Mario Klingemann, born in Laatzen, Germany in 1970, is an artist who integrates algorithms and artificial intelligence into his creative process. His artistic exploration delves into visual expressions, linguistics, and our intricate interactions with technology. Klingemann’s creations, which primarily utilize generative adversarial networks (GANs), manifest as screen-based artworks or interactive installations. These installations captivate audiences with a never-ending array of visual experiences, where the AI models crafted by Klingemann generate portraits, abstracted figures, or textual content in real-time.
Recognized as a pioneering figure in the realm of AI-art, Klingemann’s contributions include a tenure as Artist in Residence at Google Arts and Culture from 2015 to 2018. His collaborations extend to notable institutions like the British Library and the New York Public Library. In 2018, he was honored with the prestigious Lumen Prize Gold Award. Klingemann’s work has been showcased at eminent art venues globally, including the Centre Pompidou in Paris, The Barbican Centre in London, and the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg.
In this article, based on the text written for the exhibition Latent Spacesthat I curated for La Bibi Gallery (Mallorca, Spain) featuring the work of Mario Klingemann and the Finnish duo Grönlund-Nisunen, I offer a brief overview of the main subjects in Klingemann’s work. On the occasion of this exhibition, Niio is presenting a selection of artworks by Mario Klingemann, courtesy of Onkaos.
Explore the wilderness of AI in Mario Klingemann’s artworks
Mario Klingemann. Sirius A, 2019. Courtesy of Onkaos.
Latent space is the position relation of information
Borrowing László Moholy-Nagy’s reflections about architecture in his book The New Vision (1927), Klingemann describes the term “latent space,” commonly used in machine learning processes, as “the position relation of information.” Latent spaces are not physical spaces, but rather a way to describe how an artificial intelligence system processes the information it takes from a data set and creates clusters of items that resemble each other, according to a set of variables. Klingemann explores latent spaces as realms of endless possibilities, looking for the unexpected, the rare and weird, that which pushes his creativity further. For him, AI is not a technology that replaces the artist, but one that provides creators with new ways to develop their talent. In his work, we find endless processes fueled by “untamed” artificial neural networks that generate uncanny images and responses. Faced with this creative otherness, one must find one’s position as a viewer whose aesthetic and narrative expectations are challenged.
Nowadays, the most popular AI applications excel at creating realistic depictions of things we have seen thousands of times, or unconventional combinations of familiar images (such as a dog dressed as an astronaut riding a horse on the Moon) with impressive accuracy. However, Klingemann finds this approach predictable and boring, and aims to drive the system into the unpredictable: “[the popularization of] one-click AI art tools… forces me to look for areas out there that I still consider “wilderness” and to learn more about what it is that we humans find truly interesting and captivating.” The Hyperdimensional Attractions series addresses the unexpected by applying a three-body problem to a latent space, resulting in a triptych showing images that change according to how the feature vectors they represent “orbit” around each other. What the viewer sees is a triptych of familiar images always mutating into weird shapes and amalgamations: it is precisely these unsettling figures that interest Klingemann in his exploration of the fringes of representation.
Mario Klingemann. Three Latent Body Problem, 2023. Courtesy of Onkaos.
Datasets and appropriation
Generative neural networks are trained using datasets, and therefore the content of these datasets is crucial. Artists such as Anna Ridler create their own datasets by making hundreds of drawings or taking thousands of photographs, while others incorporate their own writings into a machine learning model in order to create an alter ego of sorts, as do Mark Amerika and Sasha Stiles. Mario Klingemann carries out a particular form of appropriation by using datasets of thousands of images or, more particularly, taking Hyeronimus Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights (1490-1500)as the base material for The Garden of Ephemeral Details. In this artwork, an autonomous AI machine made of several generative adversarial networks (GANs) constantly reinterprets the famous triptych by adding new forms to its unsettlingly surreal iconography. Klingemann uses Bosch’s masterpiece as a field of algorithmic interpretation, forcing the machine to explore the “wilderness” of artistic creation by providing a peculiar data set in the form of the Dutch artist’s singular combination of religious imagery and unbridled fantasy. The resulting artwork thus becomes an experiment in machine hallucination and artificial imagination.
Mario Klingemann. The Garden of Ephemeral Details Reserve #2, 2020. Courtesy of Onkaos.
Motion and process
Moholy-Nagy was one of the pioneering artists exploring kinetic sculpture and the use of light and industrial materials in assemblages and installations. Kinetic art also influenced early algorithmic art, with pioneers such as Manfred Mohr seeking to portray motion in abstract generative artworks and finding in personal computers a tool to create visual compositions in perpetual transformation. Mario Klingemann follows this tradition by using generative adversarial networks to create images that are not static but constantly and seamlessly morph into new shapes, accentuating the fact that the process takes precedence over the finished product. The Hyperdimensional Attractions seriesand The Garden of Ephemeral Details clearly show this particular decision. The former explore the position relations of feature vectors in the latent space, the resulting images becoming a way to visualize these relations. The latter deconstructs Bosch’s triptych in order to portray the effort of the machine as it tries to stretch its imagination.
Mario Klingemann. Imposture Series – The Butcher’s Son, 2017. Courtesy of Onkaos.
Latency
Motion and process imply change taking place in a certain time and space (real or virtual). Change, in turn, implies that something is about to happen. There is expectation, as one waits for the next step in the process. Paradoxically, latency is found in Klingemann’s prints, static images that nevertheless potently evoke transformation. The Imposture series explores the representation of the human body through AI models, resulting in six compositions that the artist selected from 50,000 images generated by the program. Some of the images vaguely remind of paintings by Francis Bacon but have a decidedly non-human quality to them: they lack the natural notions of the shape of the human body and the empathy that a human artist would feel. In an even more disturbing turn, the Neural Decay series evoke early photographic portraiture, again in a form that distills otherness and the uncanny. These artworks seem in the process of dissolving, their shapes blending into each other, as if they were about to turn into an amorphous substance or simply vanish. As we observe and wait for this to happen, a space of latency opens before our eyes.
Our guest author, Thomas Lisle, is an artist with more than 30 years of experience in digital media who is exploring how painting transitions into a time based medium.
The art world seems to be in a moment of change; suddenly, digital is relevant to more people, and most of us have a computer and a smartphone. To many contemporary artists, digital technology is opening up new possibilities with new issues to circumnavigate. As an artist who has embraced electronic and digital art since 1981, I think it’s important to write a more in-depth analysis of the medium and its relationship to art and my art. My aim is to give those who do not have 40-odd years of experience a deeper insight into the technology, ideas, and practice of digital art from the perspective of my artistic output.
I started making glitch video art in 1981 as a process to make abstract painterly images, and I worked in this medium almost exclusively for 6 or 7 years. I’ve had lots of time to think about it. I eventually came to the conclusion that it’s really not enough; it’s like outsourcing the creative aspect, the making of the abstraction to some random process. Sometimes it makes great results, but there’s no control, that’s inherent in glitch art. I described glitch art then as a deconstruction. A glitch is a technical malfunction; it’s impersonal. Glitch seems to me a visual deconstruction that is a dead end in terms of artist development and impersonal. This makes glitch art ‘classical post-modernist,’ an art thinking and practice of the last century.
From 1982 to the mid 1990s Thomas Lisle experimented with Glitch TV images which formed the basis for a series of installations and videos.
A glitch is a one-off phenomenon that can look visually interesting; it’s not a way of making art that can be consciously built upon and developed; it’s an accident; it’s not consciously designed. Without control, it’s like throwing a bucket of paint over your shoulder –occasionally, something new and interesting might appear that you had never thought of. But the process of thinking about it and the journey of discovery, with tools you can control, is far more rewarding, stimulating, and produces results that can be built upon and explored. A metamodern approach, that comes from the artist, is needed. Generative and AI art, to me, are also classically post-modern, an art form initially developed in the 60s and 70s, impersonal in that it’s an algorithm rather than a human that makes the art.
Generative and AI art, to me, are impersonal in that it’s an algorithm rather than a human that makes the art.
As an artist, I’m interested in abstraction, visual languages, colour theory, hand-to-eye relationships, and composition, as well as psychology and human consciousness. Visual abstraction, both figurative and non-figurative, is the primary means of communication and expression. Figurative abstraction, above all, seems to me to be the most human mode of expression. Non-figurative abstraction, when the time-based medium allows abstract forms to take on a narrative, is not just a paint stroke/geometric shape; it is a paint stroke/geometric shape that’s saying something through its movement or time-based transformation. It represents so much more when consciously manipulated in time.
If you imagine Van Gogh, who famously painted a painting a day, making 1 minute of animation, which is 1,500 paintings (frames), it would take him about four years. I’m sure he would have gotten bored after a few days, as most people would. It’s this same time constraint of painting which drove my early glitch work. Then six years later, my artistic experimentation crossed paths with feature film effects software, which has developed and continues to develop sophisticated 3D systems to represent everything from humans to lava monsters.
If you were to ask me what digital medium offered artists the widest scope to produce any form, any liquid, any painting, anything in fact i.e ‘time based meta-plasticity,’ the art of the future. I would say without a moment of doubt it’s the software that has been developed to produce these box office hit movies. Software like Maya and Houdini. The main reasons that artists don’t use this software are that it’s difficult and time-consuming to learn and that it requires moderately expensive software and computers.
This workflow of making animation time efficient is called procedural. 3D software literally means that it makes everything in 3 dimensions; in films, you see it as a 2D output; in games, you see a 2D output that, if you are wearing goggles, it all comes out 2D but different to each eye making you think it has depth. In the digital world this means that everything you compute in 3D has a volume, it is basically sculptural in nature, rather than flat like a print, except, of course, paint in most cases has a thickness and layers. If the digital artwork you are looking at is flat, with no sense of depth, it is probably some kind of generative art; otherwise, it’s modelled or realised in 3D.
