Tagged with Writing

Basic Tech V – Mostly Harmless

The title of the fifth book in Douglas Adams’ series, “Mostly Harmless”, comes from a fictional description of the earth as a civilisation. It’s a great pairing of words – the innocuous framed with a hint of threat.

The Soul of a New Machine

Above: The Soul of a New Machine

Isn’t that what the world of programming is like though? It’s ninety-five percent unthreatening typing activities, with a final five percent of 1970’s punk behaviour. And I mean really punk – it could be anything from low-level annoyance to core-wars style worms that destroy all information. This makes programming mostly harmless, just like the pipe-wrench is mostly not deadly.

For me, the work on this project has been really slow going, and I’ve found it very long and arduous to work with the code in this fashion. One of the earlier references in this series of posts was the book Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson, where the major characters are confronted with a spreading virus that destroys the ability for people to speak, transfers a religious belief system into their mind, and makes them run off to join a weird cult. This gets referred to by one of the characters as neuro-lingustic hacking.

This project’s aim has been about using computer tools to examine my pattern of lingustic use. The resulting experimentation with code has convinced me that, in no small way, I should be concentrating on actually making bodies of text rather than dividing my time between attempting to code and and attempting to write. The idea of a reflective tool for text is still a fantastic idea that needs further experimentation, but I’m not sure that I can do it justice between my skill in programming and my desire to create well-crafted sentences.

To that extent, this module has been mostly harmless to me. I’m no longer interested in programming in the way that I was prior to starting it, but I’m not going to rule out the idea of finishing off this project (see the Evaulation PDF) later on in the year. But I can’t breathe true life into the project in the way that a good programmer can. The MV/8000, pictured at the top of this post, was made famous by Tracey Kidder in his Pulitzer Prize winning novel, Soul of a New Machine.

This book, so-titled because of the attention to detail that the dedicated team of engineers and programmers put into this early computer breathed life into a hard-pushed project, is a clear line of demarkation between between writing as an activity and programming. In-house documents from the producers of the MV/8000 (aka the Eagle) are nowhere near as exciting as Kidder’s prose, and would not have propelled either the Eagle, Kidder, or the cast of characters Kidder wrote about to anywhere near the level of fame and notoriety they still had twenty years later.

There will always be a need for textual framing of events, objects, and movements. In the next phase of my studies, I’ll be looking at the Star and Shadow’s volunteer workers, and framing that within a context of grass-roots arts activities, whilst working on the final project for the course. Both of these will projects will take the form of texts that can be read, so there’s good call for me to concentrate on something other than code. And, whilst one of my main aims when coming on the course was to develop my skills as a coder, finding out over the length of this module that I need to direct my energies into something else has been mostly harmless.

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Nerd Night: Reboot to Win, or how the Geek Genre took over the Blockbuster

This is a piece written for Kino Bambino, a local zine run by film fans in Newcastle. You’ll be able to pick up a copy from the Star and Shadow, amongst other places, from 14/05/2009 onwards.

Have you noticed a trend with summer blockbusters? I have. They like to take a well-known nerdy book, film, or TV show, and make a new, shiny version of it. Currently, we can see this happening to the Star Trek universe, which has been operating since the sixties as a sort of Rosetta Stone of sci-fi TV.

The earliest forms of Star Trek were glorious technicolor slices of cheese; later versions of the show have a sort of po-faced seriousness that scared off sane people from watching anything like it. In a sort of no-man’s land there were an increasingly cheap series of films that never got any better than Star Trek II: The Wrath of Kahn, despite going all the way up to Star Trek X. I’ve seen all of them, and I can hardly remember what happens in Star Trek X (‘Data dies’ is all I can remember from that 90 minutes of my life.)

And this summer, we get what they are calling a ‘reboot’ of the franchise. Why? Well, Star Trek is just too big a money-spinner for Hollywood to ignore. The last TV version of Star Trek was so dull that nobody watched it, so a big-screen re-imagining lets the suits play merry hell with the existing universe of Trek – which is no bad thing.

Star Trek’s universe was reliant upon the idea of evil aliens being bastards to us poor benighted citizens of the universe. This is dumb, and ignores practically 90% of plot-lines. Where are the evil humans trying to take things over? As a race, we practically live for taking things over, and we’ve thrown up some of the most evil bastards ever. When you combine the two (Jeffery Archer, I’m looking at you here) you get great plotlines, which make for great movies.

