The paper formerly know as
good vibrations
time as special effect
Sean Cubitt
LIVERPOOL JOHN MOORES UNIVERSITY,
ENGLAND
VISITING FELLOW IN THE SCHOOL
OF TELEVISION IMAGING, DUNCAN OF JORDANSTONE COLLEGE OF ART, UNIVERSITY
OF DUNDEE, SCOTLAND
Keynote address for "Digital Aesthetics:
A Symposium on the Cultures of Time and the Everyday", Innis College,
University of Toronto, April 15th 2000
1. Why digital realism
is not indexical
I've
been discussing time and digital media for a while now. It strikes me that
alongside arguments we need to make about, for example, the crash as a
specifically digital temporality that brings the ephemeral to centre stage,
we also need to understand what history means, no longer as a mode of monumentalisation,
but as a coming to terms with the kind of loss that confronts us everyday
when a freeze or a crash takes our hard work away. As it happens, I bumped
into an essay a few days ago that provides the opportunity to think over
the larger scale implications of transience as a characteristic of digital
aesthetics.
The essay appears in a new publication
from the Edinburgh College of Art, TwoNineTwo. In the opening essay
of the launch issue Paul Willemen asks some searching questions about the
risks that emerge as the digital media alter the indexicality of the analogue.
In the process of analysis he returns to Eisenstein, because, he says,
of
the suspicion that sooner or later,
some techno-fetishist is bound to invoke, abusively, Eisenstein's name
in a celebration of the internet or computer-based art. I suspect that
for this abuse of Eisenstein, his particular notion of mimesis, commented
on by Misha Yampolsky in Eisenstein Reconsidered, will be invoked. Yampolsky
quoted Eisenstein's speech to the filmmakers of La Sarraz in 1929: 'The
age of form is drawing to a close. We are penetrating behind appearance
into the principle of appearance. In doing so we are mastering it.' Yampolsky
then went on to argue that for Eisenstein, the issue was to represent 'the
essential bone structure' underpinning and shaping reality rather than
its surface appearance. No doubt some techno-fetishist will latch on to
that formulation to claim that this is precisely what digital imaging and
'new media' enable. This claim may be further elaborated with reference
to Eisenstein's emphasis on drawing, painting and the iconic quality of
the cinematic and the photographic image. (Willemen 2000: 7-8)
My interest is piqued, since I quoted this
rather obscure article from a 1988 volume of conference proceedings in
my book on Digital Aesthetics a few years ago. This was how I deployed
the quote in a chapter on Virtual Realism, part of whose mission was to
establish that mechanical perception in both analogue and digital forms
retains its indexical quality through the relationship established among
images, a relationship which, I argued, forms a 'society' which enables
a socialised mode of communication otherwise disenabled by the hyperindividuation
characteristic of accelerated modernity.
In his debates with the radical
Kino-Eye director Dziga Vertov, Eisenstein replied to criticisms that his
story-films were in hock to the fictionalisations of the entertainment
film by critiquing Vertov's espousal of the documentary. Raw reality, unorganised,
could never achieve maximal effectivity, and could never form part of the
overall subordination of the film's moments to its architectonics, its
montage (Eisenstein 1988). Instead, Eisenstein argued the case for a cinema
which would escape the magical powers of mimesis through an emphasis on
composition, on the mise en scène, the frame, the shot, the editing
and the whole film. Documentary was mere imitation. Like the sympathetic
magic that drives a betrayed lover to destroy photos of the philanderer,
or the symbolic objects surrounding a dead pharaoh, or the stock markets
trade in 'objects that only exist on paper', for the documentary, 'The
difference between form and reality is non-existant' (Eisenstein 1993:
68). The speculative regime dreams of managing reality through formal manipulations.
But these magical administrations, in mirroring form alone, ape events
without grasping their structure. In their place Eisenstein argues for
a vision that pierces the secrets of matter, that reveals what lies beneath
the surface, the bones beneath the skin (see Yampolsky 1993). He declaims
'Mastery of principle is the real mastery of objects' (Eisenstein 1993:
67), and in an early draft even speaks of 'Man as means'. Not even the
human is sacrosanct in the demand for a visual art dedicated to unearthing
the paucity of the present and the immanence of the future. . .