What appeals to me about painting/sculpture is and always has been the consciousness behind the artwork; it’s impossible for AI or an algorithm or a vast database of information to ever know what it is to be human. It’s the originality, poetry or beauty or chaos, craftsmanship, emotional, transcendent, humbling impact that humans bring to art that matters.
Thomas Lisle. Dynamic Relationships, 2023.
Human consciousness or AI
Art produced by AIs
Is it impossible for AI or an algorithm, or a vast database of information to ever know what it is to be human?
Joseph Weizenbaum first pointed this out in the 1960s when he invented the first chatbot, that AI can’t make judgements and have no values but that they can only calculate. His AI chatbot, Eliza, mimicked a psychotherapist and people believed it was a real person. It was clear to Weizenbaum that people thought the AI chatbot was a human or, in other words, had intelligence. The reason it’s relevant today is that psychological transference is taking place, and its ramifications of ‘transferring understanding and empathy’, basically human caring attributes to something that clearly does not care for the human individual, is basically very dangerous. Anyone who thought a computer cared about you would be totally deluded and could be easily manipulated.
Digital art made by AI systems is basically fooling us into thinking that what we are looking at is man-made and has human attributes. It’s the same transference that is going on with therapist chatbots like Eliza, it’s just harder to identify. The point is: do you want to hear, read or see something that talks about the human experience, the joy or otherwise of life, being in a relationship, the environment, or love, from a human or some AI program that scrapes the internet and draws conclusions based on things it can never understand? Even if somebody declares some software as sentient they will never be human.
Creating art with AI using prompts is a transference of responsibility, skills and judgement by the artist.
The AI we are talking about today in art is a tool that creates art or visual output based on prompts, this to me, is outsourcing the business of making the actual art to a third party. It’s a transference of responsibility, skills and judgement by the artist. For Weizenbaum, judgement involves choices that are guided by values. Computers can’t make human judgements; they can only make calculations, statistical inferences or glitches. Even more worrying is artists or anyone seeing themselves as interchangeable with a computer; that sounds sad!
Weizenbaum wrote in Computer Power and Human Reason that we should never “substitute a computer system for a human function that involves interpersonal respect, understanding and love.” It sounds to me like he’s talking about art.
Suppose I’m looking at the work of an artist who has been developing their art for their whole lifetime. This lifelong journey gives the artwork meaning and depth; it’s the result of this person’s desires, interests, experimentation, experiences, and influences; it’s their consciousness communicating to us about life, and the art they produce is in some ways a record of that and the manifestation of that consciousness.
Computers, if they become conscious, are going to think in terms of computers. Their reference will be how fast are my processors, how much storage have I got, where is my food source, and where can I find a mate? And so on. If they are conscious, you can’t force them to like humans, just as you can’t force a human to like computers. Consciousness means free will. It seems we are stuck in a world order where the most intelligent AI computer will dominate us all.
The real battle is not art. AI can’t replace artists, but more importantly it could have a profound effect on many other areas of our society and the planet. The dream that AI will give us endless energy, super batteries, cure cancer, and sort out all the world’s problems is as true as that AI may destroy us all!
Artist’s expression has been traditionally through the relationship of hand to eye in painting for most of its history – and that’s because there is a direct connection with our consciousness; draw anything while looking, and it will be personal/original to you. If people don’t know how things are made, they don’t understand the art. I think it’s essential to understand what’s going on.
Thomas Lisle. Peaceful Co-Existence, 2023.
Art made consciously by humans vs AI art
The expectation of creating digital art without the need to learn the craftsmanship of sophisticated digital tools or to acquire visual skills is the biggest fallacy. You think that you have some control over what you have made with AI systems, but the truth is that you have none. If someone had made a similar artwork in software like Blender or Maya – I would be impressed, it would no doubt have taken much effort, and the end result would be made all the better through the time spent trying to make the visual effect and the time thinking about it. The big difference is that had it been made in Blender, the artist would be in full control of the artwork, every aspect of the image’s construction would be editable, manipulatable, and could be experimented with; it would be in 3D and not a 2D simulation, it could be built from the ground up by the artist who had some relationship with the tools he was using.
You think that you have some control over what you have made with AI systems, but the truth is that you have none.
But as an AI output, the artist hasn’t done anything other than ask a computer that knows nothing about humans to make an image or animation. The artist hasn’t painted anything, hasn’t sculpted anything, just typed in some prompts; the output may be interesting, but it has nothing of the artist’s hand or commitment, and I’d say consciousness in it. Who is to say whose images are being used to make this, and will it still be even legal in a few year’s time? It’s not legally copyrightable in the US as deemed not made by a human. It’s another case of asking an AI psychologist to help you with your problems. You are not learning anything about how to make digital art; you are just learning what instructions to use to make an image in a style which is not your own, which you could never make without years of learning, and if you did have those years of learning, it would be far better and far more valuable.
This is not art for the masses; it’s a mass delusion it seems to me. Only human consciousness and human intellect is relevant. A computer can’t be my therapist, nor can it draw my pictures for me; taking away these functions of humans enslaves us, imprisons us and strips us of our humanity. Across the board, individuality, the value and uniqueness of human consciousness, and free will are under attack from technology that gives the impression of offering freedoms, whilst at the same time eroding our privacy and selling our every online choice and decision to the highest bidder.
Thomas Lisle. Subconscious Motions, 2022.
Art made consciously by humans vs Generative art
My main concern with generative art is that it produces many multiple random compositions. They seem meaningless to me, maybe the original one has meaning but the subsequent random variations are not controlled by a human consciousness.
I think generative art, which produces thousands of random variations on a theme, is outsourcing the creative process, as glitch art does. Generative art uses codeto independently determine an artwork that would otherwise require decisions made directly by the artist. It’s impersonal.
I do see the point of people making code to do something unique that’s human and creative; however, the results are often visually uninteresting, and the people making them often have no or very little art background (which is true across the board with digital art), no knowledge of the history of art, and no interest in painting.
Artists making generative art often have no art background, no knowledge of the history of art, and no interest in painting.
I will always remember the day in mid-1980 I showed one of my tutors from university, a dedicated hard-edge painter, how I made a square and a few circles on a computer. His first reaction was: “This makes a mockery of hard-edge painting.” And he was right. Really good hard-edge painting involves great composition, colour theory, and the patience and commitment to actually realise the work by hand in paint. It is no mean feat to make a canvas 5 x 5 metres in dimension- this was a big commitment – the hard work of making and realising the work over many weeks, compared to spending a short amount of time moving geometric shapes on a screen.
Thomas Lisle. Abstract 01, 2022.
Digital Art in Relationship to Contemporary Painting
How does the art of contemporary painters transition from the material to the virtual and time-based? I can only use my experience to answer this, and that is by finding ways to simulate paint and to incorporate painting using my hand as the basis of any paint stroke. I soon discovered that what flows out of a virtual digital paintbrush doesn’t have to be a liquid; in fact, to make a liquid simulation, I first need a model that defines where the liquid simulation comes out. That model is made by painting a model shape of a paint blob, which is animated by the movement of the hand and pen. Point, line and plane are actually the building blocks of all 3D models and systems, except they call the plane a polygon (still has to be flat) and the line a curve, as it doesn’t have to be straight and a point, a point or a vertex.
The Bauhaus got it right! It’s possible to link all sorts of data, like brush pressure, to different factors in the digital paint, such as width, enabling paint strokes which no longer look like traditional paint strokes. Mark-making also has a wide scope of possibilities. I like to use sort of squished-up hacked cloud simulations to simulate blobs of smeared paint. The analogies often get lost in the creation of new paint idioms. Everything is model based, Clouds, technically termed a ‘volume’, need a boundary that is defined by a model, which can be painted or sculpted.
The new possibilities of this technology are multiple and profound. Painting becomes painted sculpture and time-based painted sculpture.
The new possibilities of this technology are multiple and profound. Painting becomes painted sculpture and time-based painted sculpture. These are really fundamental shifts in the painting universe; where we have had hand-painted 2D animations in the past, we now have procedural 3D painting. Painting has never been 3 dimensional, nor has it ever offered so many possibilities. I see my digital 3D painting as fundamentally metamodern, firstly as a rejection of the impersonal, which has morphed today into the “no person”. As a rejection of deconstructionist ideas, it is more a reconstruction and reappraisal of all the most interesting aspects of abstraction and figurative abstraction. The integration of psychology into my work seems to me fundamentally a metamodernist approach to art. In terms of subject matter, psychology is, after all, the study of consciousness, of becoming, of how we live in the world and relate to it and how we do this personally and collectively.
Most artists using digital 3D are not using any painting; they are all modelling or using particle systems. The modellers make their own models or use models from the internet such as volcanoes, flowers, etc. They animate teh models by, say, rotating them or the camera that views them, to make a time-based artwork. Some artists abstract their models by manipulating and animating the points that form the polygons. The particle systems you see so many of are movements of points or large points that look like spheres driven by the maths of gas advection or by using random noise fields, basically using motion vectors to move particles through 3D space rather impersonal in my view. These artworks are not paintings, and there is no hand that has drawn/painted anything in them. They may have some visual relationship to painting, but that’s where the analogy ends.
The paintings of contemporary painters are not random and not sculpted and are rooted in the tradition of abstract art that spans over a hundred years. When I look back on 60 years of contemporary abstract painting in an objective way from Julian Schnabel, Albert Oehlen, Georg Baslitz, and Helen Frankenthaler, it’s really a bit of a random list of figurative and non-figurative painters. There is an important and passionate direction in their art to transcend the apparent, the photorealistic and the directly representative, which sounds like a definition of abstraction. There is an intellectual and personal journey of expression which broadly conforms with ideas or “thinking” of the time, a poetry of consciousness that can only be realised in a medium as flexible as paint and the hand and eye-to-consciousness relationship.
