CULTURE MACHINE
VOL 16 • 2015
DRONE METAPHYSICS
Benjamin Noys
‘A Travelling Eye of God’
Lying in a hospital bed recovering from his physical and mental
injuries, an unnamed World War One soldier, in Mary Butts’s short
story ‘Speed the Plough’, recalls France: ‘and saw in the sky great
aeroplanes dipping and swerving, or holding on their steady flight
like a travelling eye of God’ (Butts, 1991: 10). The inhumanity of
this aerial view is expressed in Rex Warner’s 1941 novel The
Aerodrome:
In the air there is no feeling or smell of earth, and I
have often observed that the backyards of houses
or the smoke curling up through cottage
chimneys, although at times they seem to have a
certain pathos, do as a rule, when one is several
thousand feet above them, appear both
defenceless and ridiculous, as though infinite
trouble had been taken to secure a result that has
little or no significance. (1982: 224)
From the view of the ‘travelling eye of God’ what lies below is
rendered as ‘defenceless and ridiculous’, vulnerable to this eye as the
operator of violence. These responses to aerial warfare already
encode a discourse of the theological view and its concomitant
inhumanity that can not only be traced through the literary moment
of modernism (Mellor, 2011; Lindqvist, 2001; Saint-Amour, 2011;
Beer, 1990), but which also echoes uncannily with the discourse
surrounding drones, or unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs) (Nixon,
2014).
This line of reflection is evident in Jasper Bernes’s and Joshua
Clover’s recent ‘ballad’ in their joint poetry collection
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Götterdämmerung Family BBQ (2013). Here we find a parody of
Wordsworth connected to our ‘drone present’:
I wandered lonely as a drone
That floats o’er jails and landfill
And monitors what we say on the phone.
(2013: 18)
In this reworking the focused ‘lamp’ of Romanticism, the ‘inward
eye’ (Abrams, 1971), is transformed into the electronic ‘outward
eye’ of the drone. What is monitored is not the internal imagination,
but our external phone conversations, in which the surveillance state
tries to capture our potential dissidence. Wordsworthian pastoral,
itself not as unpolitical as it is often taken, is turned towards the junk
spaces of our crisis present. The drone finds its destination as the
signature device of the forms of contemporary power, our mobile
panopticon.
Paul Virilio, describing the aim of military ‘sight machines’, suggests:
‘In a technicians’ version of an all-seeing Divinity, ever ruling out
accident and surprise, the drive is on for a general system of
illumination that will allow everything to be seen and known, at
every moment and in every place’ (1989: 4). The Predators and
Reapers that return the war home incarnate this global and godly
vision; explicitly reflecting on drones, Virilio later comments: ‘the
eye of God is everywhere’ (1999: 102; Chamayou, 2015: 37). The
analysis of drones has explicated this mode of vision as the ‘drone
stare’ (Wall & Monahan, 2011), ‘drone vision’ (Stahl, 2013), or the
‘scopic regime’ of drones (Gregory, 2011). Its theological resonance
is even noted by drone operators themselves, with one reported as
saying: ‘Sometimes I feel like a God hurling thunderbolts from afar’
(qtd. in Policante, 2012: 113). Drones inhabit a field of theological
metaphysics, embodying dreams of transcendence and destruction
that have haunted the Western imagination. It is this metaphysics
that I wish to probe.
The Drone Present
The analysis of drone discourse has consistently registered the
theological and metaphysical ‘supplement’ that surrounds the drone.
I will argue – in line with Derrida’s analysis of the constitutive
equivocation of the notion of supplement, which is both
unnecessary extra addition and necessary element of completion
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(Derrida, 1974: 144–45) – that this ‘supplement’ is not simply a
mistaken appendage that could be removed to ‘really’ see the drone,
but part of what we must critically analyse to grasp the drone. The
risk of engaging with this theological or metaphysical resonance
seriously is that we feed the technological fetishism that can impinge
on the thinking of drones. To treat drones as if they were the
‘travelling eye of God’ is to flatter this mundane and brutal
surveillance and killing device. We may give a technological object,
or technological assemblage, a philosophical dignity it does not
deserve.
This is the danger of techno-fetishism (Shaw, 2011), which is not
quite what Marx meant by fetishism, in his account of the fetishism
of the commodity (1990: 163–177), or what Freud meant by
fetishism, as a diagnostic category of sexual perversion (1977: 345–
357), but something which mixes both. It involves the mysticism of
material object being treated as possessed of divine powers, and the
sexualisation of that power as a peculiar displaced potency. The
result is the inflation of the technological object to something that
horrifies and fascinates, electing it out of history into a natural or
metaphysical realm.1 This risk may be particularly acute when one
approaches the drone as a philosopher or theorist. The absence of
technical, sociological or other expert analysis can lead to the
reification of the drone into a metaphysical dignity it does not
warrant. It is, however, possible to interrogate the metaphysical
stakes at work in this techno-fetishism, which cuts across both drone
advocates and drone critics, without succumbing to it. It is only by
taking seriously this fetishism that we can sharpen our critical
discourse, the better to resist the seductions of drones.
