Sunday Reads

A currently biweekly digest of longer-form writings and the occasional video I would like to commend to you for a lazy Sunday morning.

The Shape of Space

This extensive look at the geometry of living in environments where up and down don't make sense is packed full of quite wonderful things. Buckminster Fuller made a big deal of us living on "Spaceship Earth" and encouraged shifts in language to reorient ourself as riding on a planet moving through space, but our evolutionary experience is stubbornly locked to a gravity model. Even astronauts on the International Space Station, that great experiment in post-planetary living, orient themselves as if "they are in a very tall building with all the intermediate floors removed." Also of note is an intelligent and detailed look at those 1970s cylindrical space habitats that haunted my childhood.

Russian Cosmism Versus Interstellar Bosses: Reclaiming Full-Throttle Luxury Space Communism

Cosmism is a new term to me and I'm enjoying discovering it. Like many ideas that came from inter-war Europe and post-revolutionary Russia, it's unrealistic and bonkers but highly alluring. And the parallels with the fringe ideologies of our algorithm-weilding masters is quite striking, albeit more optimistic, maybe? Does the left need to "seize back crazed utopic ideas from fascists and Silicon Valley" in order to save the world from Trump? It's certainly worth considering.

How to be human: the man who was raised by wolves

A long-read on Marcos Rodríguez who was abandoned as a child in poverty-stricken Spain and grew up without human contact. But that's just the preamble. The story really happens when he is brought back to civilisation but doesn't have any of the social tools to deal with a culture coming out of Fascism.

It may be no accident that Rodríguez's case was, for half a century, rather less celebrated: he emerged from the mountains into a country scared to investigate itself for fear of what it might find. There was little appetite for reopening debates about poverty and neglect, or the sale of children into labour, even in the 1970s. It was not until much later, 35 years after Franco had died, in a democracy mature enough to confront its past, that the details and significance of his story were finally embraced.

What does a nuclear bomb blast feel like?

The headline here is soldiers at nuclear bomb tests seeing the bones in their hands as they covered their faces, but the real kick in the guts for me is that they were forced into secrecy for decades and never compensated for being there at all. Oh, these are British soldiers, by the way, dying of leukaemia and fathering deformed babies. This bloody country…

Chamberlain Clock

On a number of Birmingham's traffic islands you'll find these iron clocks painted green. They're total heritage but because they often have no pedestrian access it's tricky to see them up close. While doing a reccy for my Jewellery Quarter walks this month I crossed over to read the inscription on the clock there and took a photo because it's quite specific.

Joseph Chamberlain is one of the Big Names in this city. Not to be confused with his son Neville of "peace in our time" fame, Chamberlain's mayorship in the 1870s saw one of the great Victorian programmes of municipal socialism, clearing the slums and reducing the blight of poverty, fighting hard against the Conservative establishment to bring about real reform. He was, in short, a local hero, so it's unsurprising that there are countless monuments and memorials to him, not least a public square of equal stature to Victoria's next door.

But he was also a massive Imperialist. Having sorted out Birmingham he went Westminster and became Colonial Secretary in Salisbury's government and brought his paternalist reforming ideas with him.

"I believe that the British race is the greatest of the governing races that the world has ever seen… It is not enough to occupy great spaces of the world's surface unless you can make the best of them. It is the duty of a landlord to develop his estate."


And then there were the Boer Wars which he oversaw, including the delightful invention of the concentration camp. These were won and the Treaty of Vereeniging was signed in May 1902.

The plaque on the clock is about a two month tour of South Africa from over the Winter of 1902-3, a bridge building, conciliation effort to bring everyone back under the umbrella of the British Empire. Everyone with white skin, that is. Apartheid might not have become official policy until 1948 but it was there in all but name. Blacks were a resource, like the land, and the Boer Wars were effectively about who would control that resource.

The quote on the clock reads: "We have shown that we can be strong and resolute in war; it is equally important to show that we can be strong and resolute in peace." Within a decade white South Africans had negotiated nominal independence and were fully sovereign by 1931.

Chamberlain seems like a massively complicated figure but he marks an interesting moment in the history of progressiveness in the UK. He was in some ways ahead of his time in Birmingham, recognising that the city was only as strong and healthy as its inhabitants and that industry alone could not provide the necessary levels of infrastructure. He, and many others across the country, laid the foundations for the welfare state, and for that we must be grateful.

But he was behind the times when it came to the rest of the world. He believed the hubris of Britain's divine right to rule the waves and their superiority over other races. The 20th century would prove him as wrong as it would prove his civic ideas right.