Eisenstein's purpose as pedagogue
and practitioner was to move from [the] purity of autonomous illumination
to a social relation between filmmaker and audiences through the establishment
of a social relation between shots, a relation which would transform the
contents of the individual frames or the sequence. In place of the economic
model of exchange, Eisenstein aims for the social model of dialogue between
frames. Unlike Baudrillard's succession and erasure of every image by the
next, Eisenstein creates a society among his images. However, the internationalist
ambition of Eisenstein's cinema bred a sense of cinema as universal language,
or more specifically, a universal translation machine, whose purpose, to
join human to human in the revolution, transcended and subordinated the
claims of images to their own reasons for being. In the attempt to make
a generalisable technique, montage falls prey to rationalist universalism.
(Cubitt 1998: 43-4)
The model in the back of my mind was that
proposed by Walter Benjamin in his essay 'The Task of the Translator',
which offers a metaphor which seems as apposite to the transitions between
analogue and digital as it is to both the problem of translation and the
ethics of interpretation:
Fragments of a vessel which are
to be glued together must match one another in the smallest details, although
they need not be like one another. In the same way a translation, instead
of resembling the meaning of the original, must lovingly and in detail
incorporate the original's mode of signification, thus making both the
original and the translation recognizable as fragments of a greater language,
just as fragments are part of a larger vessel. (Benjamin 1969: 78)
The great difference between the Eisenstein
and Benjamin is that the latter believes the universal language is made
in the process of translation, while for Eisenstein it is already presumed
as a Leninist class faculty that needs only to be mobilised in the machinery
of the Party.
One of the problems with Willemen's approach
is that it defines its aesthetic in terms of indexicality: in terms of
visual coding. This is already weak as a way of understanding some key
codes of cinema, especially editing but also music. It is entirely too
parochial a view for digital aesthetics, which is only partially visual.
It is also, very obviously, sonorous. Crucially, it is also dependent on
a set of practices which humanist intellectuals have become loath to discuss:
practices associated with the workplace, notably cartography, cataloguing
and double-entry book-keeping. In geographic information systems (GIS),
statistical data is arranged in correlation with spatial data to provide
maps for scientific and marketing purposes; the database is an extended
catalogue that adds record-keeping, filing and complex, multi-dimensional
records to the old index card, and uses early twentieth century concepts
of library information retrieval to power search engines and bots; while
the accountancy procedures became the Lotus 1-2-3 definitive killer app
for the first desktop machines. In this context, trying to define digital
media by analogy with storytelling and realist depiction is like trying
to define an ocean liner by means of its furniture.
Most of all, however, the humanist approach
advocated by Willemen misses entirely what Gelernter (1998) calls the aesthetics
of computing: the specific elegance, simplicity, effectiveness and sheer
aesthetic pleasure of software design. Why is Windows 2000 so much less
attractive an environment than Mac 1984? Why is Word 98 the clumsiest of
all possible word-processors (with the exception, of course, of the next
version of Word)? Gelernter uses Ted Nelson's term, 'featuritis'. Critical
Art Ensemble (1996) use the phrase 'redundant functionality' for the same
phenomenon: the excrescence of features and functions added on to the basic
programme, ostensibly to increase its usefulness but actually to get it
to do useless and unwanted actions that eat memory and clutter the screen
with pointless objects and unnecessary advice (I particularly dislike Word
98's desire to correct my English and presumption that I want to edit whole
words rather than individual letters -- yes I know I can turn it off, but
it takes fifteen precious minutes burrowing in appallingly nested sub-menus
to find the button, and meanwhile I can't even preview the font menu).
Digital aesthetics has to do with the engineering
and technology of computing as well as the superfices of image and sound:
the
Jodi site, for example, makes a wholly different sense if you use View
Source to dip into the code beneath the apparently random scatter of blinking
ascii characters. What is at stake is code, not representation. Tim Druckrey's
1995 Ars Electronica paper catches a critical aspect of this when he argues
that 'Programming determines a set of conditions in which the represented
is formed as an instruction, while language destabilizes the conditions
through the introduction of formations in which the represented is extended'
(Druckrey 1999: 311). The imbalance of instruction and extra-textual
formations forms a new crisis in the theory of representation, itself already
reeling under the twin blows of consumer capitalism and the dead-end theorisation
of simulation. The act of interpretation does not become impossible, faced
with the interminable question of the truth of the representation, but
becomes necessary, since the construction of truth now becomes an extra-textual
effort engaging anyone who comes into contact with it.