To refer to ‘drone metaphysics’ is to refer to the particular
theological and metaphysical discourses that become attached to, or
embodied in, the practices and discourses that circulate around
drones. Ian Shaw has argued that the drone constitutes a
‘metaphysical object’ in terms of its ability to construct and legislate
a ‘world’ through the shaping effects of audiovisual and destructive
technological capacities (2011: 127–33). This has been reinforced
by critics who have traced the drone as ‘emergent object’ (Walters,
2014), and considered the ontological effects of the drone on our
conception of the human (Holmqvist, 2013). These arguments
suggest the drone constitutively exceeds its ‘function’ as mere
surveillance and killing machine, engaging with metaphysical
questions of sight, power, and the forms of the human.
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It is Grégoire Chamayou who has pursued this line of thought with
most rigour, developing his argument that the drone embodies
‘cynegetic war’ (2011: 4): war that is based on the treatment of
humans as prey, subject to the manhunt (Chamayou, 2012; 2015).
He points out:
‘Predator’, ‘Global Hawk’, ‘Reaper’ – birds of prey
and angels of death, drones bear their names well.
Only death can kill without ever dying itself.
Facing such an enemy, there is no way out. As a Tshirt glorifying American drones stated: ‘You can
run, but you’ll only die tired.’ (2011: 4)
‘Angels of death’, ‘exterminating angel[s]’ (Wills, 2014: 181),
legislators of the world, drones, in these critical analyses, take on a
theological and metaphysical function – the God’s eye view and
action that I have already suggested.
This metaphysics, I will argue, tends, in Jamie Allinson’s words, to
treat drones as ‘object[s] of potent thing-ness’ and not as ‘fusions of
human flesh, cybernetic weapon[s] and imperial and military
apparatus[es]’ (2015). It ascribes agency and activity that flatters
the drone as object and elides the intricate meshing with human
labour that makes drone operation possible. The ‘god-like’ capacity
of drones – for both vision and killing – incites an attribution to
them of theological and metaphysical powers. To trace the
theological metaphysics of drones I will examine a number of
discourses, mainly drawn from philosophy, literature, art, and
theory. These discourses will be largely pre-drone, as some of my
interest is in their predictive capacity and what we might call the
desire for the drone at work, at and in these moments, even as they
resist the tendency that would lead to the emergence of drones.
Also, these discourses will, like mine, be somewhat equivocal. My
claim is not simply that we can expel this metaphysics to reach a true
and accurate discourse, that we can simply conjure away the myths
and metaphysics to bare the real, but that our experience of the
‘reality’ of drones involves these myths and metaphysics, which
return to haunt us (Rothstein, 2015). In fact, as we shall see, it is the
transformative promise of drone metaphysics that is crucial: to
‘become-drone’ may be, strictly speaking, impossible, but this does
not prevent, and rather incites, a metaphysical desire for
transcendence.
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The Drone as World-Spirit
In one of his mordant postwar reflections, collected in Minima
Moralia (1951), Theodor Adorno remarks on the effects of the new
technologies of death on our conception of history:
Had Hegel’s philosophy of history embraced this
age, Hitler’s robot-bombs would have found their
place beside the early death of Alexander and
similar images, as one of the selected empirical
facts by which the state of the world-spirit
manifests itself directly in symbols. Like Fascism
itself, the robots career without a subject. Like it
they combine utmost technical perfection with
total blindness. And like it they arouse mortal
terror and are wholly futile. – ‘I have seen the
world-spirit,’ not on horseback, but on wings and
without a head, and that refutes, at the same
stroke, Hegel’s philosophy of history. (1978: 55;
see Chamayou, 2015: 205)
For Adorno the incarnation of the world-spirit in the subject-less
weapons – the V-1 flying bombs and V-2 rockets – refutes Hegel’s
philosophy of history, in which the world-spirit is incarnated in
world-historical individuals. We enter a new era of modernity, in
which ‘[t]he subject still feels sure of its autonomy, but the nullity
demonstrated by the concentration camps is already overtaking the
form of subjectivity itself’ (Adorno, 1978: 16). This nullity is figured
in the vehicle without a pilot, in the fully automated weapon,
careering out of our control.
