Phoebe Bridgers's Sad Music in Late Capitalism is My Punctum
Stranger In The Alps album cover
In the long-form essay (or short novel, depending how you look at it) Camera Lucida, written by French literary theorist, philosopher and semiotician Roland Barthes, photography and its intuitive, evanescent nature is investigated as a sort-of eulogy to Barthes's late mother. In analyzing why certain photographs viscerally speak to him while others do not, Barthes embarks upon a philosophical promenade, with one specific desire in mind: "to learn at all costs what Photography was 'in itself,' by what essential feature it was to be distinguished from the community of images" (Barthes 3). He claims that Photography (that's right, with a capital P) evades us; in Barthes's view, the Photograph escapes us just as we are beginning to embrace it and comprehend its power, because "the Photograph mechanically repeats what could never be repeated existentially" (4). In other words, Photography captures and mechanically recreates an excerpt of real life that can never again be repeated or reproduced in that same, exact existence. It is a one-time, unique delineation of life thrumming before us, instilled within the frame of a single Photograph.
Barthes writes about Photography and its nature to evade us for nearly 120 pages. Within these pages, he delves into many facets and questions concerning his desire to uncover the essence of the Photograph and its particular significance and affect on human beings. As I was indulging Barthes's interrogation of specific photographs, there was one concept of his that hit me like a gut punch to the stomach because finally in my life I had found something to describe the ineffable: punctum.
Barthes first introduces punctum after his discussion of studium (Latin, I suppose, for "study" and application to a thing) within a Photograph; studium is, basically, the literal subject of the Photograph. According to Barthes, it is by studium that we take interest in viewing any one Photograph: "it is culturally that I participate in the figures, the faces, the gestures, the settings, the actions" (26). Our interest in looking at a Photograph depends upon whatever the subject is and its initial draw; this probably differs from person to person. One person may be intrigued by a black and white photograph of their grandparents' wedding from seventy years ago, while another person would look at the same picture and be bored. Perhaps that person would rather look at fashion Photography or something artsy and erotic; then again, maybe the first person might argue the black and white wedding photograph could fulfill that description, too.
While the studium or subject of a Photograph may initially draw us in, Barthes would argue that it is not enough to really move us or make us feel resonation with its artfulness on its own. This is where punctum comes into the picture (no pun intended). Barthes describes punctum as an interruption to the Photograph's studium-- it "is the element which rises from the scene, shoots out of it like an arrow, and pierces" the viewer (26). Punctum disturbs the subject of the Photograph by stinging or cutting the viewer's gaze, their body, their feeling-- it is "an accident which pricks ... (but also bruises, is poignant to)" the viewer (27). So, think of punctum as another way of saying je ne sais quoi. We don't know what is making us feel so powerfully invested, intrigued, infatuated with, or even falling in love with the image or scene in front of us. But, something in the Photograph, something beyond its subject, is personally touching us that then creates this intimate relationship between us and the Photograph. Honestly, it's a really beautiful philosophy-- to give a name to the ineffable, which itself describes something ineffable.
The reason discovering this word, punctum, in Barthes's writing gob-smacked me so much was because I suddenly felt I could tangibly grasp onto a fleeting emotion that often accompanied rare instances of certain art, human beings, experiences, observations— I felt I had learned about a deeper part of my human existence that clarified why I was the way I was, based on affectionate, intimate musings with certain counterparts in life. This lead me to a series of revelations and epiphanies with my own understanding of myself and my aesthetic affections; one that felt especially important was my affinity with Phoebe Bridgers's music.
My first time listening to a song by Phoebe Bridgers, I was sitting in my bedroom feeling heartache-y and glum about the skinny love-circumstances between me and my best friend. I had just worked up the nerves to confess my true feelings for them, which were quietly and hesitantly reciprocated as the way forward for us was unclear and potentially painful. I felt sad about a love that may never be, and I admitted beneath silent tears that I was mourning the possibility of not getting to know them. When I got home, I immediately went upstairs, stripped myself of the day's then-heavy clothes and emotions, and took a shower while telling myself that it was all going to be for the better. After my shower, I sat in my bed and streamed music from indie artists on Spotify, wanting unfamiliar voices and lyrics to distract me. This is when I was introduced to Phoebe's single, "Waiting Room." As I listened to the opening guitar, I already felt a wounding in my heart; I felt like I was being taken down by the melodies, the finger-plucking strings and indie music-ness that my heartache so desperately craved in my wallowing regret. Then, came the first words: "If you were a teacher, I would fail your class / Take it over and over, 'til you noticed me / If you were a waiting room, I would never see a doctor / I would sit there with my first-aid kit and bleed" (Bridgers). I collapsed. Both metaphorically and quite literally. I had sunk into the pillows and sheets surrounding me and cried a good cry. My spirit felt eased, somehow. This one song transformed the pain I was feeling into an empathetic connection to this unfamiliar artist. I pictured her writing the words to this song, perhaps feeling a similar shittiness akin to my own. And, at the song's climax, the music beautifully clamored as her voice eloquently wailed, "I know it's for the better" in repetition until the song's finish. And, suddenly my ineffable became tangible; the music and words had wounded me, and my relationship with her artistry and discography began.
Most recently, Phoebe Bridgers has began releasing new music to her forthcoming 2020 album, Punisher. The first single, "Garden Song," like much of her Music (that's right, with a capital M), also wounds me; there is an interruption of the literal subject matter, or studium, of the song that personally intrigues me and moves me. One line in "Garden Song" that always hits me is: "The doctor put her hands over my liver / She told me my resentment's getting smaller" (Bridgers). This lyric animates my soul in a way I struggle to describe; it punctures my sense of self and brings me to a haunting recognition of my own position within a big, lively world of mostly the unknown. I am humbled by this lyric.
Another instance of studium and punctum with Phoebe Bridgers: her overall aesthetic as an artist draws me in; the studium of her artistry, made up by her platinum blonde pin-straight hair, her black jumpsuit adorned with white full-length skeleton limbs dancing along her own, her tendency to write about morose topics, the sketch-y ghost and the dog reminiscent of her since-passed family dog gracing the cover of her debut album— all of these aesthetic choices intrigue me; however, something moves beyond the literal subject matter. For some reason, I feel a deeper connection to the home footage of her ripping a bong while sobbing in her "Garden Song" music video; I am wounded when my eyes pass over her childhood dog, and I feel seen when she poignantly addresses emotional abuse in "Motion Sickness." Perhaps, it all stems from my initial introduction to a sad love ballad in the spirals of pending heartbreak; or, maybe the punctum emerges from the confusion and anger that arises in living within our late-capitalist society, where injustice, endless bullshit and violence occur every day, and the government and any other higher power could give less of a fuck. Maybe her criticism and cynical jokes on Twitter ease this suffering in our shared outrage. Or, the simultaneous joy and sorrow that blooms within my body when I listen to a Phoebe Bridgers playlist may really be ineffable: spontaneous, random, and irrelevant, as most chaos is in our world. The affect is both fleeting and permanent all at once, and that is the most beautiful part. Perhaps, like Barthes, I will offer my punctum from Phoebe's Music as a eulogy for all of our dying voices and dreams that fray at the corners of the world. Hopefully, it is one that moves you beyond words.
For further reading and listening:
Barthes, Roland. Camera Lucida, 1980.
Bridgers, Phoebe. Stranger in the Alps, 2017.
Bridgers, Phoebe. "Garden Song." Punisher, 2020.
And, all of her other stuff, too. She also makes music in the bands boygenius and Better Oblivion Community Center.