TY - JOUR
AU - Mullan, Lipman, Jacob
AB - The Cambridge Quarterly endows a prize for the dissertation gaining the highest marks in the final Cambridge University English Honours examination. The article printed here is the text, complete but excluding some of the critical apparatus, of the Prize Essay for 2018. A prominent figure of both the lower Manhattan East Village arts scene and AIDS activist circles of the 1980s, David Wojnarowicz is renowned for his stark, mixed-media explorations into the politics of queer identity in late twentieth-century American culture. Articulated with a candidness characteristic of his work, Wojnarowicz’s Close to the Knives (1991), his collection of memoir-essays spanning a decade, opens with the striking statement: ‘So my heritage is a calculated fuck on some faraway sun-filled bed while the curtains are being sucked in and out of an open window by a passing breeze.’1 Although ostensibly a reflection on his biological conception, this assertion of his ‘heritage’ as a ‘fuck’ is imbued with a range of non-literal, and implicitly queer, meanings. Within the context of heteronormative structures – that is, hegemonic social structures founded upon a presumptive heterosexuality – ‘heritage’ generally refers to what is passed down from parent to biological child in a filial chain, stretching from a locatable past to a legitimate identifiable future. As queer theorists such as Lee Edelman have contended, heteronormative society is centred around a discourse of ‘reproductive futurism’, in which the necessity of continuing this filial heritage by reproductive (i.e. heterosexual penile–vaginal) intercourse is bound up with our experience of time as a structured ‘linear narrative’.2 It is through maintaining this linearity, which guarantees a locatable future, that we are promised a ‘future of national stability’.3 Non-normative sex practices, such as those delineated by Gayle Rubin, therefore present the opportunity to deconstruct an ordered temporality, thereby predicting the ‘dispossess[ion]’ of a heteronormative ‘social order’.4 Rubin categorises sexual acts as operating in either the exalted ‘charmed circle’ of heterosexual, ‘vanilla’ reproductive sex or the ‘outer limits’ of taboo sexuality.5 Although the sexual act described by Wojnarowicz in the opening to Close to the Knives seems to operate within the reproductive ‘charmed circle’, it possesses covert linguistic connotations which place it in the ‘outer limits’ of queer sexuality. Not only does the crude and stiflingly monosyllabic ‘fuck’ suggest what Rubin would define as a ‘non-procreative’ and ‘casual’ act, but the word ‘calculated’, in its implicit allusions to Wojnarowicz’s childhood experiences as a sex worker,6 suggests a ‘commercialism’ that belongs to the outer limits.7 Wojnarowicz implicitly defines his ‘heritage’ in relation to his own acts of non-procreative queer sex, as opposed to the heterosexual reproductive sex of his parents. This allows him to establish his own form of queer ‘heritage’, which disrupts heteronormative assumptions of linear temporality. In what follows, I explore this interaction between disruptive temporality and queer erotics in the works of David Wojnarowicz, and investigate the ways in which the developing queer sexual landscape of the late twentieth century – largely defined by the AIDS epidemic of the 1980s – affects this relationship. Utopian Futurity in Close to the Knives Although Wojnarowicz gestures towards the existence of a disruptive queer temporality in the opening sentence of Close to the Knives, it is in the central essay of the collection, ‘Living Close to the Knives’, that he develops a clear framework for these ideas. He states: First there is the World. Then there is the Other World. The Other World is where I sometimes lose my footing. In its calendar turnings, in its preinvented existence … the world of the stoplight, the no-smoking signs, the rental world, the split-rail fencing shielding hundreds of miles of barren wilderness from the human step. (p. 96) Enacting a reversal of heteronormative standards, where queer is synonymous with otherness, Wojnarowicz establishes a spatial binary between queer and non-queer society, conceptualising queerness as a more familiar (and possibly more real) ‘World’, which operates in conflict with the nominally marginalised ‘Other World’ of heteronormative society. Referring to its ‘calendar turnings’ and ‘stoplights’, Wojnarowicz identifies the heteronormative ‘Other World’ by its apparatus of controlled temporality, or as queer theorist Elizabeth Freeman would argue, its systems of ‘chrononormativity’.8 Freeman defines these as ‘mode[s] of implantation … schedules, calendars, time zones’ which, in their rigid structuring of time, ‘organise individual human bodies toward maximum productivity’, and therefore perpetuate oppressive systems of capitalism.9 While Wojnarowicz conceives of heteronormative society as the ‘rental world’, and therefore a space that perpetuates these chrononormative structures, it is in the ‘wilderness’ of Queerness – a ‘barren’ space operating outside the procreative drive of ‘reproductive futurism’ – that these temporal structures are rejected. This formulation anticipates José Esteban Muñoz’s claim, in Cruising Utopia, that ‘Queerness’s ecstatic and horizonal temporality is a path and a movement to a greater openness to the world.’10 For Muñoz, the imagined ‘World’ of queerness is a ‘modality of ecstatic time in which the temporal stranglehold [of] straight time is interrupted or stepped out of’, and therefore a space that obtains a utopian quality in its refusal to conform to the strict temporal order of heteronormative society.11 In Muñoz’s conception of queer utopianism, he negates the possibility of queerness as existing in the tangible present, contending that ‘if queerness is to have any value whatsoever, it must be viewed as being visible only in the horizon’.12 This mirrors the claim of earlier queer theorist David Halperin, who emphasises the futurity of queerness, arguing that ‘“Queer” … does not designate a class of already objectified pathologies or perversions; rather, it describes a horizon of possibility whose precise extent and heterogeneous scope cannot in principle be delimited in advance.’13 In Close to the Knives, Wojnarowicz foreshadows these theoretical frameworks, suggesting the queer potentiality of the horizon space. This is most explicitly seen in the driving scenes of the memoir, in which Wojnarowicz describes himself ‘driving a machine through the days and nights of the empty and pressured landscape’ (p. 33) in the hope of reaching an idealised horizon. These episodes are evidently influenced by aspects of 1950s Beat generation literature, such as Jack Kerouac’s On the Road (1957), which Cynthia Carr, Wojnarowicz’s biographer, argues he perceived ‘as a model for how to think about his own experience’.14 The presence of the idealised ‘new horizon’15 pervades Kerouac’s text, but is an idealisation that can only be maintained by characters repeatedly leaving cities upon arrival, claiming