When I look at any artwork, I think primarily about its visual qualities and visual language. I initially set aside all conceptual ideas and technical craftsmanship and look at the piece solely on its visual qualities. I feel that an artwork should stand up on the basics first; it is, after all, a visual art.
Music that doesn’t have a good musical composition would not get listened to. In fact, music with random notes is difficult to listen to. Suppose the rhythm was wonky, having no merit whatsoever, made by someone like me, who is tone deaf and knows nothing about music except how to enjoy listening to it. Randomness, lack of structure, and disregard for traditional ways of doing do not necessarily equate with groundbreaking innovation.
If you don’t understand the principles of form, visual rhythms, and colour, then it shows in the artwork.
I like a very wide range of music from baroque to trip-hop. Even in the most cut-up, remixed, mangled trip-hop music, the rhythm, beat, and groove hold it together; it often reminds me of an Albert Ohlen painting. My point is that most music has structure and composition, holds together as a whole, follows the basic rules, and builds depth in dynamic new ways built on strong basics of musical concepts. The same is true of visual arts: if you don’t know the basics or can’t make basic compositions, if you don’t understand the principles of form, visual rhythms, and colour, and you don’t know anything about art history and how contemporary art evolved, then it shows in the artwork.
To me, the composition is the groove in art from Piero Della Francesca to Terry Frost to Titian to Gillian Ayres.
There doesn’t seem to be a natural progression for this type of art in the digital world as yet, and I think that’s partly due to the complexity of the software. But it’s super easy to do other stuff that looks interesting. There are all sorts of ways to do something similar to Maya in Blender, which is free.
Thomas Lisle. Abstract 02, 2022
Metamodernism
There is no clear definition of metamodernism yet. This term refers to a heightened sense of cultural, philosophical, psychological, and political awareness that draws on the past and the present, bringing more information to give better solutions and understanding of consciousness and reality. A catchall for people rethinking the world.
If postmodern values are built on modernist values, then metamodern values are built on postmodern values in a general sense. Metamodernism has also been called “deconstruction deconstructed.” Metamodernism tries to sort out the issues which postmodernism doesn’t deal with, such as empathy, sustainability, equality, alienation and universality.
Why are the arts important, and why do we make theories about art? Because art is the most important way to understand the world, people, and ourselves. Meaning in life is under attack. Metamodernism is perhaps a tool for finding meaning.
One way I like to think of metamodernism is, as philosophy and thinking in therapy, “So post-modernist thinker, when did you realise it wasn’t working, that things needed to change? Well, I heard these sounds coming from behind the shopping mall walls. And how do you feel about that now? I’m missing something?”
If I have a criticism of metamodernism, it is that it’s almost totally Western thinking-centric; there are no references to non-Western thinkers, who I feel have already covered some of the topics of the metamodernists and post-modernists. Comparative philosophy needs more inclusion, the writings of Toshihiko Izutsu are wonderful and enlightening, and although writers like Julian Baggini, have only just started to write about comparative philosophy, his book How the world thinks is a great introduction. Integral Theory, a building block of Metamodernism does start to take this into account. The Leading Edge Of The Unknown In The Human Being, a talk by Ken Wilber, is a powerful global framework for comparing world ideology.
There seem to be universal physiological structures, universal philosophical themes such as existence, how do I live my life, consciousness, and even universal language models are starting to appear with AI research from the ESP foundation; we are all more connected than we ever thought before seems to be an important building block of metamodernism.
Digital technology and figurative abstraction
This is one of the most complex and rich visual abstraction possibilities of digital 3D. Firstly, it’s possible to take a model of a person, abstract or non-abstract, and apply the motion of another human captured digitally to your model. This in itself is quite interesting, and it’s equally possible and perhaps more creative to animate the figure yourself. This makes a base layer or canvas model upon which to paint in 3D. The paint moves with the motion capture data. You can turn off the visibility of the canvas model below and then just see your painting.
This is a totally new way of looking at abstract figuration, which opens all kinds of new possibilities that were unthinkable ten years ago.
Abstraction
I grew up and became interested in abstract art when I was about 6 or 7. I was never really interested in drawing in itself – it seemed to me that that era had passed. I love and admire great drawings and draughtsmanship, but like music, which is all abstract, I think art needs to reflect internal processes, ideas and concepts, reality abstracted.
Reality is not flat. I think the first computer-like 3D abstract face was made by Duhrer back in the 15th Century. You can see Picasso taking a real interest in 3D abstraction, especially in the 1930s and 1940s, even 3D tubular lines. As an artist, I don’t want to and can’t emulate Picasso. To me, it seems that he strived for a deep and meaningful level of abstraction, his abstraction is three-dimensional in a great deal of his paintings. In other words, it looks 3D but it is 2D in paint. I love German expressionism but it has a very different approach to figurative abstraction and doesn’t think in 3D terms very much; you could say it’s gone out of fashion, and it’s probably harder to do especially if you want to paint a bad picture. However, trying to make abstract figurative art in 3D makes you realise Picasso was pre-empting the digital possibilities of today. As soon as you start abstracting digital 3D figures, you’re reminded of his work.
Look at Glitch art: in the 1990s, it was difficult to get the technology and difficult to make. Today, every art student has access to the Adobe Creative suite, where they can use hundreds of templates with After Effects to make Glitch effects. Now it’s mainstream.
Why is the history of contemporary art important?
Technology aside, it is the journey of the artwork and artist in developing abstract art that is also essential. If you don’t learn how to make something, and you just have to type “make me an elephant flying in the clouds with thousands of balloons, in an abstract style”, I have a lot of issues with it as art to be taken seriously.
While it’s great that so many people are finding pleasure and fascination in making digital art, and it’s super easy to do all sorts of fun things, I think it’s really important to understand some key things about making art digitally.
If you don’t learn how to make something, but just type a prompt, I have a lot of issues with it as art to be taken seriously.
Technology and art
It is essential to understand what digital artists are doing; if you think someone has painted something when they have just given a prompt to a computer to “make a black square”, it would be many miles from the truth.
It’s difficult to evaluate something if you don’t know anything about it; however, from a visual perspective, the same principles apply to a digital work as they do to contemporary painting and sculpture, except when the artwork is time-based, then there is much less history behind it.
The number one key factor I apply to all digital and video effects –well, it’s also important to understand the difference between the two– is, “Is this visual effect? I’m looking at something unique, something handcrafted and to what extent is it handcrafted? I think nowadays; nearly everybody is using blocks of code that have been developed by someone else to some extent and then reusing this code in some way, or the code they are using is in some way just a tool to let you do something.
For example, I use a visual programming language called Bifrost inside the 3D software Maya. A team of people have built the tools that let you manipulate procedurally the fundamentals of form, movement and colour. The artist controls how it works by programming through nodes, which act as modular lumps of code that do very specific functions and tools, basically.
If you don’t know anything about what is available off the shelf for video, 2D or 3D graphics, then it’s difficult to evaluate any artwork, in the past you couldn’t photocopy a Richter painting and say it was yours. But one way is to see if the artist talks about their process, as in most cases, if they don’t, they haven’t struggled to develop anything unique but are just starting on the path of learning digital technology. It is by no means an accurate way to evaluate the technical craftsmanship of an artist! But it shows some intent.
When you think about, say, Albert Ohlen talking about his painting, where he describes the process as being all on the canvas, there’s nothing hidden. I would say the same is true for much of digital art, but that’s because I know the capabilities and technology extremely well, having been working as an artist, a freelancer and a consultant in this field for 40 years. It’s not surprising curators or art galleries, even digital art specialist galleries, don’t know much about it. It’s just not as simple as pencils and paint, which everyone has some experience in and can see where the skill lies.
It’s not surprising curators or art galleries don’t know much about how digital art works. It’s just not as simple as pencils and paint.
There are hundreds of years of art criticism and evaluation to draw upon for the evaluation of drawings and paintings. In today’s world, that all tends to get thrown out the window, and when so few people actually are able to paint or draw in time-based digital media, then that exacerbates the problem. Directly drawing and painting in 3D is really not that common; it’s not something that is used much in feature films, websites, and corporate videos, and as such, it has been sidelined by software developers. There is a free Google VR headset software that lets you paint in 3D, and you could also do it in Blender, I believe. I think Maya is the only professional software package that has a paint system that is incorporated at the base level into all the other features and tools that Maya offers. This means 3D paint output can be easily incorporated into all the other systems in Maya.
Time-based abstraction
Digital art offers artists the ability to make abstractions in ways that are simply beyond the possibilities of traditional painting, yet keep the plasticity of paint, by plasticity, I mean the ability to depict and represent anything. Digital art can only compete or match this plasticity in 3D. Yes, you can probably paint something 2D in software like “Painter,” it will not automate anything for you; it won’t animate it or make it procedural, and it will take thousands of paintings to make 10 seconds of animation. The real revolution is in 3D, where your creation is in 3 dimensions as opposed to 2D; however, this doesn’t stop it from being painted or using 2D images, which are manipulated in 3D. If you build a realistic head in an application like Zbrush, it can look amazingly realistic, yet it can also be viewed from any angle.
Digital art offers artists the ability to make abstractions in ways that are simply beyond the possibilities of traditional painting
The big problem for painting and abstract art is how to make it time-based. This is clearly the next development for painting and sculpture. Making a painting time-based by animating it by painting each frame 25 times per second makes it laborious beyond belief and would test the endurance of most artists, i.e., spending a year making 5 seconds of animation is just impractical. And here is where we have to thank Hollywood and the need to make impossible things look realistic and be time-based, from explosions and aliens to lava, hair cloth and humans, and the billions of dollars spent developing these technologies, as the art world would never have done so. In fact there are so many different things in the real world and multiple imaginary universes that the software that engineers built to achieve these goals became totally modular and interconnected so that it could meet the needs of an industry that might want characters made of sand or glue or leaves, etc. They expose and allow the accurate manipulation of 3D models at the pixel and voxel level, the atomic level of an image, you might say, or the smallest drop of paint or finest particle of marble, to put it in traditional terms.