The new Star Trek is about making the original series sexy again, the same way that Planet of the Apes got made over, the same way that GI Joe is getting a tummy-tuck and boob job later this summer, and the same way that Star Wars got botoxed to within an inch of it’s life in 2004. But the sad part is, it doesn’t make any difference.

Star Trek doesn’t need any new fans; people dress up like Klingons at the weekend anyway, so it’s a fair bet that they’ll spend a fortune on anything with the prefix ‘Star Trek’. The reason that the franchise got rebooted is so that your mum knows what’s on at the cinema, and that’s because the economics of modern Hollywood means crushing as many people into the stalls as possible. And everybody has a slight fondness for Trek, somewhere, even if it’s just Spock and his neck pinching.

But it’s not your mum that’s going to watch the film four times and then go home and Facebook his mates about how great it was; it’s your average nerd who’ll be proletising this new Star Trek. Anything with an inbuilt fan-base that loves it already is going to get picked up by Hollywood over the next half-decade, and then flogged to within an inch of it’s life as the moguls seek to earn some money.

So stand by for a flood of films that have your less sociable friends grabbing their coats and heading out: later this year, Maurice Sendak’s ten-sentence children’s book “Where the Wild Things Are” will make a splash. We’ll also see more Harry Potter and Transformers, and a sequel to horny-but-celibate vampire movie Twilight. As long as you’re not looking for something original, there’s plenty of geeking out that can be done at the cinema.

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The Artists Rifles of the French Foreign Legion

Until earlier this week I had a dream of running away to Buenos Aires, but even the foreign office advises against that now. In that case, perhaps the traditional thing to do would be join the foreign legion. Perhaps they have an artist’s squadron I could join, where I can sit around drinking espressos and smoking gaulette’s with fine-honed military precision, drilled into me by fierce sculptor-sergeants.

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Helsinki #2 – Narrative

There’s been a hiatus since my last post, so you’ll have to bear with me while I express myself without all the nice footnotes and links that I wanted to put in.

I was quite unwell in Helsinki, so I didn’t actually manage to see a lot of the festival. I did, however, catch a number of performances by artists in the evening, and it struck me that there was a lack of narrative in many of the performances I caught. Or rather, there was narrative, but it was too focused on implied ideas.

Music in popular culture is a celebration of youth – we think of rock/pop music and we have the icons of the Beatles and the Stones to refer too. The performances I saw in Helsinki were very far away from that sort of music, often being in the ‘noise’ genre of music. But there was a strong performative element to what I saw most of the time, in that people got up in front of an audience and performed.

Sometimes the performances were given by people in costume. A pair of men wearing suits, or people dressed in a hip-hop style, and one memorable performance by a man wearing a gas mask and underpants. These clothes that they chose to wear are significant, as they proclaim either cultural baggage or an otherness in their performance. Those that made their performances from behind laptops also have a costume, but it’s still so new that we might have difficulty recognising it as such.

When the spectacle of performance is so far removed from most people’s experience, these costumes take on a larger meaning. The bulk of the performances I saw were not talking directly to the audience but instead showing them something that was confusing and took mental effort to understand. Previously, I have enjoyed seeking out the experience of culture shock, and pitting myself against the artists vision in an effort to understand what they were saying.

In Helsinki, perhaps due to my illness, I found myself wishing that there was some narrative thread I could follow. Think of it this way: paintings prior to Modernism tell a story through a visual medium. Films and screen-based entertainments also tell us a story. But the art world seems to not want narrative to exist outside of art history, where contemporary art is represented as a series of movements.

I felt that narrative was strongly lacking from the work I saw, especially when audio-visual works were presented. Montages of images create a narrative in the viewer, as the watcher tries to figure out the nature of the work. However, when the house lights came I up, I was often still mystified about what I had just seen/heard/experienced. What I was left with was a feeling that there was a performance, and it was created by the person at the front of the audience.

I wondered if the performers knew that they had become like rock and roll stars, even when they reject performing in favour of working with a laptop. It seems to me that some of the stronger pieces I saw in Helsinki were about the performer, rather than the piece, because the work we were presented with was often personal reflections upon the artists use of technology.