that they are ‘performing our one and noble function of the time, move’.16 This Kerouacian ‘aesthetic of speed and spontaneity’ is appropriated by Wojnarowicz to generate a space in which he can fully engage with his queer identity.17 Wojnarowicz writes: I hate arriving at a destination. Transition is always a relief. Destination means death to me. If I could figure out a way to remain forever in transition, in the disconnected and unfamiliar, I could remain in a perpetual state of freedom. (p. 70) Responding to the constraints of heteronormative society, Wojnarowicz discovers ‘freedom’ in the ‘disconnected and unfamiliar’ – a rejection of normative familiarity, which resembles a queer mode of being. It is only through maintaining a continual state of ‘transition’, and thus inhabiting a horizon space in which the possibility of ‘destination’ is perpetually deferred, that this ‘freedom’ of queerness can be accessed. Contemplating the temporality of this horizon space, Wojnarowicz states, ‘It was a landscape for drifting, where time expands and contracts and vision is replaced by memories; small filmlike bursts of bodies and situations, some months ago, some years ago’ (p. 55). This simultaneous ‘expan[sion] and contract[ion]’ reveals the temporally distorted nature of the queer landscape. It is a place where ‘vision’ becomes ‘memor[y]’, and thus where the present and past coalesce to form a disrupted temporality. Queerness is not only a zone that promises a disrupted temporality, and the deconstruction of chrononormative structures of time; it can only exist in the form of a temporal paradox. Like Muñoz and Halperin, Wojnarowicz via Kerouac conceives queerness as a zone of perceived futurity, but one that can never be fully reached. Although Wojnarowicz conceptualises queerness as an imagined futurity, he recognises the problematic nature of attempting to envisage this utopian space. He argues, ‘There’s the World where one adapts and stretches the boundaries of the Other World through keys of the imagination. But then again, the imagination is encoded with the invented information of the Other World’ (p. 96). In other words, while we can attempt to envisage a queer utopia, the internalised ‘invented information’ of heteronormative society will inevitably corrupt these visions. This issue resurfaces in Close to the Knives, when Wojnarowicz imagines himself shooting a police officer, and thus a figure who emblematises the oppressive society he defiantly rallies against. He justifies this violent act by claiming its legitimacy within the contexts of the imagined queer world: ‘A horizon and landscape that is uninfected by the letters and words of “law”’ (p. 68). In this formulation, the queer horizon-space is characterised by its separation from the realm of ‘letters and words’, or what Jacques Lacan might term ‘the symbolic order’ – the semiotic structures of language and signification through which we interpret and communicate with our environment.18 In Écrits (1977), Lacan establishes the ‘name of the father’ as a symbolic function that intervenes in the pre-linguistic Oedipal stages of desire, forcing the child to repress its desires as it enters the societal structures of collective communication. He argues: ‘It is in the name of the father that we must recognize the support of the symbolic function which, from the dawn of history, has identified his person with the figure of the law.’19 In justifying his imagined act of violence, Wojnarowicz conflates ‘words and letters’ with a sense of oppressive ‘law’, and ultimately a violent form of hetero-masculine (and essentially anti-queer) control. Like Lacan, Wojnarowicz perceives this ‘law’ as a structural system, yet one that identifiably begins with the authoritative paternal figure. In an anecdote written for the East Village Eye, he describes a similar encounter with a police officer: I’m feeling rage cause in the midst of my bad mood this cop is inadvertently reaching in with his tentacles and probing in ice-pick fashion some vulnerable area from years ago maybe when my dad took me down in the basement for another routine of dog chain and baseball bat beatings.20 Wojnarowicz associates this presence of the ‘law’ as an extension of this original oppressive, paternal figure. In Close to the Knives, Wojnarowicz argues: ‘my existence is essentially outlawed before I even come into knowledge of what my desires are’ (p. 68). This further resonates with Lacanian theory, which holds that the symbolic order imposes a control upon jouissance (a form of primordial desire), and cultivates it into a form of desire, shaped by the cultural fantasies of the symbolic order. Before ‘com[ing] into knowledge’, Wojnarowicz’s inherent queer desires are ‘outlawed’ by structures of heteronormativity, and refused their true existence within the symbolic order. As he states in a diary entry from 1979, ‘the definition in the construction of words is the inherent failure to obtain the living sense of the desire’.21 True queerness can only exist in the pre-symbolic (and pre-linguistic) phase of ‘The Real’ – a realm which Alan Sheridan translates as ‘the ineliminable residue of all articulation, the foreclosed element, which may be approached, but never grasped: the umbilical cord of the symbolic’.22 In the impossibility of its being ‘grasped’, and the extension beyond the typical ‘articulation’ of the symbolic order, the Lacanian ‘Real’ resembles the horizon space that Wojnarowicz identifies as ‘queerness’. Tim Dean supports this correlation, arguing that ‘the Lacanian real, like queerness, is always relational, oppositional in the subversive sense, rather than substantive’.23 It is perhaps in this space of primeval pre-linguistic sexual desire that true queerness can exist. By configuring utopian queerness as a pre-symbolic form, Wojnarowicz suggests an interesting interaction between queer eroticism and temporality. In her analysis of Lacanian psychoanalytics, Joan Copjec argues that ‘sex is something that is beyond language, something that language forever fails to grasp’.24 Wojnarowicz attempts to locate these theories in a context of queer eroticism, suggesting that through the enactment of queer sex – which stands so much in opposition to the ‘name of the father’ in Wojnarowicz’s imagining – one might experience a singular kind of jouissance, through which something analogous to the Lacanian Real is felt. Describing a sexual encounter, Wojnarowicz states: ‘Time has lost its strobic beat and all structures of movement and sensation and taste and sight and sound became fragmented, shifting all around like particles in lakewater’ (p. 62). The presence of ‘lakewater’ is particularly significant, as it alludes to the imagery from a ‘recurring’ dream that Wojnarowicz repeatedly documents in his journal.25 In this dream, Wojnarowicz travels across an ambiguous dreamscape, attempting to show Peter Hujar – his queer mentor, friend, and sometime lover – a lake located on the horizon. As he writes in his journal, ‘All I wanted was to find the lakes and show Peter.’26 As an unreachable space, defined