But that is just the start because instead of just being able to control each drop of paint, they have built systems to control great swathes of drops of paint or the equivalent and laid bare all the parameters and code – made it so that artists, in the wide sense of the word, can animate and abstract forms, be they paint strokes, characters of sculpted objects easily and quickly.
When you make software that can make anything visually, you have tools that contemporary artists can make use of to make contemporary art.
We are probably at the stage where we have the tools to make most contemporary paintings, the only thing holding artists back is computing power. However, a great deal can be done on a computer of a few thousand pounds, as the developers have built workflows to get around slow computer limitations.
Abstraction without any structure and composition doesn’t seem to work for me, and I often think of Jung’s theory that some paintings are just empty, and it is viewers who fill them with meaning. I think Jung is implying that the painting is basically empty and impersonal. I know that when I make abstract paintings that rely on just form and colour, it can be difficult to pin down what it’s about and I can sometimes give a painting ten different titles all of which might fit. I was reading Albert Oehlen’s talk about Richter’s new paintings, and he was saying that the squeegee paintings that Richter makes are like Richter has given up trying to make compositions or meaningful art. I would wholeheartedly agree. They may be rich and colourful, but there’s no meaning, no structure, no narrative.
My time-based abstract painting aims to be quite different; each element moves, transforms, deforms, evolves, devolves, coalesces, or oozes with a purpose and tells a story, has a narrative. It is a process. Sometimes I see my work as mental processes in the abstract, not mine in particular but the universal. Think of the decision-making process of something difficult you need to decide on, there will be a host of influences pulling you in multiple directions. If there were none, then the decision-making process was not difficult. This is going on throughout our daily life on big and small issues, over long and short periods of time, then think of all these factors as abstract forms, it probably doesn’t look anything like my paintings! But it hopefully gives an idea of the thinking behind the work. You could see it as painting the subconscious, which is way more complex than simple decision-making. My point is that time-based painting is totally different to non time based painting.
In my own work it becomes very apparent to me that time-based paintings are much more expressive than static ones. I put this down to the fact that Psychology and consciousness are not inanimate, not 2D, but dynamic and as soon as an artist makes a mark that has a life of its own, the viewer looks and thinks about it in a different way.
Thomas Lisle. Half a violin, 2022. Oil on canvas, 122 cm x 92 cm
Painting
A painting can only be made by using your hands with or without a brush or something to make marks on a surface or in 3D. The definition of a painting needs hands, humans and perhaps a tool. It’s a human expression from mind and eye to hand. Typing/generating code to create a square is not painting! Applying a filter to some video footage is not painting, algorithmically generating shapes is not painting, scanning an object in 3D is not painting, and making images without the hand-to-eye relationship is something else.
Painting needs hands, humans and perhaps a tool. It’s a human expression from mind and eye to hand. Typing/generating code to create a square is not painting!
If there isn’t any actual painting involved, then it’s not a painting. It’s something with some reference to painting in some way or the other. Hard-edge painters like Frank Stella still made them by painting them.
Animated models and character animations code constructed cubes, particle animations driven by mathematical fields, calling any of this type of art a painting is as silly as taking the text of this essay and calling it a painting in black and white. I have seen some really good work by digital artists that has some kind of visual language and relationship to painting, but they are not paintings.
My key points are that art theory on point line plane, composition, and colour from the Bauhaus onwards is still relevant. Painting is still relevant, even if you take the act of painting out of a visual artwork as most digital art does – you can’t take the understanding of composition, form and colour out. You can’t take the artist out of the equation. You can’t take art history away and pretend it doesn’t exist, unless, of course, you don’t know anything about it in the first place.
Poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity.
Audre Lorde
Time-based art
Under cover of the digital art umbrella, what is going unnoticed is that the vast majority of contemporary digital art is time-based, and this is a fundamental shift in thinking and working practice for artists, especially for artists who were painters, as time-based painting doesn’t really exist much.
Time implies that there is a narrative, a progression, a process, a story, or all combined. Painting up until this time had evoked movement, been called capturing movement, even called dynamic, but it was all static. There is a fairly long history of artist filmmakers and artists who made animations, some with paint. I can only think of a very few artists working in animation who actually painted every frame. Digital painting does away with the tiresome need to paint every frame through procedural procedures, these procedural techniques can apply to computer-generated cubes, artist-sculpted flowers, or library models of humans.
Time implies that there is a narrative, a progression, a process. Painting up until this time had evoked movement, but it was all static.
There seems to be an array of different narratives for artists to draw upon:Abstract narrative, process narrative and figurative narrative. All offer a new and profound change in how art is perceived.
3D painting
The funny thing about 3D painting is that as soon as you make it, it’s a sculpture! And as soon as you animate it, it is telling a story, it’s got a history.
There are four fundamental types of 3D painting:
One is the single tube, which can vary in diameter.
Two are multiple tubes together, which can start to look like a loaded realistic brush stroke. These are especially interesting, as it’s possible to procedurally manipulate how all the strands behave, if they stick together or not, for example.
Three is where either of these previous two types of brush stroke is used as an emitter of a liquid of a fluid or goo.
Fourth is where the first two types of brush strokes are converted into clouds, or cloth simulations, or particles, or any number of other types of procedural effects and the base form is made through painting.
Let’s not forget sculpting. I don’t use Zbrush, but it is by far the most sophisticated 3D modelling tool out there I’m not sure it lets you animate your model. Maya and Blender have sculpting ability which are animatable.
All the painting types I just listed are basically 3D forms and, as such, are sculptures. I think it’s safe to say that time-based sculptures can, on the whole, be called sculptures as you can send them to a foundry and have them cast, a 3D painting is a sculpture as well.
3D paint, which is a fluid emitter, can have all sorts of procedural forces applied to it, it’s also possible to adjust gravity up or down or to animate it over time, every aspect of the fluid can be abstracted and animated over time.
I tend to work in two very different ways: I either think I’m going to make a still image that I turn into a painting, or I make an animation that I see as being time-based. Recently, I have been making physical paintings that I might make into animated digital paintings. I see a very clear difference between a still image and a moving image and a very different way of working and organising what I do.
Thomas Lisle. “Something Stirs,” 2023
My art history
I was maybe the first person to invent glitch video. I thought it was a great way to abstract images in time to make images that look like paintings. I made videos and large-scale installations using glitch video, instead of going into art education for an income, as there was no real income stream for digital contemporary art at the time.
I got freelance jobs and also worked closely with Apple Computers UK. I worked as a digital video graphics consultant as a way to learn in-depth about digital technology and use all their kit, which I couldn’t afford. By the mid-1990s, I knew all the major digital graphics 3D and video software and how to use them, and I taught TV production companies how to use them. I have seen these software systems develop and grow over the years, and new ones emerge. I worked in the broadcast video, architectural, graphic and interactive design sectors for a while.
Why is digital 3D the most important technology
In 1990, I quickly realised that the technology which offered the most exciting possibilities and opportunities was 3D. It’s a kind of synthesis of 2D and 3D and time-based visual sensibilities. 3D offers perhaps the current pinnacle of what is possible on computers and is the basis of film effects AR and VR – it’s all just 3D viewed and computed in different ways. What has super boosted this technology is the film and games industry. Suddenly, people realised that games and VFX in film meant big buck profits, and this feedback led to the development of cool software.
Having taught lots of people how to use 3D in the past, I realise that it’s hard to learn. There is a huge amount to learn and get your head around. There are off-the-shelf effects in 3D animations, too, but the creative part of the craftsmanship comes in understanding the techniques you are using and using them in the way you want. The great majority of people working in film FX professionally can look at any 3D effect and can easily break it down.
My art
I see a strong relationship with art and psychology on a broad spectrum, and I enjoy discovering the rich and diverse world of the human psyche.
The more I learn about Metamodernism the more I discover its deep relationship with psychology.
Understanding ourselves, our motives, our conditioning, seem to me to be the keys to unlocking a better society, better art, better environment, better thinking.
Ali Phi (1987) is an Iranian born new media artist and creative technologist currently based in Toronto. In 2013 he founded Nullsight, a collective of artists and programmers based in Toronto that curates and supports events linked to digital arts and music. The artist’s practice addresses architecture and spatial elements, both metaphorically and physically, creating interactive media that explores the relationships between geometry, patterns, light, and poetry.
In his live performances, he blends generative and time-based materials with sound and computational elements, providing unique collective experiences through data visualization. His visual art installations and performances have been showcased at renowned international venues and events, including Ars Electronica in Austria, Mutek in Montreal, and Art Brussels in Belgium.
Phi has recently presented a selection of artworks from the project Agnosia in a dedicated artcast on Niio. In the following interview, he elaborated on the concepts and processes behind these artworks and in his experience as an artist living in-between different worlds.
Experience Ali Phi’s immersive landscapes on your best screen
Can you tell me about the inception of Nullsight? How do you combine curation, performance, and software development in your work?
I founded Nullsightwith the goal of promoting like-minded artists and cultivating the market for new media and digital arts. This eventually led to joining a new media arts festival in Iran and directing it in the following years. Following the festival’s success, we continued to curate exhibitions both online and in real in Iran and Germany, as well as supporting other events in the field.
Upon relocating to Canada, Nullsight evolved into an art collective focused on creating and providing resources and toolkits for artists. Many of these products stemmed from the code I developed for my own artistic practice or in collaboration with fellow artists. Our aim was to transform these products into user-friendly tools accessible to a wide range of artists. We are guided by an ethos of open-source sharing, as much of our work is inspired by tutorials and shared code from fellow artists. This led us to establish an online platform for sharing these products.
Our upcoming projects are geared towards integrating the latest technology and are shaped by feedback from fellow artists and users. We are committed to keeping all resources updated and accessible to the public, ensuring even those with limited coding knowledge can employ them in their creative processes.
