Today the New York Times’ reported on a city block sized, three story high pile of petroleum coke in Detroit. The coke is a byproduct of tar sands oil production. Usually it gets shipped off to China or Latin America for fuel, contributing to the air problem out “over there” where we in the United States don’t have to see it. But at the moment we have a growing mountain of the stuff in Detroit. The source of outrage here, I would argue, is not the existence of such a pile but the use of Detroit as a “sacrifice zone,” to borrow Chris Hedges’ term. If this is how we are going to power our civilization, then would it not be better to keep the ugly byproducts within our field of vision? Yes, the waste becomes a very real social and environmental problem for the people who ultimately are left to deal with it. But the reason our waste gets sent somewhere else to spoil the material basis of someone else’s life is so that we wealthy consumers in the global north do not have to be confronted with either the toxicity or the sheer ugliness of things like petroleum coke. What we have is an empirically quantifiable problem of toxicity, yes, but that is not what the article is really about. The real issue that dominates the article is the fact that it’s ugly, and we can’t hide the ugliness from view. In other words, the environmental problem is also an aesthetic problem.
I remember watching the pieces that 60 Minutes did on Chernobyl in 1989 and 1996. The images of the nuclear fuel, which had melted, combined with the sand, and then solidified into a kind of glass flow, were beautiful. The radiation level on the surface when it was discovered was 10,000 Röntgen per hour. 500 Röntgens in five hours is the lethal level for humans. Radiation is not something that humans can perceive with their bodily sensory apparatus. In other words, we have something beautiful but deadly, and if you were to go near it, you would only perceive the deadliness through its physiological effects on your body. That is an aesthetic problem.
Plant and animal life is slowly re-taking the town of Pripyat, by Chernobyl. Its social character is slowly vanishing as a second nature gives way to a first. Luckily we now have the internet to satisfy our desire for the melancholy contemplation of ruination, because in spite of its appearances, the exclusion zone is a dangerous place. That is an aesthetic problem.
The title of Rachel Carson’s classic book Silent Spring is an allusion to Keats’ poem “La Belle Dame sans Merci.” We start off, in other words, not with science, but aesthetics. The book’s opening chapter “A Fable for Tomorrow” is about a town that knows it is poisoned because of the conspicuous absence of birdsong. That is an aesthetic problem.
There’s a scene in Raabe’s novel Die Akten des Vogelsangs where the two main characters are standing on a hill, a kind of nature park where the people from the town go to relax. In the novel, “nature” has been compartmentalized on this hill, it is planned and made beautiful. In the middle is a copy of Canova’s sculpture of Hebe. What we have is a compounding of aesthetic problems.
Kant observes in his discussion of the mathematical sublime that we can can estimate the magnitude of something (a mountain, a galaxy, etc.) through measurement, but that does not mean that I know the magnitude of the measure. The metric system in America has the same problem, because when Americans ask how many miles are in x kilometers, they are trying to obtain a sense of the magnitude of the measure. We haven’t understood the data if we haven’t grasped it through intuition and thus obtained a real understanding of the concept. Put very basically, the numbers are meaningless if they are not understood aesthetically. In my example of Chernobyl, I told you how deadly 500 Röntgens in five hours was so that you could have a sense of how much radiation is in 10,000 Röntgens an hour, and only then do you know what a problem that is.
Common sense would have us distinguish between environmental problems and aesthetic problems. Nobody ever got poisoned by a novel, at least not literally. But the distinction is illusory, and if we cling to it then we have failed to understand the environmental crises we are confronted with. Aesthetics in the narrow sense of perception and judgment is how we arrive at a sense that there is a problem in the first place. Aesthetics in the broader sense of “relating to art” can also help us to conceptualize how we got here and to imagine other possible kinds of relations.
This is the point, in other words, where we who do cultural studies can legitimately enter the conversation on environmental problems. And we can do so without selling ourselves short simply because we operate in more speculative realms.