Hegel, of course, was completely aware of the sanguinary nature of
the historical process, even as it instantiated reason. In his Lectures
on the Philosophy of World History, he remarked that history is an
‘altar on which the happiness of nations, the wisdom of states, and the
virtue of individuals are slaughtered’ (Hegel, 1975: 69; italics in
original). The role and fate of world-historical individuals is no
happier:
Thus it was not happiness that they chose, but
exertion, conflict, and labour in the service of their
end. And even when they reached their goal,
peaceful enjoyment and happiness were not their
lot. Their actions are their entire being, and their
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whole nature and character are determined by
their ruling passion. When their end is attained,
they fall aside like empty husks. They may have
undergone great difficulties in order to
accomplish their purpose, but as soon as they
have done so, they die early like Alexander, are
murdered like Caesar, or deported like Napoleon.
(Hegel, 1975: 85)
The irony of history is that the one who ‘makes’ history becomes a
nullity, a mere husk of the process of reason. Yet this happens to a
subject. Adorno is considering a situation in which reason cannot
persist due to the extinction of the subject. Grégoire Chamayou,
however, has pointed out that Adorno gives this situation a
dialectical twist (2015: 206). Adorno remarks that in the situation of
war in which the enemy is reduced to the status of ‘patient and
corpse’, we find ‘Satanically, indeed, more initiative is in a sense
demanded here than in old-style war: it seems to cost the subject his
whole energy to achieve subjectlessness’ (1978: 56). Chamayou
glosses that this ‘extinction’ of subjectivity is not automatic but
‘becomes the main task of subjectivity’ (2015: 207). The dream of
the contemporary world-spirit is to shuck off the ‘empty husk’ of the
world-historical individual and to achieve impossible embodiment
in the drone itself.
Elizabeth Bowen’s 1948 novel The Heat of the Day includes a
reflection on a V-1 attack that uncannily echoes the experience of
drones, down to the auditory effect: ‘droning things, mindlessly
making for you, thick and fast, day and night, tore the calico of
London, raising obscene dust out of the sullen bottom mind’ (1998:
328; italics in original). In July 1944 Bowen’s house had been ‘blown
hollow inside by a V-1’ (Lee, 1999: 149). Those who live under
drones report a state of uncertainty and terror, in which the sound of
drones presages the perpetual possibility of death (Chamayou,
2015: 44–5). Of course, unlike the V-1 or V-2, the drone is steered
by a pilot, currently. The dream, or nightmare, of the pilotless drone,
fully automated, and with the capacity to kill through its own
execution of algorithms, is one that still lies on the horizon of the
present moment (Chamayou, 2015: 207–13).
Current speculation has considered that if we enter a world of
automated drones it might still be possible to make the algorithms
which they would use to select and kill targets legally responsible for
‘collateral’ or incorrect killings (Schuppli, 2014). It is true, however,
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that even now the integration of the human and non-human actors
in the ‘kill-chain’ generates difficulties in sorting and assessing moral
and legal responsibility (Schuppli, 2014: 4). In response, the
discussion of drones has often focused on the role of their pilots,
their experience of killing-at-a-distance, and their responsibility
(Benjamin, 2013: 83-100; Holmqvist, 2013). The anxiety that
surrounds the possibility of the fully-automated drone, the true
realisation of Adorno’s fear of subject-less weapons, is a sign of our
assumption that we need to retain the human element to subject the
drone to reasoned critique (Adams & Barrie, 2013; Benjamin, 2013:
199). This is why Derek Gregory has stressed that the fabled
‘compression of the kill-chain’ – the minimisation of the role of
humans in drone operation – is not that compressed. Gregory states:
The kill-chain can be thought of as a dispersed
and distributed apparatus, a congeries of actors,
objects, practices, discourses and affects, that
entrains the people who are made part of it and
constitutes them as particular kinds of subjects.
(2011: 196)
The human enters the kill chain, only to be enchained as a particular
kind of subject. So, while the persistence of humans in the kill-chain
offers points of political intervention we can also note the
implication of Gregory’s claim: these humans are constituted in
ways to make them resist calls on their humanity and they are called
to conform to the drone (Holmqvist, 2013). Adorno’s prescient
insight confirms that the achievement of ‘subjectlessness’ is not
simply the effect of automation, but a labour by the subject that
operates on itself in the process of self-automation, or the creation of
an ‘automatic self’.
