That diagnostic that says political art is not useful, or is only useful as a part of an explicitly political project is almost as bad as that which insists that politics have an aesthetic. The old slogan If I can’t dance it’s not my revolution, which I do actually have on my wall at home, is too often an alibi for forgetting that art – and dancing is art here – has been wholly recuperated by the culture industry such that even the fantasy of art for art sake – obscure dancing at the back of the hall – is also bound up with the entrance fee, the music cd sales, the charts, the Internet sites upon which bloggers lol at your awkward moves, and the merely escapist illusion that time away from work, which is only afterall, recovery time, is somehow anti-capitalist. Dancing is through and through reified.
What art is not recuperated? Perhaps only dancing around the bonfire of the gallery artistes, chanting ‘let it blaze let it blaze’ – apologies to Virginia Woolf.