“I believe in giving back to the community and supporting the next generation of artists.”
The underlying motivation for sharing these resources is rooted in my own experience of self-guided learning. I believe in giving back to the community and supporting the next generation of artists. Making these assets available serves as an educational resource and empowers other passionate creators. Additionally, participating in performances deepens my understanding of concepts and allows me to stay connected with the vibrant community of new media artists, inspiring fresh ideas for future works.
Ali Phi. AGNOSIA 4, 2022
You have been an active member of the digital art community in Tehran. Can you describe how this community is working today, and what opportunities are there for Iranian new media artists?
It has been years since I’ve been away from Iran and the media art scene there, but I have seen that some of my students and fellow artists are continuing their practice in this field. They participate in small exhibitions in Iran, international exhibitions, and hold workshops to spread knowledge. Unfortunately, due to financial issues, sanctions, and governmental problems, the TADAEX festival stopped at its eighth edition back in 2018, and we couldn’t continue organizing it in Iran. However, I’ve noticed that many artists and volunteers from TADAEX have started studying in universities in North America and Europe, and they are still continuing their arts journey with notable achievements.
In terms of the future of new media arts in Iran, I believe the community and the new generation are incredibly curious and creative in this field. With the easy access to information and tutorials nowadays, it’s much easier for them to learn and continue coding. However, one challenge is the accessibility of hardware and devices, again due to sanctions. This has been an issue for the past decade, as finding investors or convincing business owners, galleries, institutes and industries to invest in such festivals and programs has been challenging. Unfortunately, I’ve seen that most of these events have been canceled or put on hold. However, I’m aware that certain organizations are still trying to keep their hackathons, labs, and gatherings going, pushing boundaries by participating in international festivals and online showcases.
“The community and the new generation of Iranian new media artists are incredibly curious and creative in this field.”
As for recommending Iranian artists, it ultimately depends on their passion and how they feel. This was the same for me and my fellow artists. Today, I know it has always been the passion for creating and presenting, which was the main reason for starting the festival in 2011. We didn’t have a platform like that back then, and one of the primary goals of the festival was to create a platform where we could showcase our art, receive feedback, teach others, and educate the community.
Ali Phi. AGNOSIA 2, 2022
You have stated that your work starts with music and then visual elements come into play, inspired by the music. How would you say that this approach has shaped your work?
Starting with sound and music is an essential part of my creative process. Sound, being such an intangible medium, offers a highly imaginative experience. It allows me to draw inspiration from everyday sounds, turning them into motifs that blend various cultural influences, moods, and vibes. This dynamic component, when integrated with visual elements, creates a holistic experience. The visual aspects act as an illusion that complements the overall presentation of the artistic work, particularly when synchronized with the sound. The architecture of the venue is crucial, especially for installations. It sets the stage for the entire experience. Whether it’s a traditional stage or a non-traditional presentation space, the approach remains consistent—surprising the audience with carefully crafted lighting, high contrast visuals, and a blend of different elements.
In my performances, I aim to engage the audience in a self-reflective experience. There’s no predefined narrative; rather, it’s an invitation for the audience to immerse themselves in the currents of the experience, interpreting it based on their unique perspectives and their natural flow.
“In my performances, there’s no predefined narrative. It is an invitation for the audience to immerse themselves in the currents of the experience.”
During the production phase, I begin with conceptualizing ideas and envisioning the sonic and visual environments. Music becomes the canvas on which I shape the overall sonic culture of the work. Then, I introduce visuals, focusing on synchronicity and refining details in the audiovisual material. This iterative process helps create a cohesive and immersive experience. Depending on the performance, I might experiment with the sequence of scenes, responding to the energy and vibe of the audience, ensuring each interaction is distinctive. Given the generative and real-time nature of the work, I design each scene with controllers mapped to specific parameters, essentially performing them like an instrument that orchestrates both mediums seamlessly.
Can you elaborate on the influence of Iranian culture in your work? How important is it to you that the references to Persian traditional arts are identified with your work?
The majority of my work’s concepts draw inspiration from a special era in Persian culture, dating back to the Achaemenid dynasty. It was an era focused on bringing a sense of heaven to earth, rather than solely anticipating a better future after death. This ethos gave rise to the rich arts and crafts of Persian culture, as well as the creation of Persian gardens, which are marked by their distinctive architectural and garden design. Even neighboring countries recognized this cultural heritage. Many of the poets I followed from that era were also scientists, well-versed in fields like astrology and medical sciences, weaving their knowledge seamlessly into their poetry. The educated individuals of that time saw no boundaries between disciplines; rather, they saw a harmonious integration of heart’s desires, intellect, and art.
I find deep inspiration in these timeless connections between different mediums and how they coalesce in a civilized society. Western culture has often compartmentalized these aspects, but in Middle Eastern culture, they were integral parts of a whole. For instance, the Arabic word for art, “fan,” is synonymous with technique. This convergence of mediums was evident in ancient civilizations, and it greatly inspires my work. Having visited these sites since childhood, I’ve developed a profound connection to their sacred geometry and the masterful artistry of those who designed and meticulously crafted them.
“The educated individuals of the Achaemenid dynasty in Persia saw no boundaries between disciplines; rather, they saw a harmonious integration of heart’s desires, intellect, and art.”
In my artistic practice, I incorporate Western and cutting-edge technologies, merging them with the enduring inspiration I derive from that era’s concepts. Ritual music, a genre characterized by its complex and sometimes challenging sounds, is a vital component. It’s deeply intertwined with the life cycle of the singers and musicians. In traditional settings, musicians must attain a certain level of mastery to be permitted to play specific instruments. These are ancient and organic facets of confrontational art that continually fuel my creativity.
In my practice, I remain steadfast in adhering to these foundational ideas and approaches. They are like hidden threads woven into my work, not immediately conspicuous but discernible to those familiar with the culture. These elements serve as the underlying spices that infuse depth and meaning into my creations.
Besides these cultural references, it seems telling that visually your work is characterized by what you have described as “cities or environments out of time and space.” What does this timelessness bring to your work?
The concept of creating “cities or environments out of time and space” has always been central to my artistic vision. I perceive each piece as a fragment of a larger whole, evolving and taking shape over time, akin to pieces of a puzzle. I aim for these installations to serve as a contemporary format, rooted in origins and influences from the past, yet projecting a timeless and futuristic utopia. In engaging with these works, viewers encounter not only art and its meanings, but also an invitation to contemplate existence itself. The essence of my creations lies in providing a digital realm for audiences to immerse themselves in, encouraging them to engage with, observe, and even co-create. This interactive dimension is paramount, as it empowers individuals to embark on a personal journey of introspection and self-discovery.
When conceiving a piece, I approach it as if I were an audience member myself. I design the space, infuse it with ideas, and often perceive it as an extension of the viewer’s experience. This involves creating a framework, coding, and incorporating various mediums, effectively transforming it into a dynamic entity capable of receiving input, generating responses, and facilitating a creative exchange. Ultimately, this interplay with the work serves as a conduit for individuals to explore and connect with their own inner landscapes.
“The essence of my work lies in providing a digital realm for audiences to immerse themselves in, to observe, and even co-create.”
You have said to find beauty in error, would you say that glitch interests you mostly by its aesthetic qualities, or are you interested in the fact that glitch “captures the machine revealing itself,” as Rosa Menkman describes it?
I find a deep fascination in witnessing failures and glitches in various types of working machines or systems. Regardless of a machine’s intended functionality or design purpose, I see beauty in its operation. However, glitches and errors hold a special allure for me. They represent moments where designers and creators didn’t anticipate certain issues, and the resulting visual anomalies are, in my eyes, incredibly captivating.
Glitches, whether they manifest in the physical world or appear in digital spaces, have an inherent aesthetic quality that I find compelling. The unexpected patterns and distortions that emerge, whether in the texture of a physical object or on a screen, are visually intriguing and often breathtaking. This fascination extends to coding and programming as well. Many times, glitches and failures have served as a wellspring of inspiration for me, igniting the creative process.
“Glitches, whether they manifest in the physical world or appear in digital spaces, have an inherent aesthetic quality that I find compelling.”
In both the physical and digital realms, I derive a sense of wonder from encountering these deviations from the norm. Even in nature, there are instances of glitches or anomalies, like unusual formations on a rock or unexpected patterns in a natural setting. These occurrences seem to defy logic, existing in a way that shouldn’t be possible, yet they persist and assert their presence. For me, there is nothing more beautiful than witnessing or experiencing these unique moments in life.
Both as an artist and interaction designer, you have experienced the growth of the open source movement. What have open source tools brought to your work, and how do you see this trend evolving in the context of the growing domination of AI systems?
As a self-taught new media artist and creative technologist, the open source movement has played a pivotal role in shaping my career, particularly in terms of technique. The wealth of resources provided by the open source community, including tutorials, libraries, videos, and other online materials, has been indispensable. Most of the libraries I rely on, whether in JavaScript, Python, or tools like Touchdesigner, are products of dedicated individuals freely sharing their knowledge. This ethos underpins a significant portion of my creative work, and I’m immensely grateful for the existence of this culture.
“The wealth of resources provided by the open source community has been indispensable. I’m immensely grateful for the existence of this culture.”
Regarding AI, I personally don’t perceive any hindrance or threat to my artistic practice. As long as I have creative ideas and the desire to bring them to life, I’ll continue doing so, with or without the assistance of AI. That said, I am deeply intrigued by working with AI models and algorithms. They represent a new frontier for me, akin to a different type of glitch or anomaly that can aid in expediting the creative process. At times, these AI tools introduce unexpected elements or challenges, akin to the price we pay for their existence and utilization of resources. Yet, much like any technological advancement, I view them as a new material to work with, and I’m enthusiastically open to exploring and experimenting with various devices and beings in the digital realm to bring my creative visions to life.
