different temporality. The purulence, the corruption, the visible suffering of the body, were all to be testimony to its subsequent redemption. Christ’s suffering body on the cross was itself an earnest of its glorification to come, just as the breaking of the bread was the necessary part of its transfigur- ation into Christ’s already glorified body. In Christian traditions of mortification, disfiguration is a necessary prerequisite for transfiguration.
Contemporary mortification borrows from this history, but to very different effect. Contemporary mortification does not aim to put the body in proleptic memory of its death, but to transfix the body in its presence. Medieval mortifica- 46 Steven Connor
tion attempted to transport the body into its redemption by accelerating its decay and death; contemporary mortification attempts to transport the body into its suffering, transfigured, ceaseless being. The body is indispensable to transcend- ence, for now our need is for a transcendence of the body in the body. This is not simply the replacement of a spiritual with a corporeal logic, since, to be sure, the latter is already operational in medieval mysticism, as Piero Camporesi (1988) and recent feminist explorations of female corporeal mysticism have shown (Bynum 1991, 1995). But in earlier periods, the body was capable of being thought of as plus and minus sign simultaneously, as the intersection of mortal and eternal time. For us, for whom there is only mortal time, and an immediatised present, mortifi- cation must mean a negation of the difference between the plus and the minus sign, not their aggregation, or the intensification of their difference.
For there is an intrinsic difficulty in placing or dating the time of the skin, since its function for us is to be anachronistic, or partly out of time; as the Modern Primitives movement may attest, there is a desire for the skin to figure as archaic survival, as a reminder of a different, lost way of being in one’s skin. It is for this reason above all that the drive to mark the body cannot be separated from a desire to assault the very medium and apparatus of epidermal figurality, since this apparatus is temporal as well as inscriptive. By assaulting the skin, one assaults time, or the ravages inflicted on it, on us, by time.
I began with Kafka’s inaugural epidermal fable. I will finish with a discussion of Joanna Briscoe’s Skin (1997), which may be thought of as a polymorphous rewriting of that work. Where Kafka seems to reduce the body to the skin, and to reduce the skin to one single function alone, its capacity to take and retain signs, Joanna Briscoe expands the functions of the skin until it can go anywhere and be anything; it becomes an impossibly grounding figure for the polymorphousness of figuration itself. The skin is all there is, but it is everything. The narrative situation is simple: a reclusive novelist, Adèle Meier, whose beauty is beginning to fade as she approaches middle age, attempts to regain her youth through revivifying but also vampiric sexual encounters with young boys, along with a series of graphic- ally described surgical procedures, which burn and flay away her ageing features as the narrative peels back the layers of her own personal past. It is as though the novel discovers in its narrative situation the chance, or the chance to enact the need, to show the world rewritten in terms of the skin. Here, pain, whether of actual assault, or of loss, or of realisation, is always a cutting, abrasion or inflic- tion: ‘the sight of him made a deep cut in me, infected me with pain and howling frustration’ (Briscoe 1997: 56). Beauty is the mark of punishment displayed on the skin, as in ‘her eyes, apricot-green pool water, bruises on the pale skin’ (Briscoe 1997: 9). Love is similarly cutaneous: ‘I loved her at such depth . . . rooted to the filaments of my body’ (Briscoe 1997: 107), as is its failure: ‘We were never knitted together’ (Briscoe 1997: 107). Inertia is like a scab: ‘I pick at it’ (Briscoe 1997: 71). Even audibility has its epidermal register: the surgeon’s voice is ‘low and leather- ette’ (Briscoe 1997: 59). The skin bears the threat or burden of pain throughout the book, but the pain that tears into the skin is also woven into skin-like shapes and textures: after her facelift, the pain ‘rung in a halo around my body’; later on, Mortification 47
Adèle is ‘bound in a gauze web of pain’ (Briscoe 1997: 115, 308). The act of writing itself is knitted into the morphology of skin: ‘I scribbled notes, and larger passages, and divine plots for myself, and began to sew them together in places’ (Briscoe 1997: 155): ‘I’ve stretched the canvas in my brain so far, it’s blank and only blank. When I sit down to write, it slips and fades into the grey-white shade of hospital walls, the grain a pigskin-dotted fake’ (Briscoe 1997: 58).
A determined reading could easily order and articulate these figurations into male and female specialities: men being indeed associated in the novel with blades, scalpels, fists, mordant light and the sexual violence which molests the skin: ‘he could have gorged new routes into her. He could have made an indelible mark on her with his penis’ (Briscoe 1997: 13). Women are associated with the skin itself, or its skinlike dissimulations, webs, veils, folds, fabrics, buds, oils and the vaginated involution of hearts and flowers. But this scheme is only a recurrent attractor within a much more fundamentally turbulent swirl of associations and interconnections, which is resolvable into erotic utopia or theatre of cruelty only by subtraction. Skin migrates, for example, into other substances, notably glass and dust. Adèle is often seen with her face pressed against glass, as though her skin were taking its own photograph: ‘My face, its pores and slackness, pressed against the surface. It was preserved, like an extinct species flared beneath a layer of glass’ (Briscoe 1997: 68). Photography, like plastic surgery, sears and seals to do its work of preservation: but photographs are as vulnerable as living skin to the violent markings of time: ‘The film is turning grey. The print is an old one, it has scratches and areas of fading’ (Briscoe 1997: 236). Photography is also implicated in the drift of skin into granular indistinction that is witnessed throughout the book: ‘The woman, her planes and angles and the pigmentations of her skin translated into infinitesimal grains of silver bromide, looked tarnished’ (Briscoe 1997: 21–2). Dust provides the evidence that skin not only dissevers, but itself is dissolved: ‘Surely grains of skin, human dust, migrate in eddies and we breathe them in, so even the essence of our neighbours tints our bloodstreams, their breath and splinters of their hair forming motes of our organic matter’ (Briscoe 1997: 26). As the figure of divisibility itself, the glass-skin or the dust-skin, to specify only these, does not allow itself to be placed securely on one side or other of a male–female divide.