In Javier Marías’s The Infatuations (2013), the central character and
focal consciousness of the novel, María Dolz, ponders a series of
unpunished crimes, which include ‘the bombing of civilians by our
aircraft with no pilot and therefore no face’ (2013: 231). The issue
of the ‘face’ condenses this problem with the role of the human in
drone metaphysics. The desire to put a ‘face’ to the drone perhaps
accounts for the tendency of discussion to focus on the lives of the
pilots, a tendency which comes at the risk of occluding the lives of
the victims (Stahl, 2013: 670–71; Gregory, 2011: 204). The ‘face’ is
displaced by the fact that the victims do not see the face of their
killers, while their killers do experience an intense intimacy with
them, although this ‘intimacy’ is an invasive and destructive one
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(Gregory, 2011: 201). This is a violently asymmetrical intimacy, in
which ‘the operator will never see his victim seeing him doing what he
does to him’ (Chamayou, 2015: 118; italics in original). We are also
displaced from the faces of the victims, who are rendered into enemy
forces, as in the infamous incident on 21 February 2010, in Oruzgan
province in central Afghanistan, when at least 23 civilians were killed
by Kiowa attack helicopters directed to the target by drone pilots
(Gregory, 2011: 201–3). The drone operators transformed women
and children into weapons-carrying ‘military-aged males’, into those
who could be killed at the expense of seeing their actual faces
(Scahill, 2014: 352).
The photographer Noor Behram has devoted his efforts to taking
photographs of the victims of drone strikes, at obvious personal risk,
not least due to the American military’s tendency to ‘double-tap’
strikes, when a target is hit multiple times in quick succession
(Delmont, 2013: 197). His work attempts ‘an aesthetic and
operational reversal of the target’s visual logic’ (Adey et al, 2011:
183), which places us in the ‘view from below’ (Hewitt, 1983).
Certainly restoring a face to the victims is crucial, trying to shift
identification from the drone to the damage it does. It is also crucial,
despite the risk of shifting focus from the victims, to insist on the
‘face’, in the sense of moral responsibility, of those in the kill chain.
The difficulty is – if we take Gregory’s point about the constitution
of the subject in the kill chain alongside Adorno’s provocation – that
the ontology of the human may be rendered in a face-less fashion
that constantly tries to rework and occlude this insistence on the
‘face’. While humanisation can lead to over-sympathetic
identification with drone pilots and leads drone pilots to overidentify with ‘their’ troops on the ground, we can add that drone
metaphysics is an operation of constitution and transformation of
subjects into a ‘face-less’ state. This state cannot be reached, or is not
yet within our technological capacities, but this does not prevent the
repeated striving for this state. Putting a ‘face’ to the drone is a
necessary critical gesture, but considering the transformative power
of drone metaphysics, not a sufficient critical gesture, as we will see.
Military Gnosticism
In some enigmatic passages of Speed and Politics (1978) Paul Virilio
turns to the metaphysics of metempsychosis – the transmigration of
souls – to suggest the tension of the loading of the soul on to various
‘metabolic vehicles’ (1986: 89). Virilio argues that the soul is ‘plural,
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multiform, fluidiform, coagulated here and there in social, animal or
territorial bodies’ (1986: 75). The military adopt and literalise this
metaphysics. If ‘[a]ncient metempsychosis imagined a plethora of
intelligences in search of undifferentiated matter’, then the military
turns this free transmigration of souls into an act of conquest
(Virilio, 1986: 89). They force bodies into motion, impose
deterritorialisation, and reduce the masses to the ‘animal’ status of
soulless bodies ripe for occupation (76). The ‘free-floating’ will of
the military gains power by its dromocratic violence that imposes
both sedentariness and movement on human, animal, and technical
‘bodies’. This is also true of the assembling of the body from a
‘metabolic vehicle’ to a ‘technical vehicle’, what Virilio calls ‘the
bestiary of engines’ (88), of which the drone is one contemporary
instance.
Turning from philosophy to religion Virilio also likens this ‘powerful
soul’ to the ‘gyrovagues’, wandering and itinerant monks often
condemned by the church of the early Middle Ages for their
parasitic mobility, selling of fake relics, and gluttony (1986: 90).
According to St Benedict, in his Rules:
The fourth kind of monks are those called
‘Girovagi’, who spend all their lives-long
wandering about divers provinces, staying in
different cells for three or four days at a time, ever
roaming, with no stability, given up to their own
pleasures and to the snares of gluttony, and worse
in all things than the Sarabites [monks who have
no rule outside themselves]. Of the most
wretched life of these it is better to say nothing
than to speak. Leaving them alone therefore, let us
set to work, by the help of God, to lay down a rule
for the Cenobites [those who live in monasteries,
under the direction on an Abbot], that is, the
strongest kind of monks. (in Anon, 2013)
While the wandering monks threaten the social order, military
Monasticism channels this wandering into the discipline of a mobile
war-machine (Virilio, 1986: 90). The military takes over this mobile
function, reproducing the vagabond wandering and parasitism of the
Gyrovagues.
