Thursday, July 22, 2010

SHIGEKO KUBOTA, Nicole Demby




Conceived of as one video environment, the landscape created by Shigeko Kubota’s magical video sculptures in the show, My Life With Nam June Paik, at once disorients and transfixes. Using a myriad of materials, Kubota creates a world out of inorganic matter that feels like a natural environment, physically expressing her notion of video as a new frontier of art and reality. In this exhibition, Kubota has created a stimulating atmosphere that depicts massive crystalline mirrors, dynamic metal sculptures, and video screen projections that pulsate colorfully like living organisms. A beautiful musical piece composed by Nam June Paik—renowned video artist and Kubota’s late husband—at a mere thirteen years, lends an important audio component to this ethereal environment.

When Kubota began using video over 30 years ago, the idea that a medium associated solely with science and technology could be accepted as an art form seemed unlikely. Nonetheless, it became evident early on that she was doing something totally original. For Kubota, video has been a means of distending and distorting, even negating time. As a pioneer of the video sculpture genre, Kubota has, throughout her career, been on the cutting edge of video art techniques: integrating television monitors into her sculptures, combining the organic and the inorganic, and exploring notions of a collective consciousness. Kubota’s work has come to expand the philosophical scope of art. Her novel activities became especially important within the context of the feminist art movement of the 1970’s, a time in which past methods of interpreting and valuing art were being challenged. Kubota’s work singularly combines the conceptuality of Fluxus, the formality of traditional sculpture, and the unique ability of video to engage and entrance.

Background and Early Career
Shigeko Kubota was born in Niigata, Japan in 1937. She studied sculpture at the Tokyo University of Education and went on, after a brief period of teaching, to become a mixed media artist in the Tokyo avant-garde scene in the 1960’s. After World War II, the role of art in Japan was beginning to change, becoming increasingly integrated into and influenced by the international art world from which it was previously isolated, due to historical circumstances. Avant-garde movements, such as Gutai and Jikan-ha began exploring new mediums and challenging traditional artistic paradigms. Kubota became involved with Group Ongaku, a collective, who were exploring avant-garde performance, music and visual art. By this time, Japanese artist Yoko Ono, a prominent figure in the New York art scene, had introduced Fluxus and other American avant-garde movements to artists in Japan, during a brief time spent living in Tokyo. Inspired by Ono and Korean artist Nam June Paik, who was also living in Tokyo at this time and who Kubota would become briefly acquainted with, members of Group Ongaku, including Kubota, decided to send proposals for happenings, or performance pieces, they had written to Fluxus pioneer George Maciunas.

Kubota held her first solo-exhibition at the Naiqua Gallery in Shinbashi, Tokyo in 1963. Kubota’s first public work was entitled Make a Floor of Love Letters, and was an installation piece that encouraged members of the audience to engage with a pile of love letters on the floor. After the exhibition failed to receive any critical attention from Japanese media, she came to the conclusion that it would be difficult for her to receive any recognition as an experimental female artist in Japan. This insight would come to influence her decision to leave her homeland and move to New York.

A few months before her first exhibition, Kubota had seen avant-garde composers John Cage perform during a visit to Tokyo in 1962. Kubota felt an instant connection to John Cage and his use of obscuration in his approach to music. She remembers thinking to herself at the time, “If this music is accepted in New York . . . I should be accepted there too.” George Maciunas, who was friends with Ono and interested in other Japanese artists, wrote a Fluxus letter, encouraging Japanese artists to come to the United States. On July 4, 1964, Kubota flew to New York where she was immediately welcomed into a world of Fluxus happenings, publications, and exhibits at galleries.

Shigeko in New York
Kubota met George Maciunas shortly after she moved to New York. Through Maciunas, she also met avant-garde filmmaker Jonas Mekas, who she would later work with, holding the position of curator at Anthology Film Archives, which Mekas co-founded. Kubota became Maciunas’ close friend and confidante, seeing him often and assisting him with whatever he was working on at the time. She would eventually earn the title “Vice President of Fluxus.”

In 1966, Kubota enrolled in classes at New York University with the intention of obtaining a student visa. Eventually, she too would become an important international link for artists living and working in Japan. She also worked as a corresponding journalist and photographer for a Japanese arts magazine. Later that year, Kubota enrolled in the New School for Social Research where she met experimental musician David Behrman, to whom she was briefly married.

Kubota’s own Fluxus work from that time exemplifies her remarkable wit, and the subtle yet powerful way in which she conveys her ideas. Her first Fluxus object, Flux Napkins (1965), a series of paper napkins with cut out facial features, which were used at Fluxus dinner parties and later advertised in Fluxus publications. When George Maciunas, who was always taking various medications, fell ill, Kubota made him Flux Pills (1966), hoping to cure him. Maciunas was delighted.

On July 4, 1965, at the Summer Perpetual Fluxus Festival, Kubota staged a performance piece of her own; entitling the work Vagina Painting, Kubota affixed a paintbrush between her legs and made markings with red paint, on white paper which had been placed flat on the stage. The Fluxus performance marked the one-year anniversary of Kubota’s arrival in the US. Vagina Painting proved to be an important piece, signifying Kubota’s independence as a woman and artist, outside the strict creative confines of her native Japan.

Emerge: Shigeko Kubota Video Art
It wasn’t until the late sixties, with the introduction of the Sony Portapak, the first truly portable video recorder, that Kubota’s unique style began to emerge as something distinct from the Fluxus movement. Marcel Duchamp, Dadaist and progenitor of the Fluxus movement, inspired much of this early solo work. In 1967, Kubota visited and was inspired by a Duchamp installation at the Stockholm Museum in Sweden. The following year, she met him, serendipitously, when the airplane they were both taking to Buffalo, New York, to attend the opening of Merce Cunningham’s “Walkaround Time”, was rerouted to Rochester because of a storm. Duchamp died later that year.

In 1972, Portapak in tow, Kubota took a trip to Normandy to visit the site of his grave. The experience inspired her to make her first video sculpture, a groundbreaking work entitled Video Chess (completed in 1975). Duchamp’s tombstone, which Kubota describes as a cube coming out of the ground influenced her the formation of Video Chess. Video Chess was the first of several video sculptures that pay overt homage to the modern master.

Fluxus’ supportive, creative environment allowed Kubota to fully explore her artistic curiosities. Fluxus also brought her in contact with one of the group’s core members, Nam June Paik. Kubota and Paik’s growing closeness would eventually surmount to their marriage in 1977. The early seventies were financially difficult for the pair, who Kubota describes as a “Fluxus couple.” Paik’s work was gaining more esteem abroad than in the United States. Kubota finally received significant public recognition with Nude Descending a Staircase (1976), a video sculptural interpretation of Duchamp’s painting from 1912. This work would come to create a new audience for video. Nude Descending a Staircase was the first video sculpture ever acquired by the Museum of Modern Art for its permanent collection.

When discussing her early life with Paik, Kubota talks about their relationship as something natural and inevitable, “We were yin and yang, input and output. It’s magnetic,” she has said. When she showed her work, Europe On 1/2-Inch A Day, a video travel diary, at the First Women Video Festival at The Kitchen in New York in 1972, Paik readily offered his support. This would become the standard for Paik and Kubota’s long-standing relationship – one lending support to the other in each of their artistic endeavors. Consequently, Kubota and Paik each developed a unique and personal style, in the new medium of video art. The two are largely credited with video art’s acceptance as a legitimate art form.

In her later work, Kubota began to use nature as a direct inspiration for her video sculptures, blurring and redefining the distinction between the natural and the technological. Rock Video: Cherry Blossom (1981) draws on the Zen aesthetic of Kubota’s homeland, displaying images of cherry blossoms that have been digitized and colorized through video. Kubota visually layers, and eventually abstracts her subject matter completely. In some of these works, water is used as a reflective surface for projecting and distorting video images.

My Life With Nam June Paik
Kubota’s remarkable career has redefined art: how it is to be conceived, interpreted, and exhibited. The show, while highlighting the refinement and evolution of a lifetime artist, also medializes both the personal and the sacred, inviting viewers into a dreamlike world, one that is drenched in spiritual possibility and yet maintaining an ethic that is very real and grounded.

The artist chose the works displayed in My Life With Nam June Paik because they tell the special story of Shigeko Kubota and her husband. Together, the two would make video a legitimate art form, expanding their work through their relationship and the relationship through their work. Paik is sensed, omnipresent, in Kubota’s latest exhibit, her first since her husband’s death.

Paik’s life is celebrated with two new, larger than life video sculptures. Nam June Paik I (2007) is composed of metal piping that abstractly suggests a human figure sitting on a metal mesh, orb-like base. The figure comes to life as recent footage of Kubota and Paik in Miami plays on monitors that have been stationed at the head, torso, hands, and knees. This footage, shot intimately by Paik’s nurse, after his stroke in 1996, captures the couple in Paik’s later years, while music he composed as a thirteen year-old boy emanates in the background.

Nam June Paik II (2007) features an extraordinary figure wearing suspenders and a belt, indicators of Paik’s eccentric personality. Arms outstretched, the figure holds in one hand a violin, the instrument Paik smashed in his memorable performance, One for Violin Solo, in the other lies a Buddha head, an object which references his well-known work, TV-Buddha. While Nam June Paik I celebrates Paik’s later years by displaying footage of an elderly couple relaxing together on a park bench, the sequel piece evokes an image of Paik as a strong and successful young artist in the height of his career. The sculptures chronologically balance one another, presenting a rich physical and emotional landscape that draws upon Paik’s many roles in Kubota’s life.

Jogging Lady (1993) focuses on the female form. Kubota’s strong belief that exercise and health-giving activities are ways for women to empower themselves resonates in this work. Footage of women running marathons plays on monitors, placed in a metal sculpture of a woman, distributed throughout her stomach, breasts, and mouth. The same footage is projected onto large surrounding walls in bold, eye-catching colors. The piece is refreshing and energizing, offering a youthful and feminine side of Kubota’s work.