by a sense of queer communality, Wojnarowicz’s image of the lake symbolises a queer utopian horizon. During the description of his erotic encounter, Wojnarowicz suggests that he is able to merge with this ‘lakewater’ through becoming deconstructed to ‘structures of movement and sensation’. In his description of ‘the mirror stage’, the moment in which the infant views their image in a mirror, Lacan argues: This development is experienced as a temporal dialectic that decisively projects the formation of the individual into history. The mirror stage is a drama whose internal thrust is precipitated from insufficiency to anticipation – and which manufactures for the subject, caught up in the lure of spatial identification, the succession of phantasies that extends from a fragmented body-image to a form of its totality.27 In Wojnarowicz’s description of queer sex, the self experiences ‘a hyperventilating break through the barriers of time and space and identity’ (p. 65), and becomes reduced to a series of ‘fragmented’ senses, thus touching on a sensation equivalent to the Lacanian ‘pre-mirror stage’, the state of ‘The Real’. Leo Bersani supports this notion, arguing, in ‘Is the Rectum a Grave?’, that sexuality ‘brings people together only to plunge them into a self-shattering and solipsistic jouissance that drives them apart’.28 From a queer standpoint, by enacting the ‘formation of the individual into history’, it is within the mirror stage – and thus the entering of the symbolic realm – that the subject becomes subjugated to structures of chrononormativity. Queer sex is an act of radical deconstruction in opposition to this. It is through the recreation of a Lacanian pre-mirror phase by the enactment of queer sex that Wojnarowicz can halt the ‘strobic beat’, and therefore cyclical repetition of chrononormative straight time, and finally bathe in the ‘lakewater’ of queer utopianism – an idealised futurity, unbounded by normative notions of time and selfhood. The Communal Erotics of Arthur Rimbaud in New York In spite of Bersani’s contention that the ‘self-shattering’, or suppression of subjectivity, enacted during sex is a ‘solipsistic’ act that works against the establishment of communal bonds, contemporary accounts from the 1970s indicate the potential of queer erotic spaces in generating a queer communality. Reflecting on his experiences of New York’s gay bathhouses – licensed social spaces, which predominantly functioned as cruising sites for casual queer sex – Keith Haring recollects the sensation of belonging to a ‘common, united, connected group of people’.29 Michel Foucault similarly testifies to this sense of erotic communality, identifying these spaces as sites of escapism, in which you were no longer ‘imprisoned or pinned in your own identity, in your legal status, your past, your name, your face’.30 Enabled by a radical depersonalisation, these spaces transformed queer subjects into ‘nothing more than bodies, with whom the most unexpected combinations and fabrications of pleasure [were] possible’.31 The erotic body experiences a ‘self-shattering’ which, in its deconstruction of individual identity, allows it to be absorbed into a queer community. Wojnarowicz explicitly engages with these contemporary ideas in his Arthur Rimbaud in New York (1978–9) photography series, in which he similarly attempts to locate the individual jouissance of queer sex as functioning within a wider project of queer collectivism. These images centre around an anonymous figure, whose face is masked by Étienne Carjat’s celebrated photo-portrait of French symbolist poet and queer icon Arthur Rimbaud. Constructing a sexually charged narrative, the camera follows this Rimbaud-figure on his journey around New York City, capturing him in various erotic situations, such as entering the porn theatres of 42nd Street, hustling in Times Square, and wandering the gay cruising spots of the Lower West Side piers. These settings directly mirror many of Wojnarowicz’s own experiences while growing up in New York, allowing these images to create what Wojnarowicz describes as ‘a vague biographical outline of what my past had been’.32 Examining this repetition of Rimbaud’s image across the urban cityscape, Mysoon Rizk suggests that the series was likely influenced by contemporary Fluxus artist Ernest Pignon-Ernest, whose works Wojnarowicz would presumably have encountered during his years living in Paris.33 In 1978, Pignon-Ernest undertook an artistic project in which he superimposed silkscreens of Carjat’s photo-portrait of Rimbaud onto various public locations in order to foster ‘new imaginary and real relationships’ among the Parisian population.34 Wojnarowicz appropriates this process for his own queer contexts. Through the repetition of this Rimbaud portrait, he maps out a queer psychogeography, tracing the ‘real relationships’ formed among queer communities through their use of shared erotic spaces. Beyond functioning as an appropriative tool, the significance of Rimbaud extends into a longstanding identification Wojnarowicz felt between himself and the queer poet. Born in 1854, exactly a century before Wojnarowicz’s own birth, Rimbaud was also a young queer artist who had run away as a teenager (in his case, to Paris) to escape a dysfunctional family.35 Like those of Wojnarowicz, these experiences of social marginalisation contributed to the formation of a radical artistic outlook. In the so-called ‘Seer Letter’ of 1871, Rimbaud articulates his vision for constructing effective poetry, claiming ‘La Poète se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens’ (‘The Poet makes himself a seer through a long, gigantic and systematic derangement of all the senses’).36 Although Wallace Fowlie translates ‘dérèglement’ as ‘derangement’, its etymological negation of ‘les règles’ implies a deconstruction of established rules. This suggests that an elevated form of artistry can be achieved through engaging in a form of perception outside the acknowledged laws of the symbolic order, and by accessing an identity that exists outside our typical structures of language and communication. Rimbaud repeats this idea in ‘Après le Déluge’ from his acclaimed, Les Illuminations collection (1874). Reflecting on the aftermath of a flood, the poetic speaker imagines the rejuvenation of a village through its total dissolution, calling for ‘Eaux et tristesses, montez et relevez les Déluges’ (‘Waters and sorrows, rise up and bring back the Floods’).37 In his reading of the poem, Leo Bersani perceives this as ‘nothing less than the imagination of personality itself becoming partial, disconnected impulses’, a condition in which ‘the self would have no history’, instead becoming ‘a succession of unrelated desires’.38 This is a state that Bersani would later describe (as I have already discussed), in ‘Is the Rectum a Grave?’, as ‘jouissance’, and thus an engagement with the Lacanian ‘Real’ through a rejection of the symbolic order.39 In an unsent letter to his sister Pat in 1975, Wojnarowicz articulates his desire to engage with ‘the real world underneath … to find