In Birmingham I think we like to remember the young Chamberlain over the old, just as the English as a whole prefer the old Churchill to the more problematic pre-war version. It makes us feel better about our place in history to concentrate on the good stuff. But we should probably remember the bad stuff too. Birmingham's connection to the evils of empire is less clear cut than, say, Bristol and Liverpool where the slave trade looms large. But it's there, clearly written on the lovingly preserved heritage clocks on the traffic islands.

Ars Electronic 2017

Ars Electronica is a large media arts festival and as such it functions like most large industry gatherings, albeit with a less rapaciously commercial imperative. It takes place in the city of Linz, the third largest in Austria, roughly 2/3rds the size of Wolverhampton, give or take.

Ars Electronica (commonly shortened to Ars, which makes smutty British people snigger at your visiting Arse) was founded in 1979 and is based around the Ars Electronica Centre, a science museum for future technology manifesting as a glowing cube of flashing lights on the banks of the Danube. It appears to house very little art, which is a bit confusing when visiting during the festival, but uses what you might call a cultural mindset to frame the exhibits on show. There's also a strong emphasis on pixels and screens. Lots of VR goggles at the moment alongside their much vaunted "8K Deep Space" room where multiple high definition projectors fill the wall and floor like a slightly more immersive IMAX. Like most "big telly" spaces in cultural institutions, the challenge seems to be figuring out what it's for. Maybe it's just a big telly.

This "future technology" thing sometimes makes the place feel old fashioned, a problem futurism has bumped into in recent years. As we fumble our way through the end days of neoliberalism it's harder and harder to imagine a future that isn't part of our tattered reality tunnel, so futures that wish to avoid doomed dystopic nihilism have to remix the past, only smaller and faster and with more pixels. Ars gamely tries to bring earnest social concern to their tech evangelism but to these jaded eyes it feels a bit naive. Still, it's refreshing to see a European take on what has become dominated by The Californian Ideology.

While the centre runs all year, the festival takes place for a week in September, and in recent years has completely separated from the mothership, occupying Postcity which is not a new space for exploring post-city ideologies and is actually an empty disused post office sorting depot. This is oddly refreshing, like discovered something called an Innovation Centre was actually used for innovation, which never happens.

The space is vast, covering three massive floors, some still kitted out with conveyor belts and mail sorting chutes, down to the ominously named Bunker complex which feels like a cold-war installation. It's on a scale with a convention centre, but without any of the facilities. Ars brings it to life once a year, filling it with industrial fittings to create stalls, booths and workshops while decorating the concrete with potted long grasses. The end result evokes a post-industrial takeover by a tribe of techno-futurists, especially when all the Media Artists arrive with their fashion cliches and quirks.

You enter at the top floor via a sweeping service road built for lorries and collect your badge, although this is not technically needed for the top floor which is open to all. This floor is roughly divided into two areas. First is what I call the Tech Demos, works by artists that show their workings more than their meanings and which might lead to greater things in time, and demonstrations of cool technologies with no pretensions of artistry.

The former included most of the Artificial Intelligence which, to my mind, still hasn't produced a great work yet. They're using an artistic approach to poke at this relatively new technology and reveal some of its weirdness, and that's great, but I doubt any of the artists involved are satisfied yet. There's more work to be done. The later reflects the main Ars centre. Lots of mind-control headsets, lots of robot arms, all very wow but of very little substance. But that's fine. We don't always have much wow in our lives. Often wow is enough.

Downstairs is what you might call the real art. Threaded through the maze of tunnels are installations and curated exhibitions, some commissioned by the festival along with a collections from commercial galleries across Europe. Developing the market for digital art, often by definition intangible, is one of the the strands at Ars.

The art on show was on a very high standard. I was particularly impressed the following:

If the upstairs was a fun-house of excitement the downstairs more that made up for that with plenty of space for contemplation.

Of course, one man's impression of a massive event like this is going to be subjective and informed by my state of mind. While I had the eye of a practitioner I also had the attitude of a tourist, so I was interested in how the locals felt about this whale of a festival landing on their town.

Last year I was in Linz for a residency run by qujOchÖ, a collective of local artists that's been working in the city since 2001. When I said I would be returning for Ars, one of the founder members, Thomas Philipp aka Fipps graciously said I could stay with him. This, coupled with my introvert approach to mingling, meant I followed qujOchÖ members around like a lost puppy, giving me something of a grass roots view of the whole affair.