These assessments follow Virilio’s heterodox Catholicism in reviving
past ‘heresies’ as mechanisms of critique. This is revealing of longer
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patterns of metaphysical presumption, even if we may not be
inclined to accept Virilio’s own theological orientation. We can
summarise these twin criticisms under a category of heresy Virilio
does not, at these points, explicitly use: Gnosticism. The flight from
body to body, the wandering of itinerant monks, which figure the
‘trans-national’ military caste, can be seen as forms of the Gnostic
hatred of matter. This ‘military Gnosticism’ assumes the ‘powerful’
soul is deterritorialised, fluid and transferable, while the ‘weak soul’
is imprisoned within the body and the world (Virilio, 1986: 75–76).
The military move from vehicle to vehicle, while the proletarian
subjects of this caste or class are left only with their own bodies. The
military operates through this constant movement across territories
without ever settling into place, becoming ‘wills that occupy the
invisible or uninhabitable parts of the universe’ (Virilio, 1986: 92).
In this military Gnosticism acceleration is not only the acceleration
of the vehicle but the ‘pure’ acceleration of the soul moving
smoothly from embodiment to embodiment, and so able to exceed
any territorial capture. At the same time this accelerative
displacement also comes to displace the military as well:
Look at the war on the Falkland Islands. It’s very
revelatory. Take the captain of the ‘Sheffield’ and
the pilot of the ’Super Etendard’ The pilot
answers to the slogan of the Exocet missiles: ’Fire
and forget’. Push the button and get out of there.
You go home, you’ve seen nothing. You fired
forty, sixty kilometres away from your target. You
don’t care, the missile does it all. On the other
side there’s the ’Sheffield’ captain who says; ’In
this war, everything happens in a few seconds, we
have no time to react.’ You see two military men
in uniform; one an Argentine pilot, the other a
veteran of the Home Fleet, who say: ’The missiles
go by themselves. We are finished ….’ (Virilio,
1983: 18)
If the military extinguish the ecological possibilities of resistance,
which require the ability to secure a body and secure a place, they
also extinguish, Virilio claims, their own role.
The ‘assumption of cybernetics into the heavens’ (Virilio, 1989: 2)
is the most radical expression of this military Gnosticism. The
extremity of this deterritorialisation involves the idolatry of
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assuming the position of God: ‘Today, we have achieved the three
attributes of the divine: ubiquity, instantaneity, immediacy;
omnivoyance and omnipotence’ (Virilio, 1989: 17). The military
caste incarnates the nihilistic politics of ‘pure war’ in which global
space becomes a playground for these detached souls. The drone, of
course, appears as the apotheosis of this project:
Drones are a combination of the new and the old:
a new aerial surveillance and killing system with
capabilities previously not offered by
conventional air power, coupled with an older
cosmic view of air mastery through technological
speed, verticality, and vision. (Wall & Monahan,
2011: 241)
The drone combines the archaic and the new, realising, if we follow
Virilio, the implicit Gnostic escape from the constraints of matter.
Of course matters are not so simple. Virilio’s method of
extrapolating tendencies or exploring extremes can flatter the drone
– which is an object that is hardly free of materiality or humanity.
That said, what Virilio indicates is that military Gnosticism does not
ignore this materiality or humanity, it constantly works on it. The
fantasy of ‘pure war’ is a fantasy, but works through continually
overcoming its various failures. Virilio’s own solution to this idolatry
is to argue that unless we accept the god of transcendence we are
forced to worship the ‘god-machine’ (1989: 83). This is a
symmetrical gesture, which tries to escape the drone through a
reference to a higher power. There is no doubt that religious beliefs
have played a key role in peace movements, and especially in those
concerned with the technological acceleration or assumption of
‘God-like’ powers: from Bishop George Bell’s critique of mass aerial
bombing of Germany by Britain in World War Two, to the post-war
anti-nuclear movement. The difficulty is that it, too, occludes the
transformatory work drone discourse performs to create the
metaphysics of mobility and vision by which it operates. We need to
consider this work as the site of our critique.