that area in the vast cosmos both internally and externally where the true’, and implicitly non-symbolic, ‘voice is to be found’.40 He claims that ‘Rimbaud came close to it, he came so close but turned his back to it on its very steps’.41 More than merely a ‘lodestar for David [Wojnarowicz]’, Rimbaud represents a queer impulse of rejecting the symbolic realm, in order to access a zone of queer potentiality.42 This allows Wojnarowicz to identify his own erotic drive towards jouissance as a repetitive act which locates him within a historical queer community. This communal quality of eroticism is most palpable in a photo taken at the Hudson River piers – a prevalent gay cruising spot, and epicentre for queer erotic activity (see Figure 1). Upon entering this erotic space, the figure depicting Wojnarowicz is made anonymous by the Rimbaud mask. This suggests a form of ‘self-shattering’, in which a suppressed individual selfhood becomes consumed by a past queer identity. Although Lucy Lippard perceives the mask as allowing ‘Wojnarowicz simultaneously to be himself and to step outside himself’, it retains a more complex function, which can usefully be elucidated from a queer theoretical standpoint.43 In Bodies That Matter (1993), Judith Butler attests that sexuality ‘cannot be understood outside a process of iterability’.44 It operates as a series of ‘citational practices’, in which past sexual identities are performatively reconstructed through a repetition in the present subject.45 Produced by a photostat – a technological precursor to modern xerox – the mask holds an inherently iterative quality, and can be read as a citational iteration of a past queer identity. As opposed to Wojnarowicz ‘step[ping] outside himself’ into an externalised body, this ‘past’ selfhood is woven into his present identity. However, while Butler regards sexuality as an inherently cultural product which cannot exist outside the ‘juridical domain’ of the symbolic order, Wojnarowicz locates true queerness as a rejection of this order.46 He understands sex as an individual jouissance, which enables past queer identities to be citationally reconstituted in the present erotic body. Figure 1. View largeDownload slide David Wojnarowicz, Arthur Rimbaud in New York (1979). Gelatin silver print on paper. Courtesy of the Estate of David Wojnarowicz and P•P•O•W, New York. © David Wojnarowicz. Figure 1. View largeDownload slide David Wojnarowicz, Arthur Rimbaud in New York (1979). Gelatin silver print on paper. Courtesy of the Estate of David Wojnarowicz and P•P•O•W, New York. © David Wojnarowicz. This sense of iteration is further enhanced by the photograph’s mise en scène. The wall-graffiti of a body creates a visual spectre, echoing the previous cruising bodies of this illicit queer space. In parallel with the Rimbaud mask, the question mark overlaying the body’s face illustrates the suppression of individual identity that occurs during erotic activity. In its anonymisation, this graffiti-body also asserts a plurality, as it is able to embody any of the former occupants of the space, thus connecting this erotic ‘self-shattering’ with a sense of iteration. In this respect, Wojnarowicz provides an elaboration to Pignon-Ernest’s artistic project. He implicitly allows this iteration of the Rimabud-figure to occur not only within a spatialised setting, but across a temporal dimension, thereby constructing a historical queer community, bounded by a shared erotic experience. As a precursor to Edelman’s conception of ‘reproductive futurism’, queer theorists Lauren Berlant and Michael Warner argue that, in a heteronormative society, ‘Community is imagined through scenes of intimacy, coupling, and kinship’, producing a structured temporality in which a ‘historical relation to futurity is restricted to generational narrative and reproduction’.47 By envisaging an intergenerational community bonded by an engagement in non-reproductive erotics, Wojnarowicz provides a distinct challenge to this heteronormative temporal linearity, gesturing towards a form of queer utopian futurity. Considering this utopianism, Muñoz apprehends ‘queerness as a temporal arrangement in which the past is a field of possibility in which subjects can act in the present in the service of a new futurity’.48 In these photographs, Wojnarowicz literalises Muñoz’s position, for the erotic body acts as an instrument through which a past identity can be recreated in the present, formulating a disruptive temporality reminiscent of queer utopianism. This is compounded by the medium of photography, for, as Geoffrey Batchen argues, ‘The present during which we look at the photographic image is but a staging point, a hallucinatory hovering that imbricates both past and future.’49 By using the temporally distortive medium of photography to represent these queer sex acts (which are themselves a challenge to Edelman’s ‘reproductive futurism’), Wojnarowicz creates a disrupted temporality, in which the past and present collide to predict the creation of a queer futurity. Bad Moon Rising and the Temporality of AIDS In Close to the Knives and Arthur Rimbaud in New York, Wojnarowicz ruminates on the aberrant relationship to time produced by a queer sensibility. In ways that anticipate the work of queer theorists such as Elizabeth Freeman and José Esteban Muñoz, Wojnarowicz’s early work exposes the adherence of the status quo to a chrononormative regime, and shows how this may be conceived differently by the queer subject in terms of the horizon – an idea that can be productively read alongside psychoanalytic notions of ‘the Real’. Although these early works offer an idealised image of the New York piers – configuring them as a temporally distorted zone in which queer erotics can predict a utopian futurity – this representation was to change. By the end of 1984 the AIDS epidemic had played a devastating role in queer communities, with 7,699 reported AIDS cases and 3,665 Americans dead from AIDS-related illnesses.50 This not only reshaped the discourses surrounding queer sex but ignited a government-led eradication of queer sexual spaces. By the end of 1984, the Lower West Side piers had been demolished by the New York city council,51 a move that would anticipate the future closing of gay bars and bathhouses under state legislation.52 This marks an important transition from the ideas of the Rimbaud series, which Wojnarowicz would later describe as having possessed a certain ‘naiveté’.53 In queer communities, the rise of AIDS transformed discourses around queer intimacy by reconfiguring gay sex in relation to a sense of danger, and consequently something that required restraint. Public queer figures, such as Larry Kramer, encouraged total abstention from sex in gay communities,54 while pamphlets, such as Richard Berkowitz and Michael Callen’s safe-sex manual How to Have Sex in an Epidemic, advocated an attitude of sexual restriction by ‘limiting what sex acts you choose to perform to ones which interrupt disease transmission’.55 This cultural shift, in which queer sex becomes a site of restriction, can be seen