Austrians, it turns out, are famously cynical and grumpy (their term "sudern" is hard to define but is rather like a Gaelic shrug soaked in nihilistic disappointment) so it wasn't too much of a surprise to hear the local artists bitching in the bars late at night about programme changes and managerial incompetence. And I'm sure you'd hear that in any city – big events are hard and toes will be trodden on.

But I was surprised as the lack of impact on the local scene. I would have thought this would be their tentpole event, a chance to show off local work to a visiting global audience (and Ars is truly a global affair). But the impact was negligible. A lot of people got technical work, of course, and one of the shows at the main art museum was by a dystopian docklands by local collective Time's Up (which had an oddly English vibe I felt), but this was an anomaly and where the Linz scenes were represented it was on the unofficial fringe where business was as usual.

Maybe the effect of Ars happened years ago and the city is now sustainable without it, allowing the festival to become a transnational entity, bringing inspiration in rather than exporting it. The local artists are complacent about it because it's normal. Surely every city has a massive, international, popular, thoughtful and, most importantly, competently run arts festival? Sadly, they don't.

If Birmingham had the equivalent of Ars Electronica (ignoring for the moment that this city is currently financially, ideologically and structurally incapable of such a feat) it would change everything for the artists working here. Not just from the sense of having an infrastructure or an income but from shifting our horizons and giving us a global perspective on our work.

Interestingly, a couple of months after Ars, Coventry had it's first Biennial centred on an exhibition of contemporary art in an empty newspaper print-works. Despite the grand name (Biennials make one think of Venice) it was a totally grass-roots, shoestring budget affair, utterly hooked into the local art scenes. It was fired not by routine or remit but by a passion that, fuck it, this needs to happen and we can make it happen. The Coventry Biennial, should it continue and grow, will bring stability and continuity to a community of artists that will raise their game. And should it succeed beyond their wildest dreams, those same artists will kick against it, sneering at its conservatism and conformity, at its inability to react and embrace what's happening in the city it helped to transform.

And that's exactly the way it should be.

My new camera is a laser

I recently bought myself a laser, which, as childhood ambitions go, was a rather thrilling experience. Not a laser pointer but an actual scientific instrument for measuring things. It's a LiDAR module (as in Light raDAR) which shoots out beams in a 270 degrees arc 10 times a second and measures the time it takes for them to bounce back. It converts this into distance and spits a torrent of numbers down a USB cable to my Mac. These numbers can be turned into a graphical representation of what in front of the LiDAR, or something else entirely.

LiDARs mounted on planes measure topographic detail with astonishing accuracy and cost silly money. Mine cost a grand, has a range of about 6 metres, is usually used in robotics for autonomous navigation and it's accurate enough to be used for 3D scanning of rooms and objects. But I bought it to use as a camera.

Using a LiDAR to make art is not a new thing. There was a nice piece by ScanLAB at London's Photographer's Gallery on their big screen last year and Radiohead did that video way back in 2008, so it's been around a bit. But if I were to point this small 10cm cube at you, you probably wouldn't think you were being photographed. You probably wouldn't think anything was happening at all.

What it means to make a "photograph" has undergone such a seismic disruption over the last couple of decades that the term is almost meaningless. We can say that a camera is a chamber into which reflected light is allowed to enter under controlled conditions (lens focus, aperture size, shutter time), but after that pretty much everything is up for grabs. How the light is recorded and in what format, how that information (analogue or digital) is processed and how the resulting image is distributed and displayed – all these choices have grown exponentially as computing power and access to technology has expanded our ability to make and consume images. You might even say you don't need a camera at all.

As such I'm not really sure what a photograph is anymore. Maybe photography is just the initial capture of light in a place and time, supplying the raw material for what we might call "image production" or "visual data manipulation". Or maybe there are photographs but they don't exist in isolation. They're part of the "stream", juxtaposed thoughtfully, algorithmically or randomly with each other and the surrounding world.

When I think about visual culture it's this mass of images, and how we might process them, which comes to mind: visual art as data, zeros and ones which can be churned by a computer. This is where the power lies.

Photoshop, which recently celebrated its 25th anniversary, can seem like magic, especially when using newer functions like Content Aware Fill, but behind the skeuomorphic analogies of the interface it's just maths. Each pixel of a photo has a number assigned to it representing its colour. By selectively applying mathematics to those numbers, the manner in which the photograph represents reality is changed.