Offered as Jogging Lady’s male counterpart, Pissing Boy (1993) radiates Paik’s unique humor and charisma. Full of wit and playfulness, the robot-like figure made of tin urinates into a bucket, while Paik’s image comes to life on a monitor inside the head, a helmet that connotes a space traveler.

The other sculptures in My Life With Nam June Paik both directly and indirectly address Paik and the unique relationship Kubota shared with him. Kubota has said that the earlier works, Bird I (1991) and Bird II (1992) are about “freedom from desire”. The kaleidoscopic videos of various bird species convey the freedom to be unconstrained by gravity, to move freely, outside the normal everyday constraints of the body. Both pieces knock viewers off-balance, creating a dizzying effect in their bodies and minds.

Korean Grave (1993) evokes a spiritual dome that echoes a traditional Korean burial structure. The piece reveals video clips of footage, visible in monitors that poke out from a mysterious looking metal dome, from the couple’s 1984 trip to Paik’s homeland. The images displayed are collectible in the viewers’ minds, like the remnants of an artificial grave; acting like portals to another realm. Surrounded by colored mirrors, the video’s reflections create a dazzling, prismatic effect, encircling the body of the viewer into a bold, visual expression. Representing artifacts of personal history and transcendence, this piece evokes traditional, sacred ceremony and performs the difficult task of finding a place for it in our fast-paced, modern world.

Created from discarded bolts, screws, nails, and scrap metal, Tree I and Tree II (both 1993) mark a powerful contrast between objects in nature and those that are human-made. The sculpture depicts a tree whose branches have become resting places for video monitors. The monitors present lively images of colorful mosaics of flowers that burst into the viewer’s attention creating a 3-D, kaleidoscopic effect.

The works exhibited in My Life With Nam June Paik stand up individually as well as working integrally with one another, creating a visual timeline of two incredible lives.

Professional Achievements
In the span of her long career, Kubota has had many solo exhibitions around the world and participated in numerous collective shows. Her work is in the permanent collections of the Museum of Modern Art and Whitney Museum of American Art in New York, and the Toyama Museum of Art and Hara Museum of Contemporary Art in Japan. She was a video artist-in-residence at both Brown University and the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and has taught at the School of Visual Arts. In 1996, the Whitney held a one-person show of her artwork. Kubota is also the recipient of numerous honors and grants including the Guggenheim Fellowship, the Maya Deren Award from the American Film Institute, and repeated fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the New York State Council on the Arts. She was also awarded the Deutscher Akademischer Austausch Dienst Fellowship in Berlin, the Rockefeller Foundation Fellowship, and the NEA/Visual Arts Grant.

Bibliography

Adams, Brook. “Kubota’s Video Sculpture: A Biographical Perspective.” In Shikego Kubota: Video Sculpture, edited by Mary Jane Jacob. New York: American Museum of the Moving Image, 1991. pp. 8-9.

Hendricks, Jon. Fluxus Codex. New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc. 1988.

Jacob, Mary Jane edited. Introduction to Shigeko Kubota: Video Sculpture. New York: American Museum of the Moving Image, 1991. p. 6.

Kubota, Shigeko. Interview conducted by Nicole Demby in July, 2007. Maya Stendhal Gallery, New York.

Shapiro, Michael. “The Japanese in New York.” In Manhattan Catalog 5, I. Spring-Summer 1990. pp. 42.

Yoshimoto, Midori. “Self-Exploration in Multimedia: The Experiments of Shigeko Kubota.” In Into Performance: Japanese Women Artists in New York, edited by Mary Jane Jacob. New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2005. pp. 170-171, 185.

Zdenek, Felix. Shigeko Kubota: Video Sculptures. Essen: Museum Folkwang Essen, 1981.

above copied from: http://www.liino.com/?page_id=794

Sunday, July 18, 2010

George Maciunas: Architect, Ken Friedman


I. Architect, Designer, Social Planner

George Maciunas had several careers in his short, active life. One of these was architecture.
George was first of all an architect.

The art world has neglected George’s work as an architect, social planner, and designer to emphasize a dramatic but somewhat inaccurate role casting him as founder and chief impresario of Fluxus. This image is inaccurate for many reasons. The dramatic narrative often represents Fluxus as a flying circus rather than a laboratory, or a cranky, cartoon version of an art movement. George plays the part of a latter-day Andre Breton in this drama, but the role is flavored by touches of Tristan Tzara, Joseph Stalin, and Napoleon. This story positions George as sole founder and central figure in Fluxus, rather than as co-founder and one among several central figures.

Despite its dramatic charm, this story and is variations is misleading. This misrepresentation diminishes the historical George Maciunas. It also diminishes the community of artists, architects, designers, and composers who worked together in the Fluxus laboratory of intermedia, social creativity, art, and music. Most of all, it fails to capture the nature of a complex social network that was by turns both artistic and experimental.

In George’s own mind, he was an architect. He had a vision of city planning, housing, and the distribution of social goods for the common well being of all citizens. He was a social planner who based his work with projects such as Fluxus or cooperative housing on a deeper, underlying vision. While some of his hypotheses and ideas turned out to be unworkable, his vision was not. His ideas about the nature of a good life never found expression in workable media. In the best tradition of social experimenters from Thoreau or the now vanished Shakers to Gandhi or the still-thriving Amish, he practiced the life he preached. He lived his theories. He tested them, changing his approach, while modifying and expanding his views.

When I met George in 1966, he was already quite different to the George Maciunas others described to me. He was not the mercurial, intolerant, zealot that others described. He was open-minded, easy to work with, and quite supportive of what were then new approaches to Fluxus. People spoke to me about a George who demanded that everyone do things his way. I met a man whose most frequent expression was, “Do it yourself.” Along with that came the implicit understanding that I had an obligation to find my own way forward.

George did not agree with me on everything. George brought me into Fluxus when I was just 16, and I often did things in a way that George thought could be done better. No one follows their own advice completely, and even though George believed I ought to find me own way to do things, he also gave me the advice that an experienced craftsman would give to a young colleague. He often gave me the advice I’d have given myself if I could travel back in time or send a letter to the young man I was then. Like George, though, I tried things full out. Some things worked and some didn’t.

In a famous speech, Winston Churchill stated that we don’t have the privilege of knowing in advance the results of our actions. We can never finally determine our historical legacy. Actions that seem grand at one moment appear foolish the next. Historians revise their views in the light of mounting evidence, and what seems unworkable at one moment may prove to have been a valuable contribution while what seemed essential may prove to be a minor sidetrack.

Churchill’s conclusion was that we must live according to our conscience. We do the best we can with what we have. That’s the measure of a human being. George attained this admirable standard, demanding of himself as much as he asked of others. In the end, that is the measure of a woman or a man.
For an artist, it may be possible to separate work and life. Neither George nor most of us in Fluxus separated art and life, but many do, manufacturing art as a kind of fungible commodity.

It is different when we get to planning and its distant cousin, politics. We do not respect an architect who builds things he does not want to inhabit or someone who plans a world for others in which he does not intend to live. Like Gandhi and the Shakers, George tried to live in the world he envisioned. Like them, this quality gave George a foundation of authenticity and ethics.

II. Art and Anti-Art

Art was a distraction to George. He felt that art distracted the world from what it should be doing. As a result, he felt that he could revolutionize contemporary culture by attacking and overturning the social and economic patterns of art and music.

The straightforward way to achieve George’s social goals would have been to follow a path blazed by such pioneering architects and designers as Buckminster Fuller. Fuller understood the decisive role of science, technology, and innovation in a future shaped by the long span of human history and the short length of a human life. He also understood the quarter-century time lag between many conceptual and technical innovations and their implementation in the artifacts of daily life. Because of this, Fuller was patient in a way that George was not, and he applied his effort to processes that would take a grip in ways different to the kinds of innovations that George attempted to create.

Nevertheless, George’s ideas were not wrong. Many of his contributions were pioneering. Some echo today in ways that still resonate with contemporary culture, reshaping and enlivening the world in which we live. Time scales and social factors made a difference, though. But that’s a story to be told another time. Here, I consider George’s work as a planner, and planning social change through art or anti-art is difficult. What happens in the art world has cannot bring about the massive social and cultural change that George hoped to achieve.

The art market plays an immense role in today’s experience economy. Most individual artists are insignificant in the social ecology of the market, and this has always been then case. Artists who seem to be major cultural figures at one moment are nearly forgotten a decade later. If we average a common career trajectory in major art markets with the hundreds of thousands who barely achieve local recognition in the world’s satellite markets, fifteen minutes of fame is more than most people achieve. The role of art in human culture is mediated by an art world governed in by social systems, and the economic structures of the art market control most of those systems.

George had the insight that one could change contemporary culture by revolutionizing the art world. Dadaists and Surrealists had held this notion before. In the absence of a broader social and economic theory, it was easy to believe this to be so, but the outcome was as inconclusive in the 1960s or 1970s as it had been in the 1920s and 1930s.

The reason this was hard to see is that few theories in those days managed to account for relations among the different elements of an art world best described as a complex adaptive system, and few described the linkages that constitute the effect of art as a series of multiple networks located in a larger society. The nature of that system was not as clear as it seems to be today. We lacked many of the concepts and tools that have emerged in the years since George died. Complexity theory, behavioral economics, and design theory help us to understand far more about human choices and cultural interaction than we knew then.

Even today, however, no one has offered a comprehensive sociology or economics or art, and we still have much to learn about how art, aesthetics, and creativity affect different kinds of cultural structures.