in Close to the Knives in Wojnarowicz’s recollection of the waterfront piers: Deep in the back of my head I wish it would all burn down, explode in some screaming torrent of wind and flame, pier walls collapsing and hissing into the waters. It might set us free from our past histories. (p. 198) While, in the Rimbaud series, Wojnarowicz connects with the ‘past histories’ of the piers in order to predict a utopian futurity, he now perceives this queer genealogy as a form of constraint. As Douglas Crimp argues, AIDS constituted not only the mourning of individual deaths, but also what Freud describes as ‘the loss of some abstraction’56 – in this case, a mourning for an obsolete ‘culture of sexual possibility’.57 No longer imbued with a sense of utopian potentiality, a queer erotic heritage is something from which Wojnarowicz must be set ‘free’. Wojnarowicz elaborates on this dissolution of an erotic potentiality in the essay ‘Living Close to the Knives’, describing how ‘The Other World gets into one’s bloodstream with the invisibility of a lover. It slowly takes the shape of the cells and their growth, internalised until it becomes an extension of the body’ (p. 97). Here, Wojnarowicz’s description of his engagement with the heteronormative ‘Other World’ linguistically imitates the way in which AIDS affects the body. More than merely a stage of a viral infection, Wojnarowicz suggests, AIDS contaminates the body with the symbolic structures of an oppressive heteronormative society, thus inhibiting its capacity to envisage a utopian world of queerness. Wojnarowicz claims that ‘death is making me lose touch with the faces of those I love; I’m losing touch with the current of timelessness that drove me through all my life ’til now’ (p. 266), and therefore suggests how, by heightening a sense of mortality, the AIDS crisis eliminates a sense of disruptive queer temporality, or ‘timelessness’. Instead, queer identity becomes reinscribed within the conventional structures of heteronormative temporality. Acclaimed AIDS writer and contemporary of Wojnarowicz, Hervé Guibert, describes the experience of the virus as ‘an illness in stages, a very long flight of steps that lead assuredly to death’.58 AIDS locates the body in a predetermined linear structure which, in its assurance of imminent death, forecloses the prospect of any indefinite futurity. As Monica Pearl argues, ‘the normative narrative of heterosexuality relies on the trajectory of birth, marriage and death. Gay experience has not been amenable to that sort of narration but AIDS makes it so’.59 This sense of a structured temporality can be seen in Bad Moon Rising (1989), a piece that Wojnarowicz claims he created ‘to deal with the compressed sense of [his] mortality’ (Figure 2).60 In its use of pornographic photography, as well its depiction of the bare chest of St Sebastian – an artistic symbol, whose associations with queer eroticism had recently been revived in Derek Jarman’s Sebastiane (1976) – this work maintains a palpably erotic quality. However, this eroticism is circumscribed by a sense of structured temporality. As the clock face (the ‘bad moon’ of the piece) rises, it slowly disintegrates into a microscopic image of the infected blood cells of an AIDS patient. The erotic image becomes permeated by a linear temporality – both in the clock faces and the moon cycle – and one which is conflated with the sense of mortality imposed by the AIDS crisis. Figure 2. View largeDownload slide David Wojnarowicz, Bad Moon Rising (1989). Acrylic photograph collage on masonite. Courtesy of the Estate of David Wojnarowicz and P•P•O•W, New York. © David Wojnarowicz. Figure 2. View largeDownload slide David Wojnarowicz, Bad Moon Rising (1989). Acrylic photograph collage on masonite. Courtesy of the Estate of David Wojnarowicz and P•P•O•W, New York. © David Wojnarowicz. The image of St Sebastian here, in contrast to its appearance in Wojnarowicz’s earlier works, also implies how AIDS has foreclosed a queer erotic potentiality. The application of this image immediately refers back to Wojnarowicz’s last use of this iconography, in his painting Peter Hujar Dreaming / Yukio Mishima: St. Sebastian (1982).61 In this piece, St Sebastian performs a similar function to the mask of the Rimbaud series. The painting depicts Peter Hujar as he dreams of the scene in Yukio Mishima’s Confessions of a Mask (1949) in which, upon witnessing ‘a reproduction of Guido Reni’s “St Sebastian”’, Mishima’s supposedly autobiographical queer protagonist experiences his first ejaculation.62 Through conflating several disparate temporalities into a unified erotic experience, the painting suggests the potential of queer eroticism to construct a disruptive queer heritage. In Bad Moon Rising, St Sebastian is removed from this previous context of a historical queer community. He remains at the centre of the tree of life which, in its inability to firmly ground its roots into the background of abstract capital, represented by dollar bills, slowly disintegrates into non-existence. Wojnarowicz’s employment of pornographic images further contributes to this sense of an effaced erotic potentiality. As Wojnarowicz states, their solarised nature suggests ‘a sense of radiation or catastrophe in terms of this diagnosis’, and thus further implies how queer sex is now imbued with a sense of mortality.63 This reshaping of queer erotics is further suggested by the technical requirements of the solarisation process. In order for this effect to be created, the photographic print has to undergo an extended period of ‘exposure’ – a term used in AIDS discourse to describe the process of bodily infection. In this respect, this method of solarisation retrospectively takes an image of eroticism that would previously have represented a sense of utopian futurity and, through a process of extended ‘exposure’, forces it to reconfigure its eroticism as a site of mortality. In short, Bad Moon Rising shows that, in the ever-tightening grip of an AIDS epidemic, queer erotics becomes removed from its potentiality to achieve a queer futurity, instead becoming a site that reinscribes the linear temporalities that bind and frustrate queer utopianism. However, it would be reductive to suggest that the AIDS crisis provoked a monolithic reaction, in which all notions of potentiality were ultimately rejected. In his contemporary investigation of victim responses to the AIDS crisis, psychological anthropologist Steven Schwartzberg identifies the feeling that AIDS has the ‘capacity to liberate’,64 and that ‘facing death can release you to face life’.65 These ideas of the potentially liberating nature of AIDS are argued in Close to the Knives, in which Wojnarowicz attempts to reconcile himself by presenting AIDS as fulfilling his desires for queer utopianism: I came to understand that to give up one’s environment was to also give up biography and all the encoded daily movements: those false reassurances of the railing outside the door. This was the beginning of a definition of the World for me. … With the appearance of AIDS and the sense of mortality