Projectile Philosophy
Drone metaphysics does not only direct us toward the drone, but
also back to metaphysics. Paul Virilio notes that: ‘Unlike the ancient
believer in metempsychosis, the metaphysician, intelligence in
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transit, is welcome nowhere, is nowhere in his element. He is a
projectile in the heart of the great All of conscious matter’ (1990:
109). Exceeding the movement of the soul from body to body,
metaphysics aims at a disincarnated intelligence that would inhabit
the status of pure projectile. In Michael Dillon’s formulation, this is
‘the desire of contemporary martial corporeality to become
intelligence incarnate’ (2003: 129). The crucial justification for this
‘projectile’ state is, according to Virilio, fragment 115 of the preSocratic philosopher Empedocles. In this fragment the
metaphysician is daimôn transformed from one form to another,
without rest. Tossed between the elements, all of which reject him,
he lives in ‘insensate strife’. This strife suggests that we are not just
dealing with a militarisation of metaphysics, but a convergence
between certain tendencies in metaphysics and the military. Virilio’s
reference to the projectile as model obviously implies the drone as
signature object, not just for discussion of contemporary power, but
also for the thinking of metaphysics or philosophy.
In Virilio’s analysis this ‘projectile’ state realises the abandonment of
metabolic vehicles and the final dream of pure intelligence in transit.
It aims at the replacement of the vital with the void of speed (Virilio,
2005: 42). In this scenario we enter into our displacement by speed,
trying to reach the metaphysical state of pure projectile through a
willed abduction. This is not only a purely philosophical dream, but
a political dream, or we could say a dream of philosopher as pure
power. Virilio suggests: ‘This constant search for ideal
weightlessness is at the heart of problems of domination’ (2005:
43). In the case of the drone the displacement is not simply for
speed as such, drones being fairly slow aerial vehicles: with speeds of
84 mph for a Predator and 230 mph for a Reaper (Gregory, 2014:
15). The projectile fantasy is here, however, due to the fact the
human is not literally inserted as pilot, not ‘mounted’ on the drone,
except through the control and vision interfaces. The drone is an
experience of weightless dominance in its displacement and
augmentation of the ‘metabolic vector’ for the ‘void’, not so much of
speed, but of invulnerability.
The drone is a metaphysical device in its ‘realisation’ of this
tendency of metaphysics, but as the quotation marks indicate this is
never a full ‘realisation’. As we have already indicated with the
theological element of vision, what Donna Haraway calls ‘the godtrick of seeing everything from nowhere’ (1991: 189), always fails.2
The critic who simply points out this is a trick, or that the trick fails,
will not come to terms with the fact failure is built in to the need to
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repeat the trick. It is not enough to say this is a trick when this is
already well known. Similarly, for what I am arguing here concerning
the projectile: the drone or any other vehicle, pending very large
technological advances, will not incarnate the ‘pure intelligence in
transit’. Again, this suggests that any such god-trick is a ‘technocultural accomplishment’ (Gregory, 2011: 193; italics in original),
but an accomplishment that must be repeated and is never fully
accomplished.
Rex Warner’s novel The Aerodrome offers a powerful prefiguration of
this situation. It concerns the conflict between the life of the village –
symbolic of materiality, contingency and a very British ‘muddling
through’ – and the air force, the incarnation of a fascist promise of
transcendence and purity. The narrator Roy embodies this tension.
Finding out his fiancée may, in fact, be his sister, he abandons this
particularly acute sexual ‘mess’ for the life of the aerodrome. Roy
remarks: ‘Though I knew the people here well, and loved them, I
was disgusted and frightened by the contrast between their quick
anger, their sudden levity, and the undeviating precision and
resolution of the Air Vice-Marshal’ (Warner, 1982: 103). Subject to
intensive training, Roy and his surviving fellow recruits are lectured
by the Air Vice-Marshal, who proclaims his creed: ‘There remains
the evolution, or rather the transformation, of consciousness and
will, the escape from time, the mastery of the self’ (Warner, 1982:
188). The appeal of the air force is, precisely, this evolution that
transcends the messy contingencies of the village. This
transcendence into purity includes the abolition of the human factor
of its own pilots. The air force has developed new pilotless planes,
which allow the delegation of warfare, so the air force can devote its
energies to the transformation of the whole society in its image.
Contemplating these pilotless planes, the narrator Roy accepts ‘the
fact that metal and electricity and the directing brain so easily
surpass the performances of our own eyes and nerves and muscles’
(Warner, 1982: 195). These ‘drones’ are welcomed as the final
devices of pure aerial ability, leaving their redundant pilots to return
to the duty of reworking society in the image of the new aerial order.
Warner’s novel gradually unfolds the revenge of messy materiality
on the air force. The Flight Lieutenant Roy admires for his amorous
and military prowess is a mere desk-pilot. It is also revealed that Roy
is the son of the air marshal, and so can only escape one incestuous
scenario for another. It will be through a new love affair for Roy that
the final victory of the village over the air force is achieved. This is a
slightly unsatisfactory and unconvincing resolution. The deep
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tension of the novel reveals itself in the promise of the air force to
resolve such ‘mess’ into purity and transcendence, which implies
that messy materiality is not a counter to transcendence, but its
condition. While the air force might be sullied, the need to
overcome this by the metaphysics of will and the projectile suggest
the need for ‘mess’ as the site to be subject to constant
transformation, as the very material on which it works.