While art, aesthetics, and creativity are more powerful and vital as processes than they sometimes seem to be, the markets that mold artistic careers pay little attention to the deep and resilient processes that make art a factor in human social life and culture. This, in turn, denatures many of the properties that might make art the force that artists often hope it will be.

To work and earn a living, many artists allow the market narrative to shape their practice. At least most hope that this will help them to earn a living, but most fail to do so because the systemic effects of this position denatures them. At the same time, those who refuse to meet the needs of the market fall outside the system, often entirely outside the system. They exert no effect because – as Archimedes observed – one must have a place to stand to move the earth.

The factors that make art significant on a deep level embed it in a resolutely stable network of patterns and behaviors. The specific patterns and behaviors of art and art markets are historically contingent. So are most of the forms and media to which they gave rise. Like an iceberg, however, only a small part of the larger system is visible. The largest portion lies beneath the waterline, out of sight, subject to the physics of inertia.

It was George Maciunas’s genius to seek ways to use the cultural inertia of art worlds to shift the larger culture around it. George’s mistake was that this could not be done. Deflecting the course of an iceberg does not change the ocean currents that move the iceberg from one part of the planet to another.

This doesn’t mean that George was wrong. Like Bucky Fuller, George had the profound insights of an inventor and scientist. He put them to work in what scientists might label a toy world. His contributions and discoveries are still bearing fruit. George’s main problem was that he died too soon to harvest his best ideas and refine them for the next step.

III. Ecce Homo

George Maciunas was a genius, a man of passionate moral zeal, intellectual vigor, and artistic strength.

He did not see the world as it is, but as it might have been. He saw it as it might have been – or ought to be.

George possessed astonishing power, depth, and insight in the fields that he understood, but he understood nothing at all about other things. The strength and clarity of his focus often gave him what seemed to be a unidirectional, even narrow vision.

George created astonishing effects with simple elements of type and image. He was able to create an absolutely modern design with a range of elements from medieval woodcuts to Japanese calligraphy and outline maps. Because color printing was expensive, he used little color. Instead, he developed a colorful design sensibility primarily using black and white.

If this was his strength, it was also his weakness. It was typical, perhaps even symptomatic that he used only black and white. He saw the world in sharp, moral terms, not in moderated shades of gray. Awake to the myriad logic forks in a chess game, he was insensitive to the hundreds of thousands of colors that human eyes distinguish. Someone once told me that George was color-blind. Perhaps it was true. If so, I can understand it.

George had a sly, complex sense of humor. He was famous for his love of vaudeville jokes, sight gags, and music hall entertainment. He also had a sense for subtle elegance.

George’s two favorite composers were Claudio Monteverdi and Spike Jones. In his complexity, George embraced these two polarities, and they embraced him. He could equally enjoy – and honor – the sublime and the ridiculous, a sixteenth century Italian master and a twentieth century clown.

George lived as much in the realm of the intellect as in the realm of the senses. He interpreted sense through the eye and the mind, not through the body. He was famous for odd, intellectually oriented diets that were devised on principles of economy and efficiency rather than to lose weight, taste good, or provide more than basic nourishment. These diets were as enigmatic and perplexing as they were uninteresting and austere.

I met George during an all-orange-juice season. Another time, he spent some months eating crackers six days of the week and stuffing himself at an all-you-can-eat-for-a-dollar Scandinavian Smorgasbord on the seventh day, maintaining that this cycle was simple, cost-effective and nutritious. I also recall hearing about a year of dried fish and grain Vodka.

George’s art offered an ironic mirror to his diets. He went to amazing lengths to prepare food works. Once, for example, he found a way to liquefy and distill all the elements of a meal. He reduced soup, salad, vegetables, meat and desert to clear, flavored liquids that he served in flasks and test tubes. His food pieces were part of a major Fluxus tradition of feasts and food events, but only Alison Knowles with her beans and tofu dishes ever went to George’s extremes.

Emmett Williams once told me about a lunch that George hosted for Daniel Spoerri, an artist with a second life as a chef and gastronome. To Daniel’s horror, George served a lunch of crackers, peanut butter, and yogurt, accompanied by soda water. It was neither an art event nor an ironic gesture. It was George’s way of living the simple life.

George was not the self-assured character that some feel his public persona suggested. Quite the contrary. His zealous, sometimes rigid positions could only have been mistaken for self-assurance from a distance. In retrospect, I suspect that George lacked confidence. He protected himself from the world by adopting an austere and sometimes doctrinaire approach where others might meet life with a warm, hearty appetite.

This did not bother those who knew and loved George. Fluxus was a crowd of misfits. Most of us were out of touch with aspects of the culture around us. Then again, it was the 1960s, and it seemed that dedication and an astonishing idea could change the world. That’s true, of course, but creating social change also requires a robust set of tools and skills, and the nature of these tools was not as apparent then.

George had a passion for catalogues and structures that paralleled his black-and-white mentality. Confident people see life and change as an opportunity. George was fascinated by change, but he often wanted to control and structure every possible change. I see that sort of a response to the ebb and flow of life as a fear of losing control. At one point, this resulted in George’s famous attempts to purge Fluxus by expelling those who failed to meet his expectations.

While these expulsions were mistaken, they weren’t as arrogant as some felt them to be. Exclusion is a characteristic tone of arrogance, but George’s early and much publicized expulsions were a defense mechanism. George was not truly arrogant. It would be more accurate to say he was nervous.

George wanted things to be orderly and under control. He was warm and friendly to those whom he knew, shy and nervous toward almost everyone else. Since he didn’t know how to deal with colleagues with whom he disagreed, he simply removed them from the category of colleague.

He loved his work best of all. Work was everything for George. Work was not a means of living. Work was life itself. George gave himself completely to his work. When he admired others and their work, hg gave his love and admiration unstintingly to their work. At the same time, this was an intellectual passion. He didn’t further Fluxus because he loved the people. It was his love of the work that drove him to do so much for Fluxus.

George was a bundle of memorable personality traits. It seems to me he was one of the most intriguing figures in art in the twentieth century. As a memorable avant-garde character, he ranks with Alfred Jarry, Le Douanier Rousseau, Tristan Tzara, and André Breton.

IV. Meeting George

In August of 1966, Dick Higgins sent me to meet George Maciunas for the first time. I began corresponding with Dick to make radio programs based on the Something Else Press books of Daniel Spoerri, Emmett Williams, Alison Knowles, Ray Johnson, Robert Filliou and others for my programs at Radio WRSB. This was a college-based radio station in Mount Carroll, Illinois. Dick and Alison Knowles invited me to stay with them for a while at their home in New York, a few blocks away from the press. I was sixteen years old. I’d just finished the first two years of college, and I was in New York to look around.

George’s telephone directions brought me to his fifth floor walk-up apartment on West Broadway in a decaying industrial section of New York City that was then part of Little Italy. Henry Flynt later took over George’s apartment, and the neighborhood became the Soho art district. Back then, it was just a tenement. I walked up the stairs to find a black door covered with violent, emphatic NO! SMOKING!!! signs. I knocked.

The door opened a crack, and a pair of eyes framed in round, wire-rimmed spectacles peered out. That was George Maciunas.

George was a small, wiry man with a prim, owlish look. He was dressed in a short sleeve business shirt, open at the neck, no tie. He wore dark slacks and black cloth slippers. His pocket was cluttered with number of pens. In current jargon, we’d call him a “nerd” or a “geek.” He’d fit right in with the computer jocks, engineers, and architects at Carnegie Mellon University, his alma mater.

George ushered me into his kitchen. It was a steamy, New York summer day, but the apartment was cool. It smelled like rice mats. I recognized the smell. It reminded me of a Japanese store I used to frequent as a youngster in New London, Connecticut.

The apartment contained three rooms. To the right was a compact, well-designed office and workroom. The floor was covered with rice mats. George said not to go in without slippers, so I looked in from the door to see drafting tables, desks, shelves and an astonishing clutter of papers, projects, notebook, and files. It was the most orderly clutter I’ve ever seen, the opposite of my own chronological layers of projects.

The first time I saw George’s workspace, it was rigged out with a marvelous contraption that enabled him to reach up and tap a weight to summon items he wanted. By means of a counterbalance and some strings and rods, whatever he wanted would float into his grasp. At least, this is my memory. I am not sure if I actually saw the working device, or a prototype, or if this is just a memory of a planning diagram that George showed me.

To the left of the kitchen, George had what looked like a huge, walk-in closet or a small storage room. The room was filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves, like an industrial warehouse. In fact, it was an industrial warehouse, the comprehensive inventory of Fluxus editions in unassembled form. The shelves were loaded with boxes storing the contents of Fluxus multiple editions, suitcases and year boxes. When an order came in for a Fluxbox, George would go to back of the closet, select the appropriate plastic or wooden container, and march through the room plucking out the proper cards and objects to emerge with a completed work. He’d select the proper label, glue it on, and have a completed edition ready to mail.

The kitchen had a sink, windows, stove, table and chairs. These were all quite ordinary except for the refrigerator. George had a bright orange refrigerator. When he opened it, I could see he had filled it with oranges from the bottom clear to the top shelf. The top shelf, on either side of the old-fashioned meat chest and ice tray, held four huge jugs of fresh orange juice. He offered me a glass of orange juice.

Maciunas peppered me with questions. What did I do? What did I think? What was I planning? At that time, I was planning to become a Unitarian minister. I did all sorts of things, things without names, things that jumped over the boundaries between ideas and actions, between the manufacture of objects and books, between philosophy and literature. Maciunas listened for a while and invited me to join Fluxus. I said yes.

A short while later, George asked me what kind of artist I was. Until that moment, I had never thought of myself as an artist. George thought about this for a minute, and said, “You’re a concept artist.”

It always pleased me that I became part of Fluxus before I became an artist.

I usually worked with George from a distance, so I couldn’t say much about his work habits. I do recall the way he kept all the parts of Fluxus items stored in neat cubbyholes, and compartments.