I now find everything revealing itself to me in this way … it is the possibility of departure in a final sense, a sense called death that is now opening up the gates. (pp. 117–18) Wojnarowicz suggests that utopian queer ‘World’ can be accessed through a renunciation of ‘encoded daily movements’, and therefore a rejection of the culturally shaped gestures of the symbolic realm. Queerness instead resides in a place outside ‘biography’ – the placement of the individual in a defined linear history – and thus in the atemporal realm of the ‘Real’. While Wojnarowicz previously perceived queer erotics as providing the opportunity to escape from the symbolic realm, this escape is now configured as only possible through physical bodily ‘death’. In ‘Is the Rectum a Grave?’, Bersani argues that ‘if the rectum is the grave in which the masculine ideal … of proud subjectivity is buried, then it should be celebrated for its very potential for death. Tragically, AIDS has literalised that potential as the certainty of biological death.’66 This is further suggested when he states: ‘Imagine that one period of calm in the midst of that sky just where it reaches the ocean. That one place I’ve always seen as a point of time and space where everything is possible … Death’ (p. 91). Attempting to reconcile himself with the traumatic inevitability of his death, Wojnarowicz modifies his conception of a queer utopianism, reconfiguring the horizon space of queer potentiality as the endless void of bodily death. Peter Hujar and the Erotics of Art Although Wojnarowicz attempts to reconcile himself with the prospect of ‘death’ by envisaging it as a utopian queer space, this generates a problematic inconsistency within his work. He advocates the renunciation of ‘biography’, and thus a rejection of the ‘encoded daily movements’ of the symbolic realm through a refusal to engage in historical documentation. However, it is paradoxically within his own experimental memoir that he makes this claim. This suggests that, despite his overt protestations, Wojnarowicz recognises a value in participating in these symbolic forms of historical documentation. In Silence = Death (1990), Wojnarowicz’s filmic collaboration with director Rosa von Praunheim, Wojnarowicz declares to the camera, ‘I think what I really fear about death is the silencing of my voice.’67 Coupled with the visual image of a skull being used to hold paintbrushes, Wojnarowicz suggests that, through engendering a sense of mortality, the AIDS epidemic also activates an impulse to produce artistic works. Describing this compulsion in Close to the Knives, Wojnarowicz argues that ‘making things was like leaving historical records of my existence behind’ (p. 164). In the face of certain death, art becomes a means through which the individual can construct for themselves a definable heritage, which will extend beyond their physical death. This self-described ‘pressure to leave something of myself behind’ through artistic creation is perceptible in the very composition of Silence = Death. By interspersing spoken-word recordings of Wojnarowicz’s written works with stills of his paintings and clips from his unfinished film project A Fire in My Belly (1986–7), the film self-reflexively functions as a catalogue of his works, assembling a definable historical archive which distils an element of his subjectivity beyond the body’s death. Beyond a concern for his individual mortality, Wojnarowicz recognises these artistic expressions as operating within a wider context of queer communality. This is indicated by Praunheim’s title, Silence = Death, a formula that Wojnarowicz consciously echoes when he expresses his fear of ‘death’ as ‘the silencing of my voice’. Adopted in 1987 as a political slogan by the prominent AIDS activist group ACT UP (AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power), ‘Silence = Death’ was widely disseminated motto, which quickly became culturally embedded within queer communities.68 Based on ACT UP’s premise that ‘silence about the oppression and annihilation of gay people, then and now, must be broken as a matter of our survival’, it sought to encourage queer populations to publicly vocalise not only their individual experiences of oppression, but a wider history of queer marginalisation.69 This was consolidated by the motto’s frequent accompaniment by a pink triangle, a rotated version of the Third Reich’s symbol for homosexuals, and thus an appropriative gesture linking the experience of the contemporary queer community to a past queer heritage. By evoking the language of ‘Silence = Death’ in a description of his own personal experiences with AIDS, Wojnarowicz consciously enables his speech to develop a quasi-intertextual quality. It becomes what he describes as ‘the repository of so many voices and memories and gestures of those who haven’t made it’ (p. 240), allowing his individual expositions to communicate the experiences of a wider queer heritage. This indicates an evolution in Wojnarowicz’s understanding of queer heritage. In earlier works, such as the Rimbaud series, the erotic body acts as a tool through which the queer subject can become integrated within a communal history, and therefore predict a utopian futurity. However, as we have seen, the rise of AIDS modified this perception of the queer body as a site of potentiality. Wojnarowicz expands upon this idea in Close to the Knives: I feel I’ve taken out another six-month lease on this body of mine, on this vehicle of sound and motion, and every painting or photograph or film I make, I make with the sense that it may be the last thing I do and so I try and pull everything in to the surface of that action. (p. 118) As an object on a ‘six-month lease’, the AIDS-body is characterised by a structured temporality, in which its imminent death provides it with a directly locatable future. This is particularly compounded by the description of a ‘lease’ which, in its use of chrononormative language, positions the body as part of the ‘rental world’ (p. 96), and thus directly within a heteronormative society of structured temporality. With AIDS repositioning the queer body in relation to a controlled temporality, it is no longer a site that is hospitable to the disruptive temporality of queer utopianism. Confronted by these limitations, Wojnarowicz finds recourse in the production of art. As ‘something that spoke even if I was silent’ (p. 164), he recognises the ability of art to extend beyond the predetermined death of the AIDS-body, and thus transcend the circumscribed futurity enacted by the virus. Where in previous works, such as the Rimbaud series, Wojnarowicz’s ruminations on queer temporality and heritage were located in the subject of his artworks, he now considers the form of representation, or rather artworks themselves, as a mode imbued with queer potentiality. He claims that ‘Each painting, film, sculpture or page of writing I make represents to me a particular moment in the history of my body on this planet, in america [sic]’ (p. 157). Although the production of art ostensibly engages in symbolic forms of