Ali Phi. ENFE’AL 1, 2023
You have described the use of AI algorithms in Agnosia as “a digital creature that takes over the atmosphere.” It is interesting that you see AI as a “creature,” how would you describe your creative process when working with AI systems?
Working with AI systems in my creative process feels like a dual jam session with another person. Especially in my performances, it’s as if I’m playing and interacting with an instrument or player that I’ve brought to life through code. I navigate through the real-time occurrences and reactions of the patch, which unfold in front of the audience. Incorporating AI libraries into my work serves as a means to provide an extensive platform, offering a range of sensors, libraries, and AI models that infuse a new layer of dynamics into the overall concept.
In the case of project Agnosia, I utilized an EEG brainwave interface. The data gathered in real-time was then processed and translated through a trained library, ultimately shaping the deformation of particle systems and point clouds. From my perspective, there’s a seamless continuity between the raw electrical data sourced from my neurons through the headset and the way the AI library processes this data in order to generate meaningful patterns, both sonically and visually. In essence, it all serves as a malleable material for me to explore, extracting reactions, establishing boundaries, and crafting a meaningful interplay that manifests in sound and visuals.
“Working with AI systems in my creative process feels like a dual jam session with another person.”
Enfe’al is based on the audiovisual performance Maqruh, which evokes liminality and is divided into seven phases of the formation of an entity. Can you elaborate on this narrative? What does this notion of evolution bring to the artwork, the performance, and the experience of the viewer?
Enfe’alis one of the scenes within the Maqruh audiovisual performance, which is typically presented in a live performance format. The piece is composed of seven distinct sections, collectively exploring the concept of makruh—a term from Middle Eastern terminology denoting a detestable act that falls in a gray area between forbidden and permitted. These sections together trace the cyclical journey of an entity through phases of passivity, avoidance, constriction, conformity, elevation, expiry, and revival.
While my work draws inspiration from Middle Eastern cultures and motifs, it goes beyond mere representation. There is no explicit storytelling or directional guidance for the audience. Instead, there exists a comprehensive concept that unifies the different segments of the performance. It endeavors to establish connections between these seven phases, creating an immersive and cohesive experience. For me, this concept mirrors a broader theme in the creation process. It reflects a point of uncertainty, like standing at a crossroads where decisions need to be made, but the outcome remains uncertain. This sense of uncertainty and decision-making is a recurrent theme in my interactions with the code I write and in the process of crafting installations. It revolves around determining the best approach, weighing the possibilities of success or failure, and ultimately making a choice.
In crafting my work, I follow a consistent pattern of infusing ideas rooted in the culture I’ve grown up in. I delve into intricate details and motifs, transforming them into a canvas for generating code and A/V content. This process allows me to integrate cultural elements with the technical framework, resulting in a unique and immersive experience for the audience.
Ali Phi. AGNOSIA 6, 2022
Agnosia refers to processes of memory and incorporates your reaction to your own recollections, AI algorithms, and glitch. What led you to work so introspectively, with your own memories, and brainwave data?
The concept behind the project Agnosia emerged from my deep-seated interest in architecture, particularly my fascination with the intricacies of spatial geometry. I noticed a recurring pattern in how our brains process spatial information, like the way robots operate at storage warehouses employ similar principles for efficient navigation and routing. It intrigued me how certain locations could evoke distinct sensations and memories, yet the precise triggers remained elusive. I became captivated by the interplay between architecture and the spatial formations that contribute to this phenomenon.
In industries like robotics, this process is utilized for navigation, but what sets humans apart is our capacity to record and experience these feelings. This aspect, however, is often overlooked in industrial applications. I sought to delve into this unexplored territory, aiming to introduce a live feedback loop that could simulate and evoke sensations based on the random associations AI algorithms can generate.
To achieve this, I embarked on a process of recording various natural and man-made locations, feeding them into a software system that could recreate these spaces using EEG data obtained while I immersed myself in these environments. It was akin to the software acting as an extension of my senses, generating new spaces based on the data it received through my eyes. The resulting information was then fed back into the system, applying deformations to create these synthesized spaces.
“Agnosia integrates my introspective exploration of memory recalling processes, brainwave data, and architectural influences, creating a unique, immersive experience.”
While I’ve presented some of the scenes and processed videos as static representations, the core of the project lies in its dynamic nature. The main patch serves as a generative art engine, fueled by pre-recorded EEG data from my performances. This could be presented in real-time, with the EEG device attached to my head, continuously generating new visual spaces based on my gaze and cognitive responses. In essence, Agnosia integrates my introspective exploration of memory recalling processes, brainwave data, and architectural influences, bringing them together through the interplay of an AI “creature” and glitches to create a unique, immersive experience for both myself and the audience.
Art in the Age of the Anthropocene, Kumu Art Museum. Exhibition view. Photo by Stanislav Stepashko.
Is there a need for art during an ecological crisis? This provocative question is the starting point of the exhibition Art in the Age of the Anthropocene, currently on view at the Kumu Art Museum in Tallinn (Estonia). The exhibition explores Estonian art history from an ecocritical perspective, addressing how nature, but also the industry and the impact of human activity on the environment, have been depicted in painting, sculpture, photography, and other media, including video art and performance. Such an approach is particularly interesting in itself both for bringing new perspectives to Estonian art history, and for suggesting a reflection on our relationship with the environment from the vantage point of a selection of artworks spanning more than a century. However, what makes this exhibition even more relevant to our present time is that it is the outcome of a three-year-long project debating the role of the museum in the Anthropocene and particularly during a climate emergency.
What should an art museum do at a time when sustainability is no longer a choice, but a need? What should be the institution’s role in raising awareness about the way human activity fuels the current climate crisis? How can art museums become hubs for reflection, and possibly action, to face a growing environmental disaster? These are hard questions to answer, and we cannot expect a single project or institution to be able to answer them. In fact, this has been an ongoing debate for many years among museums experts, in forums such as the Museums Facing Extinction programme carried out since 2019 by We Are Museums in collaboration with the EIT Climate-KIC agency. However, the exhibition at Kumu offers a good example of how sustainable exhibition principles can be put into practice, and furthermore communicated to the visitors.
This is actually the aspect in which this exhibition stands out, questioning its own museography and drawing attention to experimental solutions for a more sustainable exhibition design with highly visible informative signs. Before entering the exhibition, visitors encounter an unusual sight: instead of using vinyl lettering, the exhibition title has been spray painted on the wall, while the curatorial text is displayed on two large sheets of paper. Next to them, a thin red pole stands on a concrete brick, holding a cardboard label with additional information. These freestanding labels are scattered across the rooms, providing an additional reading of the exhibition in terms of the sustainable practices applied to this particular curatorial and museological project.
Art in the Age of the Anthropocene, Kumu Art Museum. Exhibition view. Photo by Pau Waelder.
Thanks to them, we learn for instance that clay paint has been used to create the wall texts and labels, and that the labels are UV-printed on leftover cardboard, thus avoiding the use of plastics. Different wall paint solutions have been tested, considering their ecological footprint, price, amount of work required, and efficacy. We also learn that the posters in the exhibition are displayed in frames that have been used multiple times during the last eleven years, or that a painting that has been in storage in the museum’s collection for 78 years is now on display for the first time. Sustainability therefore goes beyond the choice of materials used and involves larger decisions about the management of the museum’s collection or the carbon footprint of an exhibition that includes artworks brought from remote locations. Art in the Age of the Anthropocene does not pretend to solve all of these questions but rather to raise awareness about the challenges that museums face on their path to sustainability. The freestanding red poles and experimental solutions give the appearance of a construction site and seem to convey the idea that it is all in the works. This is actually an honest way to address the issue, and also to involve the visitor, who is encouraged to consider how to contribute to a sustainable museum experience.
Art in the Age of the Anthropocene, Kumu Art Museum. Exhibition view. Photo by Stanislav Stepashko.
An expert’s view on sustainability in museums
To better understand the ideas and the work behind Art in the Age of the Anthropocene, I had a brief exchange with Karin Vicente, the head of the sustainable work group at the Art Museum of Estonia.
Photo by Terje Ugandi
Karin Vicente is an art historian based in Tallinn, Estonia. She works as a programme manager and curator at the Adamson-Eric Museum. She is the head of the sustainable work group at the Art Museum of Estonia. Currently she is working on the project A Model for a Sustainable Exhibition.
The exhibition Art in the Age of the Anthropocene has had a long gestation period of over three years. Can you highlight the main tasks and processes that have taken place during this time?
The preparation of the exhibition is a part of a research project. It helped us analyze our collections (as well as collections of other museums) from an ecocritical perspective. Beyond the content, the exhibition has also initiated discussions about the green transition in the museum. How can an art museum minimize its ecological footprint? We organized a few seminars and discussions in the museum, involving participating artists and designers.
“We wanted to raise questions among the audience, such as the price of being part of a global art network.”
The exhibition is characterized by a double educational approach, on the one hand selecting artworks that speak about the representation and appropriation of the environment in Estonia, and on the other hand pointing out the sustainable exhibition practices carried out in its mounting. How have you combined these approaches?
The “red flags” indeed reflect the issues we discussed with curators and the exhibition team during the process. However, the selection of artworks was made by curators, following the narrative of the exhibition. We didn’t plan to create a zero-waste exhibition. For example, we invited international artists to contribute to the exhibition and designed a special exhibition layout considering eco-design aspects. We wanted to raise questions among the audience, such as the price of being part of a global art network. The pollution generated by air travel casts a shadow over bringing international art to Tallinn, yet it makes more sense than visitors traveling to the country of origin of each piece to see it. We want to be part of a global arts network, but how do we balance the pros and cons?
The sustainable exhibition practices have involved collaborations with third parties, such as the Tallinn Book Printers, to obtain leftover material. Can this lead to continuous collaborations? Is it possible for a museum to fully transition into using donated materials for purposes such as wall labels or brochures?