George Maciunas was consumed by a rage for order. Rather than organizational ability, though, this was planning ability linked to boundless energy and an obsessive-compulsive mania. Organizational management requires leadership, and George lacked the ability to convince and persuade. He only had organizational ability in the sense of organizing closets and organizing plans.

Even so, people loved to work with George. This was the result of his ability to lure people and charm them with wonderful ideas. Most people worked with George as a fellow artist, attracted by his energy and the dynamic vortex of his activities. No one followed him as an organizer. George and I got on well and worked together for many years, but I sometimes think this is because we worked in New York and California, several thousand miles apart.

George’s ideas, though, and his plans astonished and inspired me. George was a constant source of inspiration and energy. From the time we met through the early 1970s, I called George two or three times a week, wherever I was. George always used to tell me that I should save money by writing rather than calling, but I valued our dialogues. George didn’t always have time to write back – something he often complained of. Conversation enabled me to learn from him and sometimes to debate with him. This was not always as expensive as the notoriously frugal George feared. In the 1960s, the telephone company – then a monopoly controlled by ATT – tried to increase long-distance usage by creating wide-area telephony for large volume purchasers. Many universities purchased wide-area contracts, and San Francisco State College was one of these. My office at San Francisco State College Experimental College had a phone that allowed me to call anywhere in North America for roughly the price of a local call. It was not as cheap as Internet telephony today, but it was much cheaper than the long-distance rates individuals had to pay. As I traveled from place to place, I also found similar phone services at other universities. George never quite believed me when I told him the cost was low – and when I phoned from home, I did run up huge bills. Even them, I loved listening to George and it was worth it to me.

George had traits that caused his friends to shrug their shoulders and say, “Well, that’s George.” It was the flip side of his organizational mania. George was a whirlwind of charts, plans, demands, and categories. He had the ability and energy to get a great deal done even when it was just George doing things. If he sometimes failed to follow through or interact when it came to working with others, his ability to make things happen anyhow, and make them happen often, made him a legend.

This legend was as much built on George’s eccentricities and failings as on his achievements. George’s real achievements have not yet become well known. People became much more devoted to the dead George Maciunas than they were to the living man.

Unfortunately, the tendency to respond to George’s legend has obscured a genuinely innovative thinker, not George Maciunas the eccentric artist, but George Maciunas, the architect. One example of this is the misinterpretation of George’s learning machines.

V. The Architecture of Learning

A few years ago, art historian Astrit Schmidt-Burkhardt organized an exhibition titled Maciunas’s “Learning Machines” From Art History to a Chronology of Fluxus.

While the exhibition was beautiful, accompanied by a richly illustrated catalogue depicting George’s historiographic and socio-cultural charts and diagrams, the focus was artifact outputs rather than the conceptual, process-oriented idea behind Maciunas’s learning machines.

As an architecture student at Carnegie Mellon Institute, George understood the difference between a machine and a chart. A machine is something that can change states.

Learning is a state change. When we learn, we are different to what we were. We change in one or more dimensions as compared with the state we occupied before learning. Learning involves multiple processes anchored in experience, time, and memory. The notion of a learning machine involves two possibilities, each related to the other. One is the idea of a machine that can help others to learn. The other is a machine that can undergo learning, that is, an artificial intelligence machine. Today, these have come together in the computer and in the myriad versions of information technology now changing our world.

The Carnegie Mellon Institute – now Carnegie Mellon University – was an important early center for research on computers and information technology. Knowing this, it is easy to understand George’s vision of the learning machine – and it is easy to understand why art critics and art historians have missed a crucial issue.

A learning machine was an information system. Entering information in the system enabled a person to combine and manipulate the information in different ways to create different kinds of outcomes. In what we now call a computer, this activity would involve writing a program, entering inputs, and deriving an output, a result.

But George’s learning machines were not computers. They were not mechanized or digital engines powered by an external source. They were physical prototypes that assisted human beings in learning. The idea of the learning machine involved creating tools to help human beings change their internal states of experience and awareness.

George built a number of learning machines in physical form. When I first heard from Astrit as she planned her exhibition, these are what I thought she meant.

Instead, the exhibition featured George’s charts, graphs, and diagrams. These might be labeled learning machines in a conceptual sense, but these were not the learning machines that George discussed with me.

George’s physical learning machines were filing systems in which he created different kinds of storage units, drawers, or other containers for different kinds of information.

I do not know whether he ever wrote about or described these. Many of George’s ideas and inventions took physical shape or formal shape without an articulate description of his concept and purposes. Some of these had no description at all.

My assumption is that the physical learning machines were lost or destroyed during George’s moves or after his death. They would have looked very much like boxes or shelving units. If the contents had been moved, it would have been easy to mistake the learning machines for empty shelves or filing systems without contents.

One version of the learning machine concept survived after George’s death. George built a system of storage and filing cabinets for Jean Brown that resembled his grand learning machine concept. Jean’s archive was sold to the Getty. I do not know whether they also purchased and shipped the shelving units that he built for her. This was not exactly a learning machine, but it resembled one version of the learning machine concept.

Unless George left writings about the learning machine concept, it would be difficult to say what he knew about similar projects and what he intended finally to realize.

There are several parallels to the learning machine idea, however, and George knew about them.

One was the concept described in Nam June Paik’s 1964 Manifesto, Utopian Laser Television. This manifesto predicted a broadcast medium that would resemble the World Wide Web in many ways. Paik conceived it for the technology of television. Today, we have something much like it in terms of desktop computers and World Wide Web with broadband access. The interface remains a television screen or a computer screen cognate.

But an article from 1945 the described a device much closer to the concept of Maciunas’s learning machine. This is Vannevar Bush Memex. Bush described this in a landmark article titled “As We May Think.” The Memex was a stand-alone learning machine, but the technology it foreshadowed is the World Wide Web.

I don’t know if George knew about Bush’s work, but it seems likely. Bush was a professor at MIT. As a professor, and as Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s science advisor, he had rich connections and strong influence at Carnegie Mellon. It is conceivable that George knew about the Memex.

What made George’s learning machine significant was the fact that was a physical, three-dimensional prototype rather than a digital artifact. Because of this, the learning machine could model activities and processes that were not possible in the digital computers of the time. Interestingly, the use of physical models still has value today. Pelle Ehn, professor at Malmo University College, has been doing remarkable work with simple physical models to prototype and test user interaction with different kinds of information systems.

The learning machines were also related to three further concepts that George knew about, but I do not know whether he considered these in terms of the learning machine.

One of these concepts was Jorge Luis Borges’s concept of the universal library. Borges discussed the idea of a library that would contain all possible books that were ever written, and all that could ever be written, but the vast scale and scope of the library meant that it was impossible to find anything in the sea of information. The learning machine is a heuristic device that allows us to capture information topically in a theoretically open system while permitting us to structure the elements of a universal library for human use.

Borges’s story dates back to the 1940s. I think George learned about it from my 1972 book, The Aesthetics, where I discuss Borges’s concept.

Another concept in The Aesthetics is my concept of the “gestalt essay.” The gestalt essay is an installation in the form of an information structure. The gestalt essay involves selecting texts and concepts. These are printed or otherwise prepared as cards, documents, or other kinds of representation. The essay is a physical space in which the texts and concepts fill the space in different relationships to one another.

The other work George would have known is a 1968 score titled Paper Architecture. This score involved modeling potential environments on paper at full scale before building them. Like Ehn’s cardboard computers, it allowed people to test concepts conceptually with some forms of physical interaction before creating working prototypes.

George’s learning machines as I understood them had aspects or attributes of all these systems. I do not know whether he ever intended to realize the learning machine concept in a more elaborate form, with mechanical or audio-visual components. As I saw it, the concept offered a path toward conceptual modeling and information storage systems that could be used in different ways to work with large assortments of information. Because the learning machines were highly adaptable open systems, they could be used for a rich variety of purposes.

While the term or the rubric of the learning machine is connect to George’s work, there seem to be no extant proposals, drawings, or models for physical learning machines. Except for the Jean Brown archive, I do not know if any of the actual machines survived George’s death. While I hope some sketches or other notes might exist, none seem to have been published.

Instead, George’s diagrams and charts have been mistaken for learning machines. The confusion here is simple. The charts and diagrams are to a learning machine what a printout is to a computer.

What is important is the fact that some versions of the learning machine concept took physical form in three dimensions. This is natural in the work of a man who was an architect as well as a graphic designer. George built spaces, buildings, and physical models, and I gather that he held a number of patents on devices for prefabricated housing. The learning machines formed an important conceptual bridge between his two-dimensional structures and the larger three-dimensional projects that he attempted. What makes them special is that they were conceptual information systems as his charts and diagrams were that took information into a three-dimensional form.

There was another kind of physical learning machine as well. These are very well known, but we do not label them learning machines. These are the physical Fluxus kits and boxes.

Most Fluxus boxes are physical artifacts that a human being manipulates to bring about a state change. In doing so, the person who changes the state of the tool undertakes an action the creates an experience. The result of this experience can be labeled as learning.

VI. Architect, Planner, Builder

Fluxus was never able to support George Maciunas. George supported Fluxus. while George bankrolled Fluxus, he was not the only one to bankroll Fluxus. Several others also supported Fluxus activities, projects, exhibitions and centers out of our own resources.

Dick Higgins spent almost half a million dollars on Something Else Press between 1964 and 1974, more than three million dollars in today’s money. Ben Vautier bankrolled Fluxus activities in Nice. RenĂ© Block underwrote many important exhibitions, projects and publications in Germany, first through his own gallery and later as an independent organizer and curator. I supported Fluxus West and the projects that grew out of it, often by cooperating with other publishers or institutions as well as supporting publications and projects from the proceeds of my business activities. The total tab between 1966 and today may be as large as Something Else Press, but I haven’t paid it all out of pocket the way Dick did.