communication, it becomes a site in which Wojnarowicz can distil the former potentiality of the pre-AIDS body, thereby creating a queer form of heritage. This process by which art displaces the erotic body, in its construction of a disruptive queer heritage, is most readily visible in Wojnarowicz’s Untitled (Peter Hujar) (1989) – a photographic series, taken on the death of Peter Hujar from AIDS-related pneumonia on 25 November 1987 (Figure 3). In these images, Wojnarowicz pans the length of Hujar’s corpse with his camera, composing an emotive testimonial work that captures the immediate moments after Hujar’s death. Cynthia Carr details how ‘He took twenty-three photographs, and that number was calculated. He marked the envelope as “23 photos of Peter, 23 genes in a chromosome, Room 1423”.’70 Here, Wojnarowicz’s reference to genes and the photographs’ relationship to the make-up of a chromosome, frames his act – taking pictures of a lover and friend on his death-bed – as an unusual, even queer form of reproduction. Superseding the function of the queer erotic body, it is through the production of these images that Wojnarowicz can engage in a form of non-normative reproduction, thereby creating a form of queer heritage. Figure 3. View largeDownload slide David Wojnarowicz, Untitled (Peter Hujar) (1989). Gelatin silver prints. Courtesy of the Estate of David Wojnarowicz and P•P•O•W, New York. © David Wojnarowicz. Figure 3. View largeDownload slide David Wojnarowicz, Untitled (Peter Hujar) (1989). Gelatin silver prints. Courtesy of the Estate of David Wojnarowicz and P•P•O•W, New York. © David Wojnarowicz. The tight framing of these images imbues them with a quality of intimacy. Shot in close-up, they show Wojnarowicz engaging in what Laura Marks might classify as a form of ‘haptic visuality’. She defines this as an aesthetic style in which visual texts ‘refus[e] to make their images accessible to vision’, forcing the viewer to ‘resort to other senses, such as touch, in order to perceive the image’.71 By engaging this mode of looking, Wojnarowicz suffuses the photographs with an erotically tactile quality, allowing them to distil a sense of melancholic poignancy, and recording what Jennifer Doyle describes as ‘the last act of intimacy between Wojnarowicz and Hujar’s body’.72 However, beyond solely capturing this final ‘act of intimacy’, the tight framing of these images also enables them to elicit a kind of phantasmic eroticism. The use of the close-up largely eliminates the hospital setting from the periphery of the image, arguably allowing Hujar’s body to become partially detached from its AIDS-related context. With Hujar’s open mouth mimetically evoking the silent moan of a former orgasm, the intimacy captured in these photographs subtly echoes Wojnarowicz’s former erotic engagements with Hujar’s body. Although bearing witness to the destructive impact of AIDS, the piece also functions as a repository, in which a former erotics of potentiality can be preserved. This phantasmic erotic intimacy is also configured in relation to a sense of communality. By isolating individual body parts from a unified bodily whole, Wojnarowicz transforms them into depersonalised anatomical components. With the possible exception of the image of Hujar’s face, the specificity of these images is exfoliated, rendering them available to the viewer’s memory and imagination. In viewing these images, a hypothetical queer spectator can project their own sexual experiences onto the anonymous, de-subjectified body. This enables Wojnarowicz’s individual erotic distillations to obtain a plurality in which they can implicitly embody a multitude of past erotic experiences from the wider queer community. Like the Rimbaud series, this allows queer erotics – through its distillation in art – to engage in a mode of disruptive temporality in which the erotic act is configured as an iterative gesture, allowing the individual to be absorbed into a wider queer heritage. However, small details, such as a discoloured nail or piece of a hospital gown, reinscribe the subject of AIDS (and therefore, implicitly, death) back into the photograph. In Camera Lucida (1981), Roland Barthes posits that certain photographs contain what he calls a ‘punctum’, a small detail which in ‘its mere presence changes my reading, [so] that I am looking at a new photograph, marked in my eyes with a higher value’.73 Wojnarowicz’s photographs arguably enact a reversal of this: although these details enact what Barthes describes as a ‘prick[ing]’ effect,74 they achieve this impact by recodifying the images into their AIDS context. While Wojnarowicz’s photographs implicitly preserve an erotic charge – a spectral presence that predicts the creation of a utopian future – these visions are melancholically grazed by the presence of AIDS. The virus has become an inherent component of erotic queer heritage, and any attempt to envisage a queer futurity through an engagement in erotics must also testify to the historical trauma of AIDS. The past decades have witnessed significant transformations in the discourse surrounding AIDS, with discoveries in both palliative and preventative medication establishing what Liz Walker describes as the transformation of HIV ‘from a life-threatening condition to a manageable, long term, chronic condition’.75 Such cultural shifts have dulled neither the impact nor the relevance of Wojnarowicz’s works. As attacks such as the shooting dead of forty-nine queer people in Orlando in 2016 and the prevalence of discriminatory anti-transgender ‘bathroom bills’ in the southern United States show, the resuscitation of American extremist politics yet again threatens the safety of LGBTQ+ people, who once more find themselves ‘living in the shadow of the American dream’ (p. 32). In such a context, it is no wonder that Wojnarowicz’s visceral, politically radical work should be celebrated by a new generation of queer people, with Close to the Knives having been reissued by Canongate Press in 2017, and the Whitney Museum of American Art hosting a major retrospective of his work for summer 2018.76 Throughout his work, Wojnarowicz imagines a release from the oppressive constraints of a violently heteronormative society by envisioning what Muñoz describes as the ‘warm illumination of a horizon imbued with potentiality’, and thus the prospect of an idealised queer future.77 It is by constructing a disruptive form of heritage, through an identification with a historical queer community, that Wojnarowicz can successfully evoke this mode of utopianism. In his ragings against a dystopian society, which hauntingly resembles our own, Wojnarowicz becomes part of this same radical queer heritage for the modern queer reader. By plunging beneath the surface of his works, we too can sense the promise of a queer utopia – a world in which we are able step out from the ‘shadow of the American Dream’ and into the bright light of queerness, that warm glow that we can delicately trace along the horizon. Footnotes 1 David Wojnarowicz, Close to the Knives: A Memoir of Disintegration (Edinburgh 2017) p. 11. Further references to page are given in parentheses in the text. 2 Lee Edelman, No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive (Durham, NC 2004) p. 4. 