We collaborate with many companies, and there is a growing demand and consciousness concerning “green solutions” in the field. In some cases, it might be reasonable to create an exhibition using only reused/recycled/donated materials, but we also need to consider other aspects, like the security and well-being (climate conditions) of our collections. Handmade silkscreen texts and labels on waste paper were playful experiments, but they demanded a lot of human resources. Therefore, I’m afraid we won’t be able to do it every time.
Art in the Age of the Anthropocene, Kumu Art Museum. Exhibition view. Photo by Stanislav Stepashko.
Reusing elements purchased by the museum from previous exhibitions is a good practice both environmentally and economically, and currently most museums have a certain amount of reusable stock. How can this practice be even more effective and sustainable, balancing the specific needs of artists and curators with those of the museum?
The only restriction to reusing more materials is the limited storage space we have. We have discussed with other museums and institutions the idea of a platform that would facilitate the exchange of different showcases and materials between different institutions, but it still needs to be developed.
Wall painting is a major element of exhibition design, as it conditions the visual perception of the artworks. How do you see the solutions you have tested in Art in the Age of the Anthropocene being applied to other exhibitions?
The experimental design decision our team made involved testing different wall paint solutions. We were looking for the most economical and sensible solution, so we have analyzed the properties of clay, casein, linseed oil emulsion, and acrylic paints: their ecological footprints, prices, covering capacities, drying times, scratch resistance and ease of removal, and the required amount of work. The result was visually effective as we also tested different painting styles (using less paint). I think it’s a matter of taste; different wall paint solutions can be used when exhibiting artworks from different periods. There are obviously other methods to use wall paint in a more sustainable way. I think the trick is to find a good balance between the desired outcome (how it looks) and how we achieve it.
“Handmade silkscreen texts and labels on waste paper were playful experiments, but they demanded a lot of human resources. Therefore, I’m afraid we won’t be able to do it every time.”
Video and digital art are increasingly present in contemporary art exhibitions, which demands that museums have screens, projectors, computers, and other equipment that is also commonly used in educational activities. How does incorporating digital art into the museum align with sustainability goals? How would you compare it with traditional formats (painting, sculpture) in terms of shipping, maintenance, and storage, and the need to participate in the global art scene?
Indeed, both digital and traditional art forms have their ecological footprints. Traditional artworks need to be kept in a controlled climate that consumes a lot of energy. Digital artworks require computers, etc., and they have a digital footprint. However, we need both, and I think it doesn’t make sense to compare them.
Climate control is necessary inside the museum, not only to make visitors comfortable, but also to preserve the artworks. How can it be made more sustainable? What are the challenges for a museum in Estonia, where the difference between summer and winter temperatures can be extremely high?
We are updating our HVAC systems at Kumu in 2023; this requires a significant investment. This year, we also initiated a discussion in the museum to form our opinion about the Bizot protocol and weakening the climate standards. These are not easy decisions to make, but we are working on them.
Art in the Age of the Anthropocene, Kumu Art Museum. Exhibition view. Photo by Stanislav Stepashko.
Is there a need for art during an ecological crisis?
Considering the issues raised by the Kumu exhibition in a wider scope, I asked Diane Drubay, artist and founder of We Are Museums, about her views on the sustainability of art museums and a possible answer to the role of art in our current climate emergency.
Diane Drubay is an artist whose work focuses on better futures and nature-awareness and a researcher working towards the transformation of museums and art through various communities, events and programs, internationally since 2007. Founder of We Are Museums and WAC-Lab. Member of Museums For Future.
What is your opinion about the interplay of artworks and information in Art in the Age of the Anthropocene?
In my opinion, the greatest challenge to overcome when we want to adopt sustainable exhibition practices is taking the first step. There are endless lists of practical sustainable actions, but they are often repetitive and tailored to a global audience rather than a local or personal one. Over the years, I’ve learned that it’s by sharing our personal stories that our actions can resonate with others. So I don’t hesitate to talk about what I do or don’t do any more, and to explain how I do it and what impact it has on my daily life.
In the “Art in the Age of the Anthropocene” exhibition, we find this very personal way of talking about what has been done and why, but also a very practical one. All the details provided give visitors the chance to draw inspiration from them and apply this mindset to their everyday lives, or even their professions. I would love to see all these practical insights shared online in a global “ressourcerie” for museums on their climate journey!
Also, while museums tend to have the reputation of being large, secretive or inaccessible institutions, showing such openness and sincerity highlights the human beings who work in this museum and who, like everyone else, have moments of questioning and try to do their best to reduce their carbon footprint. Such honest behavior addresses the human being before the visitor. Leaving questions open invites dialogue and shows great humility, while sharing insights can be inspiring.
Art in the Age of the Anthropocene, Kumu Art Museum. Exhibition view. Photo by Pau Waelder.
In a recent article on Art Review, Marv Recinto states that art exhibitions about ecology “often feel futile in the face of real environmental devastation” and calls for “a more concerted effort towards action.” As an artist addressing this subject, how would you respond to this? Is the effort carried out at KUMU a step in this direction?
As there are many different types of disaster, there are many different ways of approaching an environmental emergency. Some people need to feel emotionally involved in order to act, others need figures and scientific facts to speak to their rationality, and still others need to be on the ground, collaborating with others, and so on. What I see is that many artists have several points of action, and the creation of stories or emotions complements local community action or changes in behavior. If we want to make a lasting impact and see behavior change profoundly, the approach must be multiple and complementary. As in nature, it is the diversity of species that makes a land fertile.
“If we want to make a lasting impact and see behavior change profoundly, the approach must be multiple and complementary. As in nature, it is the diversity of species that makes a land fertile.”
Karin Vicente states that both traditional art formats (painting, sculpture) and digital art have their carbon footprint, and that we need both, so it makes no sense to compare them. What is your opinion about digital art and sustainability in museums?
Exhibiting digital art and, above all, preserving it are key priorities for museum professionals today. So now is the perfect time to experiment with sustainable practices in my opinion. Many museums and associations are already well advanced in their search for a sustainable digital strategy.
Like KUMU did beautifully, low-tech cultural mediation within the museum is a very good way of offsetting the carbon footprint of hosting servers and other carbon costs. But museums can also seek to reduce their carbon footprint by implementing actions in favor of biodiversity, reducing their water consumption, maintaining or creating forested or natural areas around the museum, thinking in terms of slowing down, circularity and renunciation, or supporting the local before thinking global.
“A digital work of art can reach more people in a global and inclusive way.”
And I agree with Karin Vicente that comparing the different media and their carbon footprints makes no sense, because we would also have to add a measure of the impact in terms of raising awareness, encouraging people to act and changing behavior, but also in terms of the number of visitors reached. A digital work of art can reach more people in a global and inclusive way.
This article is the first of a series about the symbolism of colors based on the writings of historian Michel Pastoreau. According to Pastoreau, in terms of their symbolism and adoption by human societies, we can only speak of six colors: blue, red, white, yellow, green, and black. Taking inspiration from his texts, we have curated six artcasts that show how artists use these colors in their work and exemplify the ways in which they are incorporated into digital art.
We invite you to learn more about the symbolic connotations of each color and experience the artworks on your own screen.
Blue is the color that makes the perfect background. It doesn’t stand out, it is calming and invites consensus. Large organizations choose blue to denote sobriety and group consensus, as can be seen in the flags of the United Nations and the European Union. It is the color of the sea and the sky: a peaceful, quiet, conservative color. Pastoreau states: “since about 1890, blue became the prominent color in Western societies, as much in France as in Sicily, in the United States and New Zealand […] In other cultures something different happens: most Japanese, for instance, prefer black.”
Large organizations choose blue to denote sobriety and group consensus, as can be seen in the flags of the United Nations and the European Union.
However, blue has not always had these connotations. In ancient Rome, it was the color of the barbarians, the foreigners. There wasn’t a name for blue, which had to be borrowed from the Germanic blau or the Arabic azraq. In the 12th and 13th centuries, blue gained popularity in Europe thanks to the cult of the Virgin Mary, and was later adopted by royal families. In the 16th century, the Reformation promoted the idea that certain colors were more decent than others: black, grey, and blue became associated with correctness and adopted in masculine garments.
The invention of Prussian blue in 1720 popularized darker tones that were quickly adopted by Romantic painters and poets. In 1850, the Jewish tailor Levi-Strauss invented jeans, an indigo-colored trousers which introduced blue to the workspace, and later became associated with leisure, in the 1930s, and even a sign of a rebellious attitude, in the 1960s. Nowadays, blue is mostly perceived as a calm, conservative color, particularly in politics, as a reaction to the prominence of red in the communist regimes of the Soviet Union and China.
Patrick Tresset. Scene 11, Human Study #1, Hong Kong series, 2022
In the realm of the digital image, blue has acquired very different connotations: it can be electric, vibrant, an outlandish blue that can only exist in the virtual world. In 1993, Mosaic, one of the first web browsers, introduced blue hyperlinks to differentiate clickable text in addition to underscoring, which Tim Berners-Lee had introduced in his first browser in 1987. Standing out on the white, light gray, and yellow backgrounds of early browsers, blue became the color of the Internet in the 1990s. It has since been routinely adopted by tech companies, both for its association with electricity and machinery as for its dual conservative and rebellious symbolism. Leading social media platforms Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn use blue in their logos, denoting seriousness, consensus, and stability (although these words do not particularly apply to the current state of platforms such as Twitter). Blue has become the color of online communities, and even alternative channels such as Discord, Signal, or Telegram all use blue in their brands.
Leading social media platforms use blue in their logos, denoting seriousness, consensus, and stability. Blue has become the color of online communities
The chroma key compositing technique used in film to combine two or more elements recorded separately initially used black or white backgrounds, until in the 1930s RKO Radio Pictures introduced the blue screen method. The Thief of Bagdad (1940), which won the Academy Award for Best Special Effects, was the first film to use this technique. Blue has since been used, alongside green, as a background in film sets, and therefore associated with visual effects, and particularly science fiction blockbuster films such as Star Wars.