George did undeniably important work. One thing that made his work important – and durable – was the fact that he was part of a larger community. Many people supported Fluxus in large ways and small. It was a community enterprise.

In this sense, George was more successful than he might have hoped. Fluxus was never a collective or an art movement, but it became a durable community. that is as much to George’s credit as anyone’s.

George has been on my mind in recent months. I have changed jobs from working as a research professor in Norway to working as a university dean in Australia. As a professor in Oslo, I often worked in my home office. In Melbourne, I focus on taking care of people more than focusing on my own research. Buildings are on my mind. We have just begun to plan a major building covering most of a city block on one of Melbourne’s most valuable pieces of real estate.

This will become a living laboratory for sustainable construction, and we are working to incorporate planning and building period into our curriculum to learn from the process – and into our research program to share what we learn.

The lessons George taught me have been valuable in the years since, and they remain valuable today. A building such as our does not get built by a sole architect – it is built by communities of practice, including designers, architects, planners, financiers, political leaders, university leaders, managers, and many more.

It’s not possible to do this with pre-fabricated housing, but it is necessary to do this by asking the cultural questions that George asked. These questions have too often been overlooked in books and catalogues on George’s work and life.

George has been neglected as a thinker and designer at the same time that his role in Fluxus has been misinterpreted in ways that he would not have approved.

Many Fluxus artists have been marginalized by attributing their work and ideas to George. In many minds, this made George the central and single figure in Fluxus. To me this makes him smaller than he was.

George was a creative and vital figure in a laboratory of ideas. Laboratories – like universities – gain stature by attracting and retaining a strong cohort of important thinkers. The more members in the community, the greater the stature. The fewer, the smaller and less impressive a laboratory or university is, even when the community gathers around one smart person or two.

By making Fluxus and George Maciunas nearly synonymous, the thin scholarship of recent years has made Fluxus small. It has also made Gorge smaller than he was. this diminished vision of the man and his work places much of George’s work in a shadow.

It is time to restore George’s legacy as an architect, planner, and designer.

above copied from: http://www.liino.com/?page_id=868

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Theories Are Sometimes Inverted Images; Part 2 of Beuys’s Concept of Social Sculpture, Laurie Rojas



We will once again depart with the idea that Joseph Beuys’s work appears unfathomable.

Looking at images of Joseph Beuys’s work is like looking at photographs of the Museum of the Apocalypse. It appears as his arrangements and objects are the collected items of the sole survivor of the Apocalypse– It is of no surprise that Anselm Kiefer, whose work would fit well in this imaginary museum, is one of his artistic offsprings. The objects appear compiled by a lone figure who roams the desiccated remains of the world after the Apocalypse, haunted by his own amnesia. Beuys begins ever more painfully to appear as a proto-messianic figure that came too late. The world we live now appears entirely different from the one that produced those objects, especially when they are traces and remains of objects that appear to have lost their practical use. Compiling these objects is an attempt to make sense of them, to give them entirely new meaning. These objects perhaps appear beautiful to us, but that is only for their strangeness, the unanswered questions they provoke. It is as if we can hear the artist asking: Where did all this hair come from? What is all this felt for? That quest for meaning is never resolved. Neither for the artist, nor for us. Detached from the artist these objects are susceptible to an infinite amount of projections, but in the context of Beuys, of the period of German reconstruction, it is not difficult to imagine the troubled artist searching for his own humanity, as we search–relentlessly and without avail–for ours in his objects.

There are countless photographs of Beuys sitting in at non-violent demonstrations, singing with a rock band in front of 500,000 for a peace demonstration, attending meetings for Germany’s Green Party, running as a Green Party representative in Parliament, and his participation in the occupation of West German Radio. Beuys-the-activist is perhaps the aspect of his persona he is most often remembered for. “Appeal for an Alternative” exemplifies Beuys basic political concerns and his ideas for a new party. Beuys’s larger historical role is attributed to bringing art back into public discourse in West Germany. The synthesis of Beuys’s artistic and political practice is expressed in his concept of expanded art.

It is perhaps now clearer, this author hopes, how Beuys is influential for contemporary art, and how he marks a point of departure for socially engaged art. But, what has the criticism and reception of Beuys revealed about the trajectory of art?
Beuys today is not referred to as often as Duchamp or Warhol in discourse about contemporary art–Danto is accurate to point out. The fact that he is not a Duchamp or a Warhol reveals something about his work: Duchamp’s and Warhol’s place in the history of art is stable, undisputed, and seemingly clear–Beuys’ place is still precarious. The varied and conflicting facets of Beuys’s prolific career cannot be reconciled into a cohesive artistic vision because it can be interpreted in opposite ways, either as socially engaged or isolated due to its shamanism. The bewilderment surrounding Beuys’s practice is fueled by an unresolved issue: there is both continuity and discontinuity with art practices of the pre-war period, and furthermore whether these correspondences place him within a modernist avant-garde or something else. Particularly through his concept of social sculpture, the break with the pre-war period can be attributed to the shifting away, though not entirely, from formalist or object/image centered practices, because these were understood to claim art’s autonomy in that era. These claims have been critiqued mainly because they either refrained from, or failed to, address the principal crisis of the 20th century—first, the crisis of capitalism in WWI, and later the Left’s failure to overcome capitalism expressed in the barbarism of WWII. Beuys continues the prewar tradition of the engaged modernist avant-garde, but he also resonates with dominant artistic practices who seek to break away from that tradition.

Severing with artists of the past is a principal symptomatic trait of contemporary art – a characteristic acutely expressed in Beuys’s work. Arguably, since the 60s an increasing number of artists have become interested in breaking with, instead of working through, past artistic practices. This shift, largely “post”-modernist, expressed in art, is often a shift whose principal concern is to break from the discourse, or theoretical propositions, those artistic practices where historically bound to. Theorists like Bourriaud, who promulgate that historical break are equally complicit. Bourriaud himself, as Claire Bishop notes in “Antagonism and Relational Aesthetics,” infrequently mentioned Beuys in Relational Aesthetics: “on one occasion [Beuys] is specifically invoked to sever any connection between “social sculpture” and relational aesthetics (p. 30).” The discourse surrounding Bourriaud’s promulgation of relational aesthetics is a dead end for engaging Beuys critically although they share the same symptomatic trait of breaking with the past. For reason’s articulated in part I of this essay, Beuys’s “expanded concept of art,” although influential for socially engaged artists, shall not be reduced to the discourse around relational aesthetics either. As a theory, relational aesthetics is incompatible with Beuys’s work, but reductionist of most contemporary art being made, including Jeremy Deller’s and Thomas Hirschorn’s, who are themselves responding to a problem—that of the relationship of art to life–that arose historically and intensified in Beuys.
One of the most important contributors to the study of post-1945 art today, art historian and critic Benjamin Buchloh famously critiques Beuys in his Artforum article “Joseph Beuys: Twilight of the Idol”, in response to a 1979 exhibition at the Guggenheim. Buchloh is well known for believing that the task of critics is “to brush contemporary art reception against the grain,” quoting from Walter Benjamin’s famous phrase. Buchloh, admittedly, is just one of the many critics who have taken up the task of examining Beuys’s work, but his particular approach goes into the deep historical problems revealed in the art itself. At the hands of Buchloh, Beuys’s work receives a critique that raises broader art historical concerns, and comprehensive politico-aesthetic critique.

In “Joseph Beuys: Twilight of the Idol,” Buchloh embarks in a muckraking campaign intended to demystify Beuys’s ‘myth of origin.’ Buchloh’s critique-via-defamation is framed as an art historical problem that should propel Beuys’s admirers to reconsider the entire body of work as mere fiction, however, this is less an attack on the validity of Beuys’s ‘myth of origins,’ as an artist, but more a ruthless critique of the political implications of his practice. For Buchloh, the main dilemma in Beuys work lies “in the misconception that politics could have ever become a matter of aesthetics.” This statement immediately follows his concluding point:
“The aesthetic conservatism of Beuys is logically complemented by his politically retrograde, not to say reactionary, attitudes. Both are inscribed into a seemingly progressive and radical humanitarian program of aesthetics and social evolution… any attempt on his side to join the two aspects results in curious sectarianism.” Buchloh articulates the aesthetic conservatism of Beuys by demonstrating his appropriation of devices and forms of the historical avant-garde into his work, while simultaneously rejecting their original, i.e. historically determined, meaning. The conservatism lies in Beuys “failure or refusal to change the state of the object within the discourse itself.” Buchloh finds its most acute expression when Beuys talks about his 1964 Fat Chair: “The presence of the chair has nothing to do with Duchamp’s readymades, or his combination of stool with bicycle wheel, although they share the same initial impact with humorous objects.” For Buchloh, Beuys “dilutes and dissolves the conceptual precision of Duchamp’s readymades by reintegrating the object into the most traditional and naĂ¯ve context of representation of meaning, the idealist metaphor: this object stands for that idea, and that idea is represented in this object.”

Beuys’s claims to radical ahistoricity, besides being “a maneuver to disguise his eclecticism,” is problematic in that it extracts elements from the pre-war avant-garde and removes them from their historical context and function. Buchloh is concerned with the political implications of Beuys’s idea to take the tools and techniques of the historical avant-garde’s art, while they functioned as an end in themselves, and utilize them as a means for the creative transformation of society. Since the approach of the historical avant-garde proved to be impotent in the face of world-shattering events, their route had to be abandoned, and their tools salvaged from ship wreck. By arguing “real future political intentions must be artistic” Beuys prematurely sought to reconcile art and life.