To return to the project dream of metaphysics we can note the same
structure. ‘Intelligence in transit’ is never fully achieved, but the
repetitions of metaphysics constantly aim at lifting us above
materialities, while constantly working on them. Paul K. SaintAmour (2011: 262) has noted, in his discussion of aerial
photomosaic, that the appeal to the contingency and fluidity of the
horizontal to counter the ‘dominance’ of verticality is problematic.
First, the horizontal is not some ‘pure’ zone freed from power, as his
example of ‘horizontal’ geographic mapping indicates. Second,
reading the vertical as a site of pure domination underestimates the
complexity and tension in constituting the vertical as a site of power.
My contention is similar in suggesting that messy materiality is not,
itself, simply the solution to the transcendence of drone
metaphysics. Rather, we have to grasp the labour that drone
metaphysics performs as a constant work of transformation that
aims at the vertical by means of the horizontal.
Banality and demystification
It is obvious that in reaction to discourses of mystification we resort
to demystification. A hallmark of work on drones, as we have seen,
has been the drive to deflate the claims of ‘god-like’ power that
haunt drone discourse. This includes artistic work to make visible
the human and material destruction drones inflict (Delmont, 2013),
recognising that drones are not ‘human free’ but require more
personnel than conventional aircraft (Benjamin, 2013: 21), and
stressing their technical limitations, in terms of lack of range, speed,
and vulnerability to anti-aircraft fire, which make them unlikely
candidates for ‘the advancing edge of American Empire’ (Gregory,
2014: 15). It is necessary, Gregory insists, to remember that an
‘everywhere war’ is also a ‘somewhere war’ (2014: 15), and his
conclusion is that we should not sever drones ‘from the matrix of
military and paramilitary violence of which they are but a part’
(2014: 16). Amedeo Policante concludes that the drone brings an
end to the Clausewitzean notion of warfare as heroic duel. In the end
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the drone-operator’s lot is an indication that: ‘The tedious
dreariness of the machine has now absorbed even the last fantasies
of autonomy that needed the extreme speed of war to find its space’
(Policante, 2012: 114; Stahl, 2013: 671). This point is reinforced by
Stephen Voyce (2014), who notes that the signature effect of the
drone is due to the conjunction of banal labour and deadly violence:
‘The Drone – a strange but all too appropriate synonym – abruptly
yokes together the monotonous work of “office drones” with the
“unmanned aerial vehicles” which they now operate in great
numbers above Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen, Somalia, and soon
elsewhere.’ In all these cases a necessary work of deflation,
demystification and banalisation is used to contest what I have
called ‘drone metaphysics’.
I have suggested, however, that an essential element of drone
metaphysics is the constant promise it offers to rework and
transform the messy materialities of the human and the technical.
This reworking is a task that produces an effect of mystical or
metaphysical power out of this very banality. Milena, writing about
Kafka, noted: ‘He sees life very differently from other people. To
him, for instance, money, the stock market, exchange bureaus, a
typewriter are absolutely mystical things’ (in Buber-Neumann,
1988: 64).3 The point is the ‘reduction’ of the drone to bureaucratic
banality may not reduce their absolute mysticism. Rather, their
metaphysics or mysticism is a result of this very banality and
integration, which can then generate fantasies of ‘autonomous
acceleration’.
This is the tension that remains for the critic. The return to banality
and the human factor offers capacities for intervention, yet we also
need to track the transformation of these, within the ‘congeries of
the kill-chain’, back into a particular kind of metaphysics and the
desire for a particular kind of subject-less subject. While Caroline
Holmqvist, for example, addresses the contact zone between ‘the
steely bodies of drones’ and ‘the fleshy ones of human beings’
(2013: 538), her tendency is to focus on human ontology as a means
to bring the drone into the ambit of critique (2013: 548). This is
obviously crucial when the reliance on technology can serve to
dissimulate human agency and moral responsibility (Adams &
Barrie, 2013: 254). Yet I want suggest that we take more seriously
this desire for the transformation of flesh into steel, or better the
fusion of flesh with steel.4 The dreariness or banality of the machine,
or the operation of the machine, is not the destruction of fantasies of
autonomy or acceleration, but also their condition. The dream of
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‘accelerationism’ (Noys, 2014) depends on the capacity to
constantly return and rework failures of acceleration through yet
another effort to be finally accelerationist.