As anyone who has ever struggled with a
balance sheet will know, accountancy is a creative art. Without abuse of
the facts, there are legitimate ways in which a company's performance can
be shown to have resulted in a profit, a loss or a break-even, according
to the audience for whom the figures are intended. A struggling charity,
for example, has to avoid profit in order to keep its tax status, generate
loss in order to attract key funding, and show profit in order to keep
its directors and its bank manager happy. This is achieved not by changing
the facts but by using different formulae to account for them. The spreadsheet
has become a hermeneutic engine for testing out possible modes of accounting
for a year's trading: to ensure that a movie makes a record profit for
variety, but nevertheless never succeeds so well that players with points
in it take significant revenue streams. It's illegal to alter the facts
but massaging them is the reason we pay for accountants. The effort it
takes the lay observer to grapple with these issues and to run through
the what-if scenarios that accountants love is precisely the operation
Druckrey hints at: the difference between instruction as machine coding
and interpretation as the destabilisation of encoding in language.
The digital, like the accountancy spreadsheets
that are such a feature of it, is indeed indexical, but it is not engaged
with the visual regimes of resemblance, rather with semblance as such,
which, considered as the execution of a set of instructions, is also doubled
by a mimetic performance, rather as a recording of a piano recital is a
semblance of the score but a mimesis of its execution. In fact the digital
record is less perfect than the analogue, or rather has abandoned
the claim to perfectibility of the analogue -- and this at its heart, not
in the technoboosterism of "very soon we will be able to . . . ." that
Willemen quite rightly castigates -- though for the wrong reasons. To extend
the metaphor of the piano recording, the mimicry of idealised acoustic
conditions in the recording studio chronicled by Chanan is wasted effort:
as Altman argues, the fallibility of playback ensures that the acoustic
I hear is the acoustic of my living room, not that of the Cleveland orchestra.
In effect, the greater the attempted control over reproduction, the more
control is handed over to the receiver, who is thereby forced into the
position of interpreter. This is just one aspect of the democratisation
process in the digital domain.
Indexicality is in any case only one aspect
of a cinema which, in the digital era, is also transformed as to its iconic
and symbolic functioning. Willemen makes a play for the centrality
of Charles Sanders Peirce's category of the index in film but does so in
a naively realist tradition that ignores the power of Peirce's semiotics
as a triadic rather than Saussurean and binary structure. Willemen wants
a 'return' to the index, claiming that any image taken with a camera has
an irreducible relation with embodied and physical reality which is precious,
vital and political, and which digital media have destroyed. But a little
media-social history will help understand why the index was never unique
and never an unmitigatedly good thing. The camera and wet photography throve
in almost exactly the same chronological period as the ideology of privacy.
One of the cheerier ways of looking at the 'death' of photography is that
it coincides with the termination of bourgeois individualism and its abuse
of identity and its sacrosanctity as a defence for private dishonesty and
domestic violence. The rise of the manipulable image and the emergence
of a manipulable (schizophrenic) self are synchronous developments: what
is occurring is not the end of truth but the end of an ideology of identity.
Identity of the subject to itself has acted as the ground of truth since
Descartes, and it is this ground that Willemen mourns. The law too has
been grounded on the concept of individual identity as the basis of truth
in arguments over privacy, intellectual and private property. As the measure
of truth as identity breaks down -- the Microsoft trial is a wonderfully
public forum for demonstrating the imbecility of identifying truth with
property -- the rewriting of photographic truth becomes symptomatic of
a global and highly political change in the nature of truth, identity and
property. The logic of the digital, with its ease or surveillance, fraud
and hacking, denies the sole right of ownership: if anything, the digital
belongs, in its wider sense, to the dialectic of liberation in a way which
a century of cinema has clearly failed to achieve. If the digital is n
longer a credible medium for indexical representations, what does this
mean for the surveillant regime of the passport photograph? Surely it requires
more than an education that promotes 'assessing the 'likely' verisimilitude
of any account or representation of the world' (the scare quotes, which
are so revealing, are Willemen's own): surely it demands an education based
not on picturing and mastery over the world, something more like an education
based on the power to communicate in a globally interdependent society?