While Photoshop is mostly managed by a human operator, we're starting to see this editing of reality being automated. My favourite example from last year was Google introducing a new feature where multiple photos of the same scene are merged into images where everyone is smiling with their eyes open, even though that moment never happened. You don't pose for the photo – Google's robot poses you.

More recently, neural networks (complex computer algorithms that mimic some basic brain functions), like Tom White's @smilevector, have been employed to literally turn that frown upside down creating authentic looking smiles in grumpy photos.  This is achieved by processing thousands of smiles into mathematical expressions which can be applied to a miserable digital photograph. The maths is complicated and requires a lot of computing power, but computing power is always increasing. It's said the time-to-Snapchat-filter for advanced image manipulation techniques is probably down to 6 months so soon we'll all be able to alter the mood of our precious moments with a tap.

The speed by which this stuff is moving threatens to be shocking, but I feel complacency is more likely. It's common knowledge that UK cities are the most surveilled in the world with cameras on every corner and we've mostly accepted this as a culture. But the implications of ubiquitous surveillance plus massive computing power are so huge as to seem fantastical. Every so often it crops up in the movies, such as the "satellites and gunships" algorithm-drone analogy of Captain America's Project Insight, or the "hack all the cellphones and find anyone" God's Eye of Fast & Furious 7, but the execution is understandably absurd, so any useful discussion of the ideas behind them is commuted. Still, more "realistic" depictions in the likes of Bourne or Mr Robot suffer from a credulity gap, which is odd given some of the ridiculous things the flickering screen has convinced us are real.

Maybe this is because it's not very visually interesting. A curious phenomena of computer vision is that is doesn't really produce visuals. Those films you may have seen of how self-driving cars "see" the road are really visualisations to help the programmers debug. The computer doesn't see anything – it just churns the data and moves the car accordingly.

For me, this contradiction is at the heart of thinking about modern photography. We think cameras are for capturing images and making visual representations and get righteously indignant at perceived abuses of these representations of ourselves (witness John Oliver only managing to get a reaction to the Snowden leaks when he told people the government could see their more intimate dick-pics). But the visual output of cameras is increasingly a byproduct. The networked surveillance machine doesn't care about aesthetics. It just cares about where your image fit in its mathematical representation of reality. And your image is just another data point alongside your browsing history, credit rating, loyalty cards, mobile phone location, fitness data, social media activity, and so on.

When our persons are abstracted to such an extreme degree, particularly when the greatest threat appears to be adverts, is it possible for us to care? Are we calmly drifting into an Orwellian nightmare? Or are the privacy campaigners over-reacting?

As artists our most basic job is to represent the world in a way that encourages people to consider their place in it. As photographers we select the reflected light in a specific time and place and present it as a two-dimensional field of shades to provoke a reaction in the viewer. This selection is the key as it gives agency to the human pressing the shutter and makes the image a subjective representation of reality.

But the profiles generated from our data are presented as an objective truth, and if it's wrong then it's completely wrong. There's no room for nuance in the world of zeroes and ones, where the struggle seems less about finding beauty than to analyse and replicate it. This makes being an artist who works with data an interesting challenge.

Any artist who works with computers is a data artist, and in the last 20 years that has come to include photographers. When processing their images many will hit "Auto" or chose a fancy filter, some will push their RAW files through the prescribed algorithms of Adobe Lightroom, while others write custom code in openFrameworks or Processing to interrogate the camera's output. But all are working with data and maths.

Photography has always been the best example of the intersection of art and technology. Photographs can be great art and can change our perception of the world. But they are always co-authored to some degree by machines, and this puts photographers in the perfect position to consider and critique our new data-driven reality.

Because the manner in which Facebook and Google and the NSA and GCHQ are capturing, processing and presenting the world to us is not that different to the work of a photographer capturing, processing and presenting an image. We know all too well the power and limitations of mechanical representation through years of struggling to get that "perfect" photo. We know that the so-called objective reality of data holds both truth and fiction, is both pure and flawed, and most importantly is completely open to interpretation.

I feel like photography in the 2010s is at the stage painting was in the late 19th century. Painting was employed to accurately represent visual reality and the rise of photography freed it from this responsibility and allowed the riot of the 20th century to occur. In the last two decades photography, defined as single moments captured and rendered as single objects, has been superseded by something we might call Computational Datavizography, though I pray we think of a better name soon. This frees photography to go crazy but it also gives us the right, maybe the duty, to apply our knowledge and wisdom to critiquing these new capture devices and processes as they attempt to tell us about our world.

And that is why my new camera is a laser.


Originally published here.