3 Judith Halberstam, In a Queer Time and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural Lives (New York 2005) p. 5. 4 Edelman, No Future, p. 6. 5 Gayle S. Rubin, ‘Thinking Sex: Notes for a Radical Theory of the Politics of Sexuality’, in Richard Parker and Peter Aggleton (eds.), Culture, Society and Sexuality: A Reader (London 1999) pp. 143–78: 153. 6 Cynthia Carr, Fire in the Belly: The Life and Times of David Wojnarowicz (New York 2012) p. 28. 7 Rubin, ‘Thinking Sex’, p. 153. 8 Elizabeth Freeman, Time Binds: Queer Temporalities, Queer Histories (Durham, NC 2010) p. 3. 9 Ibid. 10 José Esteban Muñoz, Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity (New York 2009) p. 25. 11 Ibid., p. 32. 12 Ibid., p. 11. 13 David M. Halperin, Saint Foucault: Towards a Gay Hagiography (Oxford 1995) p. 62. 14 Carr, Fire in the Belly, pp. 54–5. 15 Jack Kerouac, On the Road (London 2000) p. 10. 16 Ibid., p. 121. 17 James Campbell, This Is the Beat Generation: New York, San Francisco, Paris (Berkeley 2001) p. 103. 18 Jacques Lacan, Écrits: A Selection, trans. Alan Sheridan (London 2001) p. 71. 19 Ibid., p. 74. 20 Quoted in Carr, Fire in the Belly, p. 312. 21 In the Shadow of the American Dream: The Diaries of David Wojnarowicz, ed. Amy Scholder (New York 1999) p. 129. 22 Lacan, Écrits, p. xii. 23 Tim Dean, Beyond Sexuality (Chicago 2000) p. 231. 24 Joan Copjec, Read My Desire: Lacan against the Historicists (Cambridge, Mass. 1994) p. 206. 25 David Wojnarowicz, New York, Fales Library and Special Collections, MS 092, Series III A, Box 5, Folder 138; quoted in Carr, Fire in the Belly, pp. 352–3. 26 Ibid. 27 Lacan, Écrits, p. 5. 28 Leo Bersani, ‘Is the Rectum a Grave?’, in Is the Rectum a Grave? And Other Essays (Chicago 2010) pp. 3–30: 30. 29 John Gruen, Keith Haring: The Authorized Biography (London 1991) p. 43. 30 Michel Foucault, ‘The Gay Science’, trans. Nicolae Morar and Daniel W. Smith, Critical Inquiry, 37 (2011) pp. 385–403: 399. 31 Ibid. 32 David Hirsh, ‘New York Adventure’, New York Native (3 Dec. 1990) p. 48. 33 Mysoon Rizk, ‘Constructing Histories: David Wojnarowicz’s “Arthur Rimbaud in New York”’, in Deborah Bright (ed.), The Passionate Camera: Photography and Bodies of Desire (London 1998) pp. 178–94: 180. 34 Ibid. 35 Graham Robb, Rimbaud (London 2000) pp. 44–5. 36 Arthur Rimbaud, Complete Works, Selected Letters: A Bilingual Edition, ed. Seth Adam Whidden, trans. Wallace Fowlie (Chicago 2005) pp. 376–7. Translation modified. 37 Ibid., pp. 308–9. 38 Leo Bersani, A Future for Astyanax: Character and Desire in Literature (London 1978) p. 240. 39 Bersani, ‘Is the Rectum a Grave?’, p. 30. 40 Fales, MS 092, Series II, Box 2, Folder 1, quoted in Carr, Fire in the Belly, p. 66. 41 Ibid. 42 Carr, Fire in the Belly, p. 133. 43 Lucy R. Lippard, ‘Passenger on the Shadows’, in David Wojnarowicz, David Wojnarowicz: Brush Fires in the Social Landscape, ed. Lucy R. Lippard (New York 1994) pp. 6–25: 10. 44 Judith Butler, Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of Sex (New York 1993) p. 95. 45 Ibid., p. 108. 46 Ibid. 47 Lauren Berlant and Michael Warner, ‘Sex in Public’, Critical Inquiry, 24 (1998) pp. 547–66: 554. 48 Muñoz, Cruising Utopia, p. 16. 49 Geoffrey Batchen, Burning with Desire: The Conception of Photography (Cambridge, Mass. 1997) p. 93. 50 Benjamin Reilly, Disaster and Human History: Case Studies in Nature, Society and Catastrophe (Jefferson 2009) p. 363. 51 Carr, Fire in the Belly, p. 227. 52 Bernard E. Harcourt, Illusion of Order: The False Promise of Broken Windows Policing (Cambridge, Mass. 2009) p. 200. 53 Quoted in Rizk, Constructing Histories, p. 179. 54 Larry Kramer, ‘1,112 and Counting’, in Iain Morland and Anabelle Willox (eds.), Queer Theory (Basingstoke 2005) pp. 28–39: 37. 55 Richard Berkowitz and Michael Callen, How to Have Sex in an Epidemic: One Approach (New York 1983) p. 3. 56 Sigmund Freud, ‘Mourning and Melancholia’, in The Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, trans. James Strachey (London 2001) xiv. 243–58: 243. 57 Douglas Crimp, ‘Mourning and Militancy’, in Melancholia and Moralism: Essays on AIDS and Queer Politics (Cambridge, Mass. 2002) pp. 129–49: 140. 58 Hervé Guibert, To the Friend Who Did Not Save My Life, trans. Linda Coverdale (London 1995) p. 164. 59 Monica B. Pearl, AIDS Literature and Gay Identity: The Literature of Loss (New York 2013) pp. 35–56. 60 David Wojnarowicz, quoted in ‘Court Transcript’, in Giancarlo Ambrosino (ed.), David Wojnarowicz: A Definitive History of Five or Six Years on the Lower East Side (New York 2006) pp. 212–25: 214. 61 David Wojnarowicz, Peter Hujar Dreaming / Yukio Mishima: St. Sebastian (1982), spray paint on masonite, PPOW Gallery, New York, and the Estate of David Wojnarowicz. 62 Yukio Mishima, Confessions of a Mask, trans. Meredith Weatherby (London 2007) p. 38. 63 Quoted in ‘Court Transcript’, p. 214. 64 Steven Schwartzberg, A Crisis of Meaning: How Gay Men Are Making Sense of AIDS (Oxford 1996) p. 48. 65 Ibid., p. 51. 66 Bersani, ‘Is the Rectum a Grave?’, p. 29. 67 Silence = Death, dir. Rosa von Praunheim (First Run Features, 1990). 68 Deborah B. Gould, Moving Politics: Emotion and ACT UP’s Fight Against AIDS (Chicago 2009) p. 129. 69 Douglas Crimp, ‘AIDS Demo Graphics’, in Allan Klusaček and Ken Morrison (eds.), A Leap in the Dark: AIDS, Art & Contemporary Cultures (Montreal 1992) pp. 47–57: 47. 70 Carr, Fire in the Belly, pp. 377–8. 71 Laura U. Marks, The Skin of the Film: Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment, and the Senses (Durham, NC 2000) p. 159. 72 Jennifer Doyle, Hold It Against Me: Difficulty and Emotion in Contemporary Art (Durham, NC 2013) p. 139. 73 Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida, trans. Richard Howard (London 1982) p. 42. 74 Ibid., p. 47. 75 Liz Walker, ‘Problematising the Discourse of “Post-AIDS”’, Journal of Medical Humanities (2017) pp. 1–11: 2; <https://doi.org/10.1007/s10912-017-9433-9> (accessed 11 April 2018). 76 Tequila Minsky, ‘TAG’s Exhibit Honors Artists Fighting AIDS’, Gay City News (New York, 29 Mar. 2018); <http://gaycitynews.nyc/tags-exhibit-honors-artists-fighting-aids/> (accessed 11 Apr. 2018). 77 Muñoz, Cruising Utopia, p. 1. © The Author(s) 2018. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of The Cambridge Quarterly. All rights reserved. For permissions, please email: journals.permissions@oup.com This article is published and distributed under the terms of the Oxford University Press, Standard Journals Publication Model (https://academic.oup.com/journals/pages/open_access/funder_policies/chorus/standard_publication_model)
TI - Queer Heritage/Queer Horizons: Disruptive Temporality in the Works of David Wojnarowicz
JF - The Cambridge Quarterly
DO - 10.1093/camqtly/bfy023
DA - 2018-12-01
UR - https://www.deepdyve.com/lp/oxford-university-press/queer-heritage-queer-horizons-disruptive-temporality-in-the-works-of-74QiQXrakM
SP - 360
VL - 47
IS - 4
DP - DeepDyve
ER -