Joseph Beuys - 7000 Oaks

As the final blow to an undulating character assassination, Buchloh brings out the aspect of Beuys that is more ‘I do not want to carry art into politics, but make politics into art’ explicit in terms of “crypto-fascist Futurism” by quoting this statement: “I would say that the concept of politics must be eliminated as quickly as possible and must be replaced by the capability of form of human art. I do not want to carry art into politics, but make politics into art.”

“If it is true that theories are only the images of the phenomena of the exterior world in the human consciousness,” Rosa Luxemburg’s 1918 book, Reform or Revolution begins, “it must be added…that theories are sometimes inverted images.” In wanting to eliminate the concept of politics, and instead replace by a totalized concept of art, Beuys, in practice, is doing quite the opposite: making art obsolete and reaffirming the desire for an all-encompassing politic. Buchloh’s fears are revealed when he concludes with a Walter Benjamin quote, “…Mankind has reached such a degree of self-alienation that it can experience its own destruction as an aesthetic pleasure of the first order. This is the situation of politics which fascism is rendering aesthetic. Communism responds by politicizing art.”

Approaching the end of “Twilight of the Idol” this way, Buchloh suggests a double-sided and historically bound problem for Beuys. Buchloh approaches both the intentions and implications of Beuys work in a broader aesthetic and political narrative; his critique lies in Beuys’s politics and his aesthetic choices. Not only does Buchloh suggest that there are fascistic, or rather authoritarian, tendencies in Beuys himself–since he seems to imply Beuys was proposing a re-emergence of totalitarian form of politics–but also, how the failure of communism in the pre-WWII period to fight fascism was transferred into art–as socially-engaged-art’s failure to divert fascism. The crucial response of political failure was instead to politicize art even further.

Two decades later, in “Reconsidering Joseph Beuys: Once Again,” Buchloh takes a second stab at a critique of Beuys. This time he takes into account the changing models of interpretation in both the broader history of post-war European culture and the discourse surrounding the production of avant-garde art. For Bucloh, Beuys uniquely embodies the profound instability of the production of the meaning of culture after the Holocaust and at the same time “the problem of how the artist, as subject, can be repositioned in the role of the artist and in relation to society at large.”

If Beuys is to be interpreted as the first if not only artist addressing the conditions of cultural production after the Holocaust he must also be subjected to a comparative approach with those artists that also inherited the legacies of the Weimar Avant-Garde. Buchloh wonders to what degree was it crucial for Beuys to deny and disavow post-expressionist avant-garde in Germany, namely the German Dadaists Kurt Schwitters and Hannah Hoch on the one hand, and on the other, how was Beuys struggling with the “ghost of Jackson Pollock” and the pervasiveness of American Abstract Expressionism in Europe that purported to lay the foundation for formalist thinking. The question with Beuys then is whether he is motivated by a reaction against early 20th century avant-garde (pre-war) or early American formalist tendencies? Or more succinctly, how can Beuys be reacting against both legacies?

Beuys must react against Abstract Expressionism because their historical foundations were in the pre-war modernist avant-garde he so vehemently rejects. Abstract Expressionism and the painters of High Modernism were not claiming a complete break with pre-war practices, quite the opposite, going at pains to explain their continuation of a tradition. But Buchloh’s reconsideration of Beuys is also motivated by an interest in addressing “the insuperable question of understanding why modernism failed.” A problem he acknowledges was raised first by Hannah Arendt, Theodor Adorno and later by social art historians, “who reflect upon, if not develop, evidence of the interrelated interaction of ideology, social formations, and artistic practices.” The rejection of the historical avant-garde, and of Abstract Expressionism is bound up with the question of Modernism’s failure. The severing with past art practices seen with Bourriaud’s posy of artists, and with Beuys, is an attempt to detach the present from a failed project. This historical severing echoes a common response of working class workers in factories or the service industry. When approached about starting a union as a solution to the problems they face daily, the response often is: Didn’t we try that in Russia already? This quick dismissal often lacks a working through the failures of the past, and thus completely rejecting any achievements made.

Beuys cannot escape past and present history, nor the significant art that has accompanied it. Relational art cannot escape this reality either; that would mean detaching themselves from the history of humanity. Beuys is not only symptomatically motivated by the failures of political practices (to stop the Holocaust), but that this historical repression is already playing out the farther we move from the moment of acute crisis of historical possibilities. The further we move from the trauma of their failures, the more difficult it will become to comprehend what was at stake. Beuys is an acute symptom expressing the problematic relationship of art and life, whereas relational art is an obtuse one; it rejects grasping what they share with Beuys, a rejection of previous art, of a notion historical continuity in Modernity, and modernism’s theoretical propositions.

above copied from: http://chicagoartcriticism.com/2010/04/09/theories-are-sometimes-inverted-images-part-2-of-beuyss-concept-of-social-sculpture/

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Toward an Algorithmic Pedagogy, Holly Willis


Institute for Multimedia Literacy, University of Southern California

Colleges and universities in the United States currently face a daunting challenge: how can we transform longstanding definitions of literacy to account for not only the vast social shifts wrought by the centrality of networked, visual and aural media, but epistemological shifts as well? Calls for reconsidering literacy in light of digital tools are multiple and varied in approach and orientation, ranging from the declaration that every grade school student deserves access to a computer by then President Bill Clinton in 1996 (U.S. Dept. of Education, 1996), to the articulation of multimodal literacy outlined by Gunther Kress in his seminal book Literacy in the New Media Age to the taxonomy of skills characteristic of a new generation of students who currently inhabit a digital and participatory culture listed by Henry Jenkins in his 2006 paper for the MacArthur Foundation, ‘Confronting the Challenges of Participatory Culture: Media Education for the 21st Century’; here Jenkins highlights the potential benefits of forms of participatory culture, including opportunities for peer-to-peer learning, a changed attitude toward intellectual property, the diversification of cultural expression, the development of skills valued in the modern workplace, and a more empowered conception of citizenship (Jenkins, 2006: 3).

Scholarly work dedicated to expanding the definition of literacy and practices of reading and writing to include visual rhetoric and multimedia tools form a rich, longstanding tradition, generally emerging from college and university programs in composition and rhetoric. These programs advocate expanded composition practices, working toward an understanding of the elements of visual rhetoric and the use of multimedia reading and writing practices that unite text, images and design. As Mary Hocks explains in her essay ‘Understanding Visual Rhetoric,’ the key here is in avoiding an easy bifurcation between the visual and the written, acknowledging instead that ‘all writing is hybrid – it is at once verbal, spatial, and visual’ (Hocks, 2003: 630-631). The incorporation of visual elements, then, is not a radical shift; it is instead part of the always dialogic relationship among divergent aspects of communication.

Further, the resounding proclamations for redefining literacy brings with them attention to the term ‘literacy’ itself. As Anne Wysocki and Johndan Johnson-Eilola argue in their essay ‘Blinded by the Letter: Why Are We using Literacy as a Metaphor for Everything Else?’ literacy is a term that too easily slips off our tongues (1999: 349). Borrowing Stuart Hall’s use of the term ‘articulation’ (which in turn is borrowed from Antonio Gramsci), they argue for understanding literacy ‘not as a monolithic term but as a cloud of sometimes contradictory nexus points among different positions,’ adding that literacy here shifts away from receiving a self to the necessary act of continual remaking, of understanding the ‘unity’ of an object (social, political, intellectual) and simultaneously seeing that that unity is contingent, supported by the efforts of the writer/reader and the cultures in which they live (1999: 367).

Many scholars have contributed significant work to this larger project of rethinking literacy alongside expanded acts of reading and writing, including Gail E. Hawisher, Nancy Kaplan, Stuart Moulthrop, Cynthia Selfe, and Scott deWitt, all of whom have made convincing arguments regarding the need to include visual rhetoric in any consideration of reading and writing practices in the 21st century, with attention to a redefinition that acknowledges this inclusion.

Many scholars have also studied the role of networks in educational settings, and while much of this work focuses on distance learning and forms of distributed teaching [1], with the preponderance of Web 2.0 tools, especially those designed specifically for students, critical analysis of Net-based opportunities are on the rise. Yochai Benkler’s The Wealth of Networks: How Social Production Transforms Markets and Freedom outlines the shift from a mass-mediated public sphere to a networked public sphere, and suggests implications for education and students. Further, the work of Trebor Scholz interrogates the ways in which people actually use online tools and collaborative environments, and his Distributed Learning Project, which is a site for sharing resources for the teaching of and learning about new media art, offers a productive and real embodiment of distributed scholarship. [2] And Cheryl Ball’s 2007 examination of Michael Wesch’s Web-based essay, ‘The Machine Is Us/ing Us’ and the potential of Web-based forms of composition points to future forms of net-based writing practices that unite text, graphics, images and sound in a kind of desktop-oriented compositional mode. [3]

Along with these redefinitions of literacy and calls for its expansion, we are also witnessing a groundswell of interest in understanding how to teach, in light not only of changes in the abilities and skills of students, but with respect to vastly different social, cultural and economic contexts that both characterize contemporary educational settings and will greet students when they leave the university. These shifts range from the decade-old critique of the increasingly corporate nature of the university and its role in sustaining a notion of the nation-state [4] to the challenges of fully understanding what Brian Goldfarb dubs a ‘visual pedagogy.’ Goldfarb writes in his introduction, ‘Subjects “come to know” in institutional settings that rely increasingly on media forms to produce knowledge,’ continuing:

As the twentieth century progressed, media became an integral part of any discussion about the ‘how’ questions in education. How do we teach? Certainly with media. How do media function? Certainly as modes of pedagogy. Throughout the intensified globalization of the second half of the twentieth century, media technology made a firm union with the science of pedagogy broadly applied, and this union has come to symbolize technological life in the industrialized nations of late capitalism (Goldfarb, 2002: 22).

Goldfarb goes on to analyze the ways in which we might expand our notion of pedagogy to include institutions beyond schools – museums and advocacy groups, for example – and in the process complicates the often simplistic thinking behind deployments of media in the classroom.