In the case of critique I do not think this means abandoning any of
the resources of metaphysics or philosophy for some empirical,
local, or politicised discourse that we might assume could simply
immunise us against this metaphysics. While I have constantly
drawn on these discourses, which are crucial, we also need to grasp
the metaphysical ‘aura’ that results from the labour on messy
materiality and the embeddedness of drones. This is why, as we saw
with Rex Warner’s novel, a faith in messy materiality to resist the
dream of transcendence is misplaced. Equally, I am suggesting the
attempt to outbid transcendence through a religious faith in
absolute transcendence, as Virilio suggests, is also problematic.
What these gestures risk is replicating a drone metaphysics that
operates by the constant oscillation between these two points.
Switching from messy materiality to transcendence, usually through
the mode of acceleration, is what drone metaphysics thrives on to
occlude the tensions, frictions, and forms of violence at work in this
switching and transformation.
Certainly, attention to the material and to the elements of labourpower that undergird these fantasies of transformation and
acceleration is essential. Such attention requires awareness,
however, that these ‘material’ elements are not simply counters to
the abstractive power of drone vision. Marx’s analysis of the
commodity-form, which attends to the banality of equivalence, also
insists that such a work of social abstraction generates ‘metaphysical
subtleties and theological niceties’ (1990: 163). We are not
opposing the concrete and material to the abstraction, but trying to
probe a work of abstraction that cuts across this distinction. The
accelerative discourse of transcendence tries to escape the problem
by posing a final transcendence that can recode the material in a
‘saved’ form. The return to messy materiality, similarly tries to save
the material as a point of resistance: hence the symmetry in which
theological or religious discourses are, at the same time,
transcendent and concerned with materiality.
The refinement of critical analysis I am suggesting, which is already
touched upon by many drone critics, is to dwell more with the
disruption of the discourse of drone metaphysics in this space of
transformation it creates. It is effects of negation, interruption, and
refusal in this process of transformation that, I propose, are crucial.
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This is to challenge certain discourses of ‘acceleration’ that regard
resistance as lying in a capacity of excess, the friction-less,
hypertrophy, and so forth that are claimed to outpace the forms of
military, state, and capitalist power. The desire for a final
deterritorialisation that can slip into a smooth space of resistance is
not only unfaithful to Deleuze and Guattari’s warning, ‘[n]ever
believe a smooth space will suffice to save us’ (1988: 500), but also
remains within the field of drone metaphysics.
This ‘friction’ lies not solely in the human as resistant factor, but also
in the human-technical interaction in the ‘congeries of the killchain’. In particular, as I have suggested, this friction lies in the
transformative work of integration that tries to constitute a
‘subjectless’ process in which the human and technical coordinate in
the smooth execution of the kill-chain. On its own this friction is not
sufficient, as this returns us to the ‘mess’ that requires smoothing
and integration. If a ‘smooth space’ does not suffice to save us,
neither will a ‘rough space’. The antinomy itself is part of the
problem I have identified in grasping the transformative, and nontransformative, effect of drones. Instead, these points need to be
activated into a work of negation that disrupts these processes of
smoothing. Here I have focused on the identification of these points
and these processes through an analysis of the literary, artistic,
philosophical, and theological elements of drone discourse. This
initial mapping requires a sense of continuity – the duration of the
dream of the drone, the various drones, both real and virtual, that
pre-existed our current situation; and an awareness of discontinuity
– in terms of perceiving the transformation the drone has made, its
retroactive effect in reinscribing those previous discourses. In this
way we can trace and displace the hold that drone metaphysics has
on us.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Joe Kennedy for bringing Rex Warner’s work
to my attention.
________________
Notes
1. An example of this fetishism can be found in Mike Davis’s (2008)
discussion of the car bomb, where in an otherwise astute analysis he
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often deploys naturalising metaphors for the spread of this ‘weapon
of the weak’: ‘implacable virus’ (6), ‘Darwinian process’ (130), and
‘a kudzu vine of destruction’ (188).
2. I would, perhaps provocatively, add that the ‘god trick’ fails also
for God, or any deity. This would be one way to read Derrida’s
(1995) reflections on ‘total alterity’ as both the inscription of god
and the ruination of the usual schema of godly powers. David Wills
(2014: 186) connects Derrida’s account of God’s vision to the god
trick of drones.
3. Adams and Barrie (2013: 247) use Kafka to discuss the moral
unresponsiveness of bureaucratic military violence in the context of
drones. However, they do not discuss the ‘mystical’ appearance of
this bureaucratic violence.
4. Rolf Hellebust (2003) has offered a fascinating account of these
alchemical dreams of the transformation of flesh to metal in the
Soviet avant-garde. With the drone we could add another history,
indebted to capitalist militarism.
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