Narrative would have given the audience a way of understanding the work that was often lacking. Instead, with no way of penetrating the noise of the performance other than as an event, or as a spectacle, we become forced to give adulation to the performer for crafting something new and unknowable. And that hero-worship leads to a recreation of the rock and roll iconography. Is that all that can happen with New Media in the twenty-first century?

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On Mavernship, part 3: Personal Bitterness and Creative Employment

I was shopping with Brian in Morrisons when I noticed how bitter I had become. I turned to him and said “I hate cake”. It’s offical: I’m suffering from some form of bitterness that has subsumed my soul. This state is not unusual for me though; however, I think I’m going to have to say that this current wave of bile flooding my system is in no way helped by the problems I’m trying to consider in this article. But, like a scabby knee, I keep coming back to pick at it.

I know how you feel, kitten.

Back in Hans Abbing states that it is the the partner that supports the artist, the economic benefit that these people bring to their households is still significant.

And, as writer Jacques Monin points out in this article,
the British as a nation are too dependent on a notion of wealth and earning as indications of success and happiness. This is a common theme that can be found in the writings of many commentors at the moment, from Alain de Botton to that “barefoot doctor” guy. Balancing this out in popular culture is the glut of property porn on television, preaching the notion of happiness being linked to a nice detached “family home” in which a nuclear family can be raised. Like the idea of painting as a cutting edge art, this is obviously a fallacy – it’s just as easy to be an unhappy family in a detached house, no matter what its value is.

I’ve been titling these pieces with the word ‘mavernship’ because it’s really about the issue of cultural influence that I need to discuss. As the organiser, communicator, and adminstrator of NewcastleGraft, I’ve gained a small amount of internet fame. This is entirely for my ability to be communcicative about art in the Newcastle area, and up till now, I’ve been doing that in a generalised way, supporting any activities within the area that could be put under the general banner of ‘art’. This, of course, included a vast number of activities that helped artists support the raft, as that raft-like conglomeration of businesses supported them in turn.

The only reason I’ve been able to become recongnised for my communication skills is the fact that I have some small facility with computers and other new technologies. Only last year I spent some time explaining the idea of Facebook to a local gallery, something which could be a valuable skill as a “social media facilitator” (listen to that podcast when done here). Sadly, over the past five years I’ve seen very little engagment with these technologies from institutions involved in the raft. Some, yes, but nowhere near the amount that I thought we would see by this point.

So enraged am I by the lack of good practice in this area that I cannot even begin to list the horrible manglings of internet ettiquette that I’ve seen practiced by galleries and artists. From my current vantage point as a postgraduate student within Newcastle univesity, I am seeing an even more comprehensive thrashing of good practice. Don’t. Get. Me. Started. That bitterness I spoke of at the top of this post rages when it sees the things done by those folk.

And so, I have to ask the question – how should artists be using the communication platforms that are available now to remove themselves from traditional employment? How can the internet be used to support creative practice, beyond the traditional, slow-reacting forms of support espoused by the Arts Council and other leaders? That will have to be the subject for part four.

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On Mavernship (part two: The Men from the High Castles)

Part two of some, which seem to be slightly rambly. Oh well. Better out than in.

Before I get going here, let’s just take a minute out to think about the image creators of the world. I’m not talking about painters, or any other type of specific mileau, but rather just the general act of creating images in itself, from your imagination. That’s what most people consider to be art.

That act of creation – whether by putting pen to paper, or by Cory Doctow’s pixel-stained peasants – is so important to the artistic industries. It’s the baseline idea of what art should be for so many people, that the idea of being an artist is tied to the stereotype of the painter in his garret. Even some artists fall into this ontological trap: I want to be an artist, therefore I shall be a painter, because that means that I will be making images.

For me, painting is a dead form, as much in need of protection as coppicing or any other medieval technology superseded by better, modern technology. Whilst painting could hang on well into the twentieth century, it’s last great gasp came just before the widespread introduction of television into households. It didn’t matter what Clement Greenberg wrote then, because compared to “I Love Lucy” or “Mr. Ed” all paintings are remote and detached.

A painting can still be beautiful, of course, but there are many other ways to make a beautiful image. Contemporary art galleries have created the term giclee, to describe a technique of printing computer images on canvas. This term is completely made up, engineered to lull the purchaser of these images that it’s okay to buy what amounts to a fancy print-out, because it’s art in the capitalised Fine Art sense.