Yet another challenge in considering literacy and pedagogical practices in the 21st century comes in offering instruction to a generation of students with fundamentally different abilities and needs than generations prior. Marc Prensky responds to the claims that education in the U.S. has declined dramatically by asking critics to remember the fundamental cause of that decline. He writes, ‘Today’s students are no longer the people our educational system was designed to teach.’ He adds,

Today’s students have not just changed incrementally from those of the past, nor simply changed their slang, clothes, body adornments, or styles, as has happened between generations previously. A really big discontinuity has taken place. One might even call it a ‘singularity’ – an event which changes things so fundamentally that there is absolutely no going back. This so-called ‘singularity’ is the arrival and rapid dissemination of digital technology in the last decades of the 20th century (Prensky, 2001: 1).

Rethinking teaching practices to accommodate the skills and needs of these students often point back to the very tools students are already using. Here are just three recent instantiations of this:

– The 2007 Horizon Report, published jointly by the New Media Consortium and EDUCAUSE, lists an array of ‘technologies to watch,’ by which the authors mean tools and applications that the anticipate will be broadly adopted by universities across the United States in the coming year; among the technologies listed this year are social networking tools, virtual worlds and massively multiplayer games.

– Some scholars are also promoting the use of games as models for learning. Douglas Thomas and John Seely Brown, for example, in a working paper titled ‘The Play of Imagination: Extending the Literary Mind,’ describe the ability of multiplayer online games to ‘allow players to construct vivid and meaningful “conceptual blends” by taking different worlds (such as the physical and the virtual) and combining them to create new and better ways to understand both the game world they inhabit and the physical world’ (Thomas, Brown, 2007: 149).

– The multi-user virtual environment Second Life is now home to the sites of more than 200 college and universities around the world, and educators are working hard to develop new pedagogical practices designed for the affordances of immersive, virtual environments. [5]

The demand for an expanded definition of literacy to accommodate visual and aural media, then, is not particularly new, but it now carries with it calls for rethinking not only what we teach but how we teach. It also gains urgency as college students transform, becoming producers of media in many of their everyday social activities. The response among those who grapple with these issues as instructors has been to advocate for new definitions of literacy and an emphasis on visual literacy. These efforts are exemplary, and promote a much needed rethinking of literacy and models of pedagogy. However, what I would like to argue here, in what is more akin to a manifesto than a polished argument, is the need to push farther: What if we moved beyond visual rhetoric, as well as a game-based pedagogy and the adoption of a broad range of media tools on campus, toward a pedagogy grounded fundamentally in a media ecology? Framing this investigation in terms of a media ecology allows us to take account of the multiply determining relationships wrought not just by individual media, but by the interrelationships, dependencies and symbioses that take place within the dynamic system that is today’s high-tech university. An ecological approach allows us to examine what happens when new media practices collide with computational models, providing a glimpse of possible transformations not only ways of being but ways of teaching and learning. How, then, may pedagogical practices be transformed computationally or algorithmically and to what ends?

What Is an Algorithm? What Is Computation?

To begin to answer this question, we need to consider the nature of algorithms and computation, acknowledging up front the fact that the desire for an algorithmic model is produced at the intersection of cultural, technological and social needs. Indeed, as the deployments of the term outlined below indicate, algorithm and computation here function as metaphors and bear the weight of the desire to articulate a still nascent practice within an emerging social sphere.Algorithms are closely tied to generative art practices in that generative art sets up parameters and then allows for the unfolding that ensues. Philip Galanter defines generative art as any practice in which ‘the artist creates a process, such as a set of natural language rules, a computer program, a machine, or other procedural invention, which is then set into motion with some degree of autonomy contributing to or resulting in a completed work of art’ (Gallanter, 2006). Marius Watz adds a distinction between generative processes that are deterministic and those that are more open:

A central aspect to the generative approach is the use of an externalized system, created by the artist but rarely completely under her control. Standard software tools are deterministic systems that always produce the same results, while generative systems are dynamic processes that must be harnessed and even farmed. The artist specifies the initial boundaries and strategies of creation, and then enters into a feedback loop of adjusting parameters in a search for optimal regions in parameter space. The moment of genuine surprise is often the moment of breakthrough (Watz, 2006).

Finally, pushing a bit further, Inke Arns suggests that we not look merely at the results of a generative process, but instead at the software itself. In ‘Code as Performative Speech Act,’ Arns writes,

Software art does not regard software merely as a pragmatic, invisible tool generating certain visible results or surfaces, but on the contrary focuses on the program code itself – even if this code is not explicitly being laid open or put in the foreground. According to Florian Cramer, software art makes visible the aesthetic and political subtexts of seemingly neutral technical commands (Arns, 2002).

What we can take from the artworld’s interest in generative and software-based practices is the desire to set something into motion, to relinquish some amount of control, and to reference directly the functionality and parameters of the tools – in this case software – that produce the conditions for the experience.

Algorithms have also recently inspired designers. In her graduate thesis titled, ‘Allegorithm,’ graphic designer Juliette Cezzar, for example, defines an algorithm as a ‘pre-programmed procedure for an expected or unexpected result,’ adding that it is also an attitude, technique, perception and procedure (Cezzar, 2002). For Cezzar, algorithms are constitutive of decidedly non-computational practices, such as baseball games, the methodology of scientists and the essay structure deployed by journalists. In all of these cases, an algorithm functions by allowing its users to follow a set of predetermined rules toward expected results. However, the more interesting direction of algorithms is toward unexpected results, as conditions are set in place that generate unanticipated outcomes.

McKenzie Wark addresses the idea of the algorithm in his book, GAM3R 7H3ORY, which looks at gaming as a series of allegories for daily life. [6] In his discussion of allegories and algorithms, Wark defines an algorithm as ‘a finite set of instructions for accomplishing some task, which transforms an initial starting condition into a recognizable end condition’ (Wark, section 31). He also notes that ‘what is distinctive about games is that they produce for the gamer an intuitive relation to the algorithm’ (Wark, section 30). He continues:

If the novel, cinema or television can reveal through their particulars an allegory of the world that makes them possible, the game reveals something else entirely. For the reader, the novel produces allegory as something textual. The world of possibility is the world of the linguistic sign. For the viewer, the screen allegory is something luminous. The world of possibility is the world of mechanical reproducibility. For the gamer, the game produces allegory as something algorithmic. The world of possibility is the world internal to the algorithm. So: a passage from the topic to the topographic, mediated by the novel; a passage from the topographic to the topological, mediated by television; a passage, mediated by the game, from the topological to as yet unknown geographies, a point where the gamer seems to be stuck (Wark, section 59).

Gaming, then, is a point on one vector of transformation, from the novel to the screen to the immersive world of the game, and from the textual sign to the world of mechanical reproducibility on to the world internal to the algorithm. Gaming takes us inside the algorithm, producing for the gamer ‘an intuitive relation’ to that unfolding that is the algorithm. Rather than an allegory, the gamer experiences the putting into play of a set of elements determined in part by code.

Finally, in the preface to his book Gaming: Essays on Algorithmic Culture, Alexander Galloway defines an algorithm simply as ‘a machine for the motion of parts’ (Galloway, 2006: xi). He goes on to describe video games as an essentially active medium, by which he means a medium ‘whose very materiality moves and restructures itself’ (Galloway, 2006: 3). Galloway’s book is an often eloquent examination of video games as a cultural form, but for my purposes, his text, alongside the others noted above, offers a useful vocabulary for a set of computer-based actions that contribute to a new model for the sort of pedagogical practice I am trying to articulate, one similarly grounded on algorithmic unfolding and machinic processes. Following this lead, we should consider relinquishing pedagogical models based on representation, narrative and discourse and move toward an information-based model, one in which cultural objects are technologies and the reader/viewer becomes a user or player.

However, we can only undertake this consideration with the following recognition: as Florian Cramer points out so well in ‘Words Made Flesh: Code, Culture, Imagination,’ algorithms not only date back well before computers, but they also play a part within a cultural imaginary. He writes,

With its seeming opacity and the boundless, viral multiplication of its output in the execution, algorithmic code opens up a vast potential for cultural imagination, phantasms and phantasmagorias. The word made flesh, writing taking up a life of its own by self-execution, has been a utopia and dystopia in religion, metaphysics, art and technology alike (Cramer, 2005).

Algorithms promise almost magical possibilities and the fulfillment of utopian transformation, and their deployment here, as metaphor and model, is with the recognition of their function within a larger cultural imaginary.

Comparing Pedagogical Models

Models of pedagogy are complex, and include, for example, the broad articulation of pedagogy by writers such as Paolo Friere who, in his 1970 book Pedagogy of the Oppressed, argued for replacing a ‘banking’ model wherein an instructor makes scholarly deposits into the student with a model grounded in praxis, dialogue and attention to the contextual politics of any given pedagogical situation (Friere, 1970: 198). Henry Giroux, another theorist of pedagogy, argues for an analysis of ‘the meaning of knowledge, classroom social relationships, and the political and cultural nature of schooling’ (Giroux, 1988: 24). This essay cannot accommodate a full explication of the field of pedagogical theory; instead, I want to examine some of the much more basic components of teaching practices in colleges and universities, and ask how an almost whimsical rethinking might point us toward a computational pedagogy. Below, six small incursions into pedagogical practices and models toward the hope of creating a computational or algorithmic pedagogy:

Select and Combine: Using the Database Instead of Narrative

In many liberal arts classes, the 16-week semester (or 10-week quarter) is arranged linearly as a narrative that begins with a set of questions and concludes with a set of answers, however provisional. The class often includes an arc that resembles that of a narrative, as issues and conflicts reach a climax, then conclude with some sense of resolution. Obviously this is a sweeping description of classroom models, but it fits many courses that strive to address a theme via a series of questions. A narrative model, however, embodies an outdated epistemology and speaks to an older generation. Indeed, if, as Fredric Jameson claims, narrative is the fundamental cultural model for the 20th century, networks and participatory culture define our current moment, bringing with them a different set of themes, structures, practices and ideological constraints. In place of the narrative model, we might imagine the content of our courses as a database that is open to multiple points of entry and innumerable patterns of selection and combination that are realized most fruitfully through a kind of collaborative remixing by student and professor. In this way, the process of learning aligns with the activities of processing and play, such that the course itself becomes ‘a machine for the motion of parts.’ Within this machine, the instructor serves as both designer and player, setting initial rules and expectations in place, but recognizing the need for improvisation as an enacting of possibilities unfolds.