If anything organises the polymorphous work of figuration in which the skin is involved, it is time. Time, like everything else in the novel, is whelmed in skin. Looking back to the time of an intense and finally violently terminated affair, Adèle thinks ‘of course, it’s a jewel box, the memory sews events into a satin soft box’ (Briscoe 1997: 75). The plastic surgery she undergoes is an attempt to get back, through an extremity of pain, the unscarred time of her beauty. Since it is in part the skin that has betrayed her, the skin must suffer to be restored to itself: ‘If the face is a record of our histories, Dr. Kreitzman razed mine from me’ (Briscoe 1997: 159).
Because skin takes and retains marks, it signifies irreversibility. But, as we have seen, because it not only takes and retains marks but can also erase them, it can also signify the possibility that the past might be retrievable in literal fact, in the 48 Steven Connor
flesh. This means, for Adèle, the surgical unwriting of the skin, and for the narration, the writing of this unwriting. We have seen that, throughout the narra- tive of Skin, the skin provides metaphorical equivalents for everything: there is nothing that cannot be expressed in terms of the look, shape, texture or aroma of skin. But, in the sections of the novel devoted to the graphic accounts of Adèle’s facial surgery, this is reversed: here, the skin itself is made the object in view, that which is to be figured. In the rest of the novel, skin serves to interpret the world: here, the world is called upon to interpret the universal interpretant, to figure the ground of figuration.
Dr. Kreitzman cut away a section of the patient’s face, perfectly following the outline of the ear. As he cut, an ear-shaped template of flesh flopped onto the pillow. It hung from behind the woman’s ear. He cut more away. Another strand hung from the bottom of the ear, like a long earring of flesh. He cut it off, and the nurse dropped the woman’s flesh on a cloth on the table as she passed the doctor a needle holder. Later, the scissors were placed casually upon it, then it was gathered with other waste and thrown away into the incinerator bag. Groups of several flaps hanging together, like wind chimes, stuck to her neck.
(Briscoe 1997: 87)
The removal of the skin from the face is accompanied by an attempt to strip away the anthropomorphism of skin. Detached from the body, like the face that hangs from the patient’s skull, it is mere facticity, mere waste, beneath metaphor. It means simply itself. But figuration is necessary to this purging of figural signifi- cance. Flesh becomes its own bizarre adornment (‘an earring of flesh’, ‘several flaps hanging together, like wind chimes’), the action of defiguration reinstates, even relies upon figural ornament. We cannot see the skin in-itself, since the skin is the hesitation between ‘ourself’ and ‘itself’. No matter how deep one digs below the skin, there is always another skin to be found: ‘Under the skin, the face’s pitted surface of muscle and blood resembled another fine, bloody face; part smooth, part marbled; yellow with a crazing of blood’ (Briscoe 1997: 86). This division in the book, between its erotic and its surgical sections, makes the skin neither the literal nor the metaphorical, but, as it were, the membrane which divides and joins the two.
Just in the nick of time, the novel comes to show, though never quite to tell, the primary violation that has put Adèle to sleep in her lifetime of narcotic, self- punishing beauty. We realise, literally on the last page of the novel, that the father who went missing from Adèle’s family had subjected her to sexual abuse as a child. The novel wants hereby to have told a story of an original trauma, an innocence despoiled at a particular defining moment, and condemned thereafter to carry on despoiling itself in the same way, lest it lose the defining shape pro- vided by trauma. The novel wants to lift its own veil, get under the skin of its own metaphorical preoccupations, to show what it is that the skin, in its beauty and terror, dissimulates. In doing this, the novel must reveal the ways in which, in its Mortification 49
own narrative delays and dispersals, it has taken part in the traumatic dissimula- tion of trauma in which the skin is implicated. The story that this long work of dissimulation discovers is of the need for there to be a skin (which is to say, both an indelible truth and a cover-up) to bear (to carry, endure, deliver, bear out) the otherwise invisible, indivisible impact of trauma. In the end, Skin attempts to skin itself (odd that the English word for the removal of skin seems to contain the possibility of its regeneration – in this resembling the verb to ‘bone’), identifying the primal touch that cannot be retouched, that lies unalterably beneath the ‘life distilled to its extremes in rumour and quote and retouched image’ (Briscoe 1997: 304).
But the need for there to have been a time and place of this touching means that the figuration of skin will continue to be necessary. Before, or underneath, the skin there must be a skin, to bear the mark of the first infliction. In the final revelation of the childhood abuse that is offered as the key to all Adèle’s self- mortification, trauma becomes swallowed up in skin: ‘The scream was only a dream scream, and it flopped as a rigid object gone slack’ (Briscoe 1997: 317). Disfiguring the skin is a way of keeping it visible. For us, the hypervisibility of skin is an apotropaic resource which banishes the fear of its vanishing – even though the mock-hysterical hypervisibility of skin may be the very manner of its disap- pearance. Skin bears witness to the nameless suffering involved in the loss of suffering. There is a grim rhyme between the dispersal of suffering and the erotic dispersal of pleasures. To lose the place and time of experience is to lose the skin, to disclose the skin, not as a scene, but as the absence of a scene. The obscenity of the skin under assault, by contrast, gives us back the scene of suffering and pleasure, gives it somewhere to happen, and someone to happen to, a time and a place for there to be a time and a place.
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