And it’s that idea of a Fine Art, made by Fine Artists like Painters, that really confuses things. Personally – and bear in mind that this entire series of short writings is all from my personal perspective – every time I meet somebody who describes themselves as a painter, I worry. Usually that person is carrying around the sort of mental baggage that allows them to think that they are important, that the act of image creation via paint is somehow more worthy, and that their work is somehow worth more than their contemporaries.

In the digital world, this is not so. This has been proven for around the last five years, cohesively, determinably, repeatedly. All information can be copied, and even if it doesn’t want to be free (as the early hackers claimed), it must be moved. Visual information is a rich source of inspiration for us all – something we can’t help, owing to our hunting processes built into us.

Anybody who places themself apart from this new paradigm of information flow, or (mistakenly) sets themself above it, will find that events will happily take place without them. For a while, they’ll be able to sit back and reap the rewards of their pre-internet behaviour, but even as they do their impenetrable castle’s are going to start being undermined.

Suddenly I feel like this writing has turned into political polemic about the new age of an internet of things. I’m not heading in that direction though; this was just a detour, setting some groundwork before we can talk about the aforementioned raft that supports artistic economy and endeavour.

This was slightly delayed and altered by my supercold – this past few days have seen me become a pink-and-green snot making machine. Eurgh. Next up, I really will get to the ideas I talked about in the first part.

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On Mavernship (part one: rafts and curves)

Part one of some, in which you can read me espousing in a generalised year-end type way.

The other day, a very clever man explained to me about careers and learning curves. He was saying that every two years we complete another learning curve, take a look around at the career we’ve been having, and say to ourselves “has that worked? Do I really want to keep doing that for another two years, or longer?”

I’ve had a similar conversation with a few different artists recently, except that there seems to be one essential difference between the art world and the world of regular work, which is that people who work in the “straight” world (please excuse the crass generalisation) don’t really see themselves as having a choice about what they do. Whereas people who work within creative fields such as art often find themselves drawn there and stuck there by internal pressures.

It’s this pressure to make that I find interesting. Although make isn’t really the entire description: it’s also dance, sing, perform, paint, sculpt, install… any selection of words that you want to use to talk about creative work. The fact that we don’t have one single word that can sum up the creative span says a lot about our attitudes as a culture to anything outside the narrow band of work-in-an-office-sense-of-the-word work. Because these creative fields are work.

And, while it’s well known that these creative fields are not the most well remunerated, it’s still something that people want to make a living doing. Hans Abbing, the dutch economist who studied the artistic population of Holland, noted that when art stopped being the primary concern of the creative types, they often got more interesting jobs in related areas. This would be the raft of gallery, museum, and university-level jobs that enable cultural creativity to continue in the local area.

As pure conjecture, I would say that it’s impossible to rely on that raft to keep the creative economy going in any one area. For instance, the remit of universities and galleries is actually very different to what artists need. These large institutions need a constant foot-fall of visitors that they can show to funding bodies in order to qualify their existence. Artists need a way of producing work and being supported while producing work. Sometimes these two needs overlap like a venn diagram, but there will always be an overabundance of creativity that cannot be supported.

Continuing with my conjecturable musing, 2009 promises to be the start of penny-pinching times for a lot of organisations. Contrary to most people who are (like me) spouting unasked for opinion in a textual form, I can see some great upsides to this, such as finally encouraging people to take a two-year look around themselves and ask if they truly are happy at the end of their learning curve. I also think it’s a great time for people to ask if they are getting what they want from floating along with the raft.

The next section will have some thoughts on what is around apart from clinging to the raft, and will also get round to the question of mavernship in cultural circles.


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Duffersville

duffersville

I’ve written a two-page long description of a street in my hometown. Here is the start:

In summer, the street becomes a long, dusty trial of your patience. Wide and loud with traffic at one end, narrow and stuffed with closed shops at the other, it’s middle section goes on for the longest period with nothing interesting to say about it. But this is the street that feels the most like the experience of the town.

If you want to read the rest of it, click here to download the text. The image above can be downloaded from Flickr, and was generated using a website that… I can’t remember. If you know what that site is, can you let me know? Thanks!

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