From Stasis to Process: Allowing for Unexpected Outcomes

The algorithmic model dares us to relinquish the vaunted ‘learning objectives’ dutifully listed on our syllabi in favor of unexpected outcomes. Once set in motion, the course opens up to unforeseen arrangements and convergences of student interest, needs and abilities. As we forego the specificity of the learning objectives, we might gain ground in the larger project of teaching students how to learn, moving beyond the acquisition of information to an enhancement of the ability to learn. As learning objectives themselves become decentered, traditional approaches to evaluating student work must be rethought. One clear implication is the emphasis of process over product in student learning and a model of pedagogy that takes account of different learning styles and a range of possible goals and priorities that may vary from student to student.

Toward Distributed Authority

Another traditional pedagogical model places the instructor in the position of expert delivering knowledge to learners in an institutional structure that frequently remains transparent to students. Known generally as ‘direct instruction,’ this model, too, is outdated in many classroom contexts, and does not align with the broader array of social practices of students, who know that the role of expert is contextual. Further, in technology-based classrooms, students often arrive with more expertise in certain areas than their instructors. An algorithmic pedagogy would examine the structure of the class itself, looking at the specific arrangement of institutional power alongside the expectations of participants. Obviously, instructors do bring fundamentally significant contributions to the classroom, as well as a degree of institutional power that, despite gestures toward divestiture, always remains in place. [7] That said, however, how might one experiment with the deployment of expertise using a network as metaphor? Going further, how might we include networked experience in conjunction with class-based experience? How might we find ways to mobilize a user-oriented, participatory pedagogy in which students cycle fluidly through the roles of teacher, learner and synthesizer?

Soft Media Objects

In a 2006 presentation at Hyperwerk in Basel, Marius Watz noted that ‘things change when they become digital. A digital video is no longer a tape. It is suddenly a soft media object…’ (Watz, 2006). Soft media objects are those that are eminently mutable; situated in a vast online database of traded media, they become the fodder for tactical reuse as they are read, used and redeployed in sometimes eloquent ways akin in spirit to the critical analyses we favor as instructors. As we incorporate this media into the classroom, the modernist emphasis on medium specificity gives way to awareness of the function and context of any media object. The result is a transformation of ‘finished’ art works, texts and media objects into raw materials that are ripe for reinterpretation and recontextualization. A student’s coursework is thus inscribed in a process of knowledge production and transformation that continues beyond an individual class and may ideally be conceived as having relevance beyond the university.

Code Literacy: Understanding Dynamic Reading and Writing

Another traditional component of university teaching relies on reading and writing as central practices for gauging student learning. However, more and more what students need is the ability to read and write dynamically. The information around us moves and changes faster than ever, with much of that information existing not in stasis but in a constant state of flux, with ever changing relationships to other data. How can we understand writing and communication when we are dealing with dynamic information? In his graduate thesis, Ben Fry, who with Casey Reas developed the open source programming language known as Processing, asks, ‘What does the world economy look like? How can the continuously changing structure of the Internet be represented? It’s nearly impossible to approach these questions because few techniques exist for visualizing dynamic information’ (Fry, 2003: 13). Processing allows designers who are non-programmers to play with code and begin to understand how to read and write dynamically, and this ability is one needed not only by designers but our culture at large. The ability to engage directly with code, even on a fundamental level, allows for new forms of reading and writing that transform conceptions and definitions of literacy. [8]

Toward Virtual Education: A Process of Invention

A computational or algorithmic pedagogy points to a form of virtual education, with ‘virtual’ in this case being understood in the sense articulated by Gilles Deleuze who defines the term across several years and texts. [9] For Deleuze, the virtual and real are not opposed, nor does the virtual correspond with the possible; rather, the virtual is that which generates a thing’s actuality. In replacing the possible-real binary with virtual-actual, Deleuze posits a form of becoming that is not algorithmic in the sense of producing expected and predetermined outcomes but instead in generating the unexpected, and a sense of the ‘impossible.’ In a review of Keith Ansell-Pearson’s Philosophy and the Adventure of the Virtual: Bergson and the Time of Life, Daniel W. Smith writes that for Deleuze, ‘the “rules” of virtuality are no longer resemblance and limitation, but difference and divergence. The virtual is itself entirely differentiated; and in actualizing itself, it does not proceed by limitation or exclusion but rather must create its own lines of actualization in positive acts that require “a process of invention” (72)’ (Smith, 2002). The virtual classroom, then, is a space for the actualization of emerging desires, and an algorithmic pedagogy would enact this process of invention.

Conclusion

The model of algorithmic pedagogy proposed here is admittedly provisional, but not entirely metaphoric. As with attempts to understand the functioning of complex systems, algorithmic pedagogy knits together ideas across divergent territories of disciplinary thought and practice. It is no accident that the vocabulary and epistemological framework that enables this argument derives from computers and digital culture. Indeed, the work of university faculty is rapidly coming to resemble that of systems engineers, architects and designers, as opposed to mere experts. And while this article has focused on the implications of algorithms (and algorithmic thinking) for teaching and learning, an equally profound impact may be seen on the evolution of other realms of scholarly practice, particularly research and academic publication. As the whole of academia slouches grudgingly into the digital age, it may well be time to reexamine an even broader range of conventions, standards and expectations across the academic spectrum.


Author's Biography

Holly Willis is a Research Assistant Professor in the School of Cinematic Arts, as well as Director of Academic Programs at the University of Southern California’s Institute for Multimedia Literacy, where she teaches, organizes workshops and oversees academic programs designed to introduce new media literacy skills across USC’s campus and curriculum. Willis’ current research centers on the intersection of media art, graphic design and rhetoric, and the ways ideas and formal strategies from each might inform contemporary scholarly practices.
Notes

[1] See 'Writing Across Distances and Disciplines: Research and Pedagogy' in Distributed Learning, Joyce Neff and Carl Whithaus, eds., (Mahway, N.J.: Lawrence Erlbaum, 2007). [back]

[2] See Scholz’s site, collectiate.net at www.collectivate.net. See the Distributed Learning Project here: http://sharewidely.org/ [back]

[3] Michael Wesch, The Machine Is Us/ing Us. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLlGopyXT_g [back]

[4] For example, see The University in Ruins, in which author Bill Readings writes, ‘The University is becoming a transnational bureaucratic corporation, either tied to transnational instances of government such as the European Union or functioning independently, by analogy with a transnational corporation.’ The University in Ruins (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997). [back]

[5] Free accounts for Second Life are available through the Second Life Web site: http://www.secondlife.com
Information regarding the educational uses of Second Life is available through the Second Life Educators’ List: http://secondlife.com/education/ [back]

[6] Rather than chronicling the deleterious features of gaming, Wark instead considers game space as a kind of utopia, and his writing practice for the project embodies some of the ideas outlined in his text. Rather than composing the book as a linear argument in traditional academic form, for example, Wark instead wrote the book in a very modular way, with a set of rules that dictate the form, in a sense adopting an algorithm for his writing practice. Each of the book’s nine chapters contains 25 paragraphs, and each paragraph contains 250 words and is placed on what looks like a filing card. Each chapter has its own color, and the cards appear in stacks. Readers are invited to comment on each card, and the comments appear alongside the text. As a result, readers can opt to read the book as a book, moving through the stacks of cards in order, or as an evolving conversation linked to particular sections of the book. [back]

[7] See Integrating Hypertextual Subjects: Computers, Composition, and Academic Labor, by Robert Samuels (Cresskill, N.J.: Hampton Press, 2006) for an eloquent and much-needed analysis of the institutional uses of “learner-centered pedagogy” and the deployment of technology-driven classrooms as a means to casualize academic labor. [back]

[8] The fellowship process and close collaboration between scholars and designers in the creation of projects for the University of Southern California’s online scholarly journal, Vectors: A Journal of Culture and Technology in a Dynamic Vernacular, offers evidence of this transformation. Selected contributors are invited to USC for a week-long residency during which they are introduced to the journal, the collaborative process and examples of multimedia scholarship; they are also introduced to the journal’s database infrastructure and invited to imagine their work in relationship to a database. The second half of the week includes the intensive workshopping of each project in small working groups. Part of the ongoing project for the Vectors designers has been to imagine new ways to illustrate relationships among the chunks of data entered into the database. Each project in Vectors includes a back-end, where data is entered, and the interface, where the user encounters the designed depiction of that data. More recently, however, Vectors designers have been experimenting with ways to visualize the layer between the database and the interface, a way, in short, to read the XML. The result is the use of an XML browser that dynamically generates a visualization illustrating the relationships among words, ideas, themes and so on within any given text. Seeing one’s research suddenly take shape in this way is nothing short of transformative for participating scholars. [back]

[9] Phillip Roe develops the notion of the virtual in relationship to new media education in an essay titled ‘That-which-new-media studies-will-become’ in Fibreculture Journal, Issue 2, 2003. http://journal.fibreculture.org/issue2/issue2_roe.html [back]
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above copied from: http://journal.fibreculture.org/issue10/issue10_willis.html