There's another curious and rather typical
elision in decrying blockbuster cinema as 'physical sensations' as opposed
to the 'emotive-intellectual' cinema. The 'sound prisons' of club culture
Willemen vilifies can surely be understood analogously as the utopian if
temporary promotion of psycho-somatic wholeness in an age in which its
very possibility is erased in daily life. But just at the moment in which
you think you have caught the argument: digital media are too embodied,
too physical, not intellectual and emotive enough, we discover that the
tirade will be directed towards the exclusion of embodiment from digital
media. What is going on inside this apparent contradiction.?
What Willemen seems to be missing is the
negativity of the body in contemporary society, joining in the industrial
production of nostalgia for real bodies that began in the gay clubs and
gyms of the 1970s and now permeates commercial culture. Willemen's love
for the lost bodies of an imaginary working class, his promotion of their
images as innocent triggers of 'intellectual-emotive' responses, reeks
of the closet. The only way the body can permeate the cinematic OR the
digital; is either as data-image (Mark Poster's [1990] term for the cloud
of statistics which gathers around any participant in consumerism) or as
absence. If anything it is the latter that marks the genuine digital art
of the late 20th and early 21st centuries. We cannot wish away the division
of body and mind effected in the foundations of modernity -- that wishing
is characteristic of the bogus, content-full utopia castigated by Bloch
and realised in the fashion industry with its cheesy evocations of blue-collar
sweat in the processing of gym-and -isotonics-sculpted models. The contemporary
body is itself untrustworthy and outwith the realms of truth because it
is every bit as manipulable as the digital image of it. The body no longer
counts politically: it is a construct of a historical process of abstraction
noted already by Marx in the sublimation of labour power from the labouring
bodies of the proletariat. The body becomes a disposable good under industrial
capital, and an investment under finance capital. On the way, it moves
from reproductive to service to consumer sectors of the economy, concluding
an arc from use via exchange to sign. In the re-engineering of contemporary
capital, even that ;level of value is subsumed within a higher order of
abstraction, that of the statistically normative database, where The body
takes on the role of statistical fiction. The operation of digital media
in recording, analysing and extrapolating from data is not an attack on
indexicality: it is the new order of the index, and one entirely in tune
with a trajectory already established in the twist of photography towards
the instrumental rationality of the surveillance state in the middle of
the 19th century. It is only a higher order of realism.
Like so many luddite commentators, Willemen
pretends to be obsessed with work, but not with looking at the changing
conditions of work. Instead his major concern, like those of Kirkpatrick
Sale (1996), Neil Postman (1992) and Sven Birkerts (1994), is with protecting
the rights of an intellectual caste defined only negatively but disallowed
the negating role that a true dialectical model would demand of them. Such
arguments are stranded defending what Caldwell had already defined in 1939
as a dying culture. In fact, what all four fear is not the demise of indexicality
but the rise of iconicity, 'the diagrammatic sign or icon' (Peirce 1991a:
181). But what if the true connection is, or the possible or potential
relation were, symbolic, 'which signifies its object by means of an association
of ideas' (Peirce 1991a: 181). This after all was Eisenstein's basic
tactic in the montage aesthetic. The problem is that the symbolic relation
in film turns indices into symbols -- the image of this babushka becomes
the type of all victims of Cossack oppression (and incidentally all Cossacks
are denied specificity)Willemen's intellectual-emotive cinema is itself
at odds with the embodiment he ascribes to indexicality, because every
photographed body,as soon as it escapes from the pure;y representational
regime of the index 'without definition' (achieved for the first and last
time in cinema in the Sortie des usines Lumières) becomes symbolic,
and as such throws itself into the regime of 'association of ideas or habitual
connections (Peirce 1991a: 181) -- the realm of metaphor OR, and this is
the danger Willemen fears, the ream of ideology. Here is how Adorno expresses
it:
montage disposes over the elements
that make up the reality of an unchallenged common sense, either to transform
their intention or, at best, to awaken their latent language. It is powerless,
however, in so far as it is unable to explode the individual elements.
It is precisely montage that is to be criticised for possessing the
remains of a complaisant irrationalism, to adaptation to material that
is delivered ready-made from outside the work. . . . . the principle of
montage therefore became that of construction. There is no denying that
even in the principle of construction, in the dissolution of materials
and their subordination to an imposed unity, once again something smooth,
harmonistic, a quality of pure logicality is conjured up that seeks to
establish itself as ideology. It is the fatality of all contemporary art
that it is contaminated by the untruth of the ruling totality (Adorno 1997
:57).
Adorno's complex dialectic needs a gloss:
montage abstracts elements -- shots -- from their place in order to subordinate
them to an artistic plan. In doing so it at once deprives them of their
rational place in the world, but simultaneously supplants that with its
own rationalism, an obverse of the instrumental rationalism of which it
is attempting to be the negation. But because montage fails to analyse
and expose the elements, it fails because they bring with them their existing
ideological associations, now freed of the complexities of their existence
outside the constructed artwork.
We can use another of Peirce's triads to
explore this in a different light :
The First is that whose being
is simply in itself, not referring to anything nor lying behind anything.
The Second is that which is what it is by force of something to which it
is second. The Third is that which is what it is owing to things between
which it mediates and which it brings into relation (Peirce 1991b: 188-9)
Untouched by the camera, the peasant's toil
is firstness. Imaged, it becomes secondness. Assembled into a montage with
other shots between which it mediates, it becomes thirdness, a language
latent in the peasant's existence, but exclusive of the peasant. What Willemen
seems to want is for the peasant to be equally present in labour and in
montage, but for that to happen the peasant must recognise that she is
already a mediated entity, not a 'natural', pre-linguistic or more properly
pro-filmic one. Adorno voices two fears. Firstly, in montage, the stage
of secondness infects that of thirdness -- the tragic crucifixion of the
peasant to the land as eternal verity in the style of Millais' Angelus
or the cunning born of bitterness and tragedy in more contemporary accounts.
Secondly, whether or not the montage takes account of the trailing ideologemes
associated with the shot, the shot is assembled into a whole which, as
artwork, aspires towards a totality which both subsumes the peasant's reality
and mirrors, albeit negatively, the rationalist universalism of the society
it attempts to critique. I've been using a related argument in a forthcoming
chapter on problems of convergence in multimedia: neither hierarchical
nor organic metaphors hold good of the democratising principles of emergent
media, but montage only works if either its audience can be presumed to
share the value system that powers the construction of the montage (as
in MTV editing and televisual flow in general), or by irrational abnegation
of the call to meaning (surrealist montage, sites like Potatoland's
Landfill).
So what else is on offer? (and how is this
going to bring us to the topic of time?)
When I wrote Digital Aesthetics, I should
perhaps have said in the preface that the writing was in effect an act
of mourning for my mother, who died in my arms just before I began work
on the manuscript. With her went a way of life, at least as far as I was
concerned, a courteous, literate, considerate way of living. I wanted at
one and the same time to find a way of holding her legacy in some form
of permanence, and of drawing from it a negative analysis of the present.
As a result I missed a crucial factor: that both the dominant and the vanguardist
cultures of our times already present themselves as negative. It is as
if everyone from Madison Avenue to Garbage had read Adorno, and that Baudrillard's
jeremiads had been taken to heart in every Hollywood blockbuster. If in
the early sixties, as Adorno penned his masterpiece, Joyce's exile, silence
and cunning had become the core tools of the last avant-garde (Sartre,
Beckett, Celan), by the 1990s they were the tools of every Tarantino, Guns
and Roses, Tracey Emin. As a result, I am increasingly of the opinion that
the role of contemporary criticism is to go beyond negativity, but without
surrender to nostalgia; to go beyond Adorno, but to do so with cold, clear
eyes.
The negation of the negation is positive
only in the end result: it is still as meticulously stark a programme as
Adorno set himself forty years ago. The task commences in the interrogation
of time, and especially in the construction of the eternal present not
only in consumer capital and the spatialisation of cyberculture, but in
the triumphal nihilism of the best of North Atlantic thinkers from Baudrillard
to Vattimo. It is essential to understand in the present the actually existing
moment of the becoming of the future. Under the conditions of accelerated
modernity, the present is already past redemption. The battleground is
now the actual emergence of the future. Corporate long-term planning is
not the only force at stake in digital culture: we can learn from the cunning
exiles of modernity that stealth and initiative can succeed in the guerrilla
war at the frontier between the colonisation of the future and its construction.
Artists, activists, audiences are now in a better position than ever to
take up arms in the struggle for what does not yet exist. To do so we cannot
afford nostalgia. We have to seize the instruments available, and make
work that is better than The Matrix.
How better?
2.
Precepts for a digital artwork
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