The popularization of cyberpunk, a literary genre that responds to the utopian science fiction stories of the 1950s, brought a darker shade of blue to our visions of the future. Ridley Scott’s 1982 film Blade Runner, an adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (1968), pictured a dystopian future in a dark and rainy city of Los Angeles dominated by immense screens and neon lights. In William Gibson’s Neuromancer (1984), the sky is blue gray, “the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.” Blue has thus been associated with technology, science fiction, and virtual worlds since the 1980s and 1990s. It was partly replaced by the popularity of phosphor green, associated with hacker culture and popularized by films such as The Matrix trilogy (1999-2003), but was brought back by a wave of 1990s nostalgia exemplified in the work of Post-Internet artists in the early 2010s.
Alix Desaubliaux. Alexandra Erlich-Speiser, 2021
Nowadays, blue is used in digital art in the same way as in painting, to denote melancholy or to represent a blue sky or a calm sea, but also as a distinct color of virtual worlds and to symbolize artificiality. Blue continues to be a conformist, calm color, but in our digital society it has also become associated with connectivity, ubiquity, and community.
Artist and researcher Aaron M. Higgins holds BFA and MFA degrees from The Henry Radford Hope School of Fine Art at Indiana University. Higgins delves into time-based media as an artistic medium, employing lens-oriented capture methods, digital layering processes, and interactivity. His artwork has been showcased both within the U.S., including cities like Chicago, Cincinnati, and New York, and abroad, with features in Korea, Sweden, and the Netherlands among others.
Higgins recently presented the solo artcast Memory Palaceson Niio, featuring a series of artworks in which the artist draws inspiration from microscopic images of the human brain, as well as those taken by the Hubble Space Telescope, to create alluring, surreal landscapes. In the following conversation, he reflects on the relationship between his digital media work and his background in painting, as well as his connection to landscape and nature.
Bring Aaron Higgins’ mnemonic landscapes to your screen
You have a background in painting prior to your digital media practice. How did you move from one medium to the other, and how does your knowledge about painting inform your digital work, which is at times deliberately painterly?
My undergraduate studies were in Painting, and my graduate studies focused on Digital Media. I found working with Digital Media somewhat intuitive and picked things up relatively quickly. I think my strengths lie in how I compose and composite imagery in my work. A lot of this is similar to how I think about composing a 2D rectangle, but with time-based media I am also considering how the composition moves and changes over its timeline. As with a drawing or painting, I consider how the eye might move around the image, or how space is constructed within the composition of the image. I also want something for the eye to sense, or feel, as it relates to the surface, so I think a lot about visual texture, and compositing methods that yield a ‘painterly’ quality. I guess in some ways I am trying to work against the sanitization of the screen-based image. In the same vein, I am also subverting the ‘digital’, or ‘machine’, and attempting to reimplement ‘the hand’.
“In some ways I am trying to work against the sanitization of the screen-based image and attempting to reimplement ‘the hand’.”
There is an interest in landscape in your work, from the documentary-style images of Tallgrass to the surreal environments of Mnemonic Passages. What do you find in landscapes that is interesting for your work?
The landscape has it all. I try to maintain a connection to the landscape, in my life and in my work, although it’s not necessarily front of mind. Most of my earlier work, painting, focused on painting in the landscape, as well as still-life, which I also think of as landscape. I’ve always been fascinated by nature, after all, we emerged from mother nature. To me, there is something spiritual in connecting with and observing nature, of being immersed in the landscape. The landscape can be so many things, a prairie, a memory, a body, a mind, etc. In my early interactive works, the Splitting Time series, I suppose that I am thinking of time, and the image itself (what the camera sees), as a landscape and reorganizing its pieces into abstract compositions. In a sense, everything is a landscape of sorts.
Aaron Higgins. tmsplttr. Interactive video animation. Video still.
Since the landscape is a cultural construct, as Alain Roger has suggested, which roles do fiction and narrative play in your landscapes?
That’s an interesting question. As I mentioned in my previous answer, the landscape holds endless metaphoric possibilities. The landscape often serves as a placeholder for something else. In many ways we project our own values, ideals, and biases on the landscape before us. Artists do the same in their work, and the viewer does the same in experiencing the work. I try to leave room for this to occur. In the Tallgrass series, for example, the work is representative of my experience in the tallgrass prairie landscape. I want to share that dynamic, interactive experience with the viewer. In doing so, however, I am weaving a lot of fiction. The imagery is highly composited, creating something other than reality. Maybe a collage of reality… creating an ideal, but there is also a more universal narrative that is superimposed on the work transcending any information gathering, documentation, or individual experience.
“The landscape often serves as a placeholder for something else. In many ways we project our own values, ideals, and biases on the landscape before us.”
Tallgrass: An Osage Reverie: interactive HD video animation series (installation view)
In the Mnemonic Passages series, the imagery is completely invented, but I use actual video in my compositing process. In this series, particularly, I am using webcam footage of myself (working on things in front of my computer) as textures that wrap the 3D forms (memoryforms). This adds the hint of subjective imagery inside, or across the surface of these forms. It also helps to create a sense that these forms are flickering with information. In this way, as with other works of mine, there is an element of self-portraiture to my work as well as landscape.
Regardless, the process usually involves taking photo imagery and creating something ‘new’ with it.
Aaron Higgins. MemoryForm (1), 2017
In the Mnemonic Passages series, you depict memory palaces as organic, and somewhat otherworldly spaces instead of the rational, neo classical buildings we are used to imagine. What drove you to choose this type of image?
With the Mnemonic Passages series, I suppose I am really thinking of the memory palace as the mind. I was thinking of the biology of the brain, the intricate architecture of neurons and synapses, etc. But, also as a place, a landscape, where memories are stored. These memories take form and shape within our minds, building the landscape of our experience. Of course, as I say in my statement, I am inspired by imagery from the scientific research and study of the brain, but also imagery from the research and study of our cosmos. The cosmos might be a ‘superlandscape’, if you will, that I see as a metaphor for our mind, or accumulated experience and knowledge. As our experience and knowledge grows, so does our picture and understanding of our cosmos.
“The cosmos might be a ‘superlandscape’ that I see as a metaphor for our mind, or accumulated experience and knowledge.”
Aaron M. Higgins. Moonrise with Scissor-tailed Flycatchers, HD 1080p interactive video animation (video still)
Where does your interest in memory stem from?
I guess my interest in memory stems from ideas related to your previous question. Our memory and experience, our culture (a form of generational memory) forms our identity. Like culture, a memory is a living thing that can change, bits are added, bits are taken out, we fill in missing bits to keep the landscape (trying to be consistent with my metaphors, here) cohesive and making sense. Neuroscience is also very relevant these days with new groundbreaking discoveries in how our minds work seemingly happening all the time. The same could be said about the cosmos and what we are learning from the James Webb Space Telescope. We are literally looking back in time at the earliest galaxies that formed in our universe, amazing stuff.
Aaron Higgins. MemoryForm (2), 2017
You speak of creating meditative experiences through works that you patiently build layer by layer. How important is that meditative aspect in the making of the artwork, as your own experience, and then in the final result, as the experience of the viewer?
I really believe the work and craft that goes into something adds to what is communicated to the viewer and their experience. Craftsmanship is an important part of the process, always. One of things I love about painting is how meditative the act of painting is. There’s a lot that I find similar in my creative process with Digital Media. For one thing, the work evolves over time, and you have to be open to those changes. An idea I start out with is not always the same as what I end up with. I, too, evolve and change throughout the process and find that my interests lead me in new directions. The work sometimes has a will of its own, too, it seems, whether it be the nature of the tools, or limitations of the software or hardware (or myself), it always seems to be a negotiated process. Beyond that, choices are made as things progress that depend on what has happened up until that point, until the work is resolved. I try not to labor too much on these choices and let the work tell me what to do, if that makes any sense, and being in an open, meditative state tends to help with this process. It can be a challenge, though, when your computer crashes, or render times get unbearably slow.
Aaron M. Higgins. astrocyte, HD 1080p (32:9) video animation, 2:00 loop (installation view).
As far as the viewer experience, I guess I am sort of imposing my preferences and communicating what I want my work to be in how I present it. However, I do want the work to be disarming, calming, and perhaps to create a sense of wonder and awe. When I think of my time-based work, I often think of paintings, as we discussed. I think of viewing a painting as something that happens over time. The painting is always on, always there to be received. As it is experienced and one is immersed, the more that is discovered, it changes. The context within which a work is experienced also has an effect on the experience. Is it on a screen, a phone or a television, is it projected? In what space is it, a private or public space? I try to apply these ideas to the presentation and structure of my time-based work. All of my work seamlessly loops and is always on, there is no beginning or end. It is there to be experienced at viewer discretion, for 30 seconds, 10 minutes, or an hour, or more. It’s there when you want it, for as long as you want it. In that sense, I do not want the work to be annoying or overbearing. I want it to be tolerable, I guess, not seizure inducing.
“I want to give viewers the space to experience the work on their own terms, as well as allow space for the viewer to discover new connections with the work the more they experience or interact with it.”
Yet, I also don’t want the viewer to ignore the work, I want them to be engaged. I don’t want to impose too many parameters on the viewer or make it a chore to experience the work. In this sense, I think a lot about control, and the relationship between artist and viewer, viewer and art, etc.
Control then becomes a subject I explore as it relates to life, my experience, the creative process, etc. I try not to exert too much control, especially on things that are out of my control. I know I’m getting in the weeds here… But, I guess, this goes back to the landscape, haha… and the process having its own sort of evolution that involves the artist and the media and letting that process occur without too much interference. I want to afford the viewer the same opportunity in how they experience the work.
To quote Caroline Lavoie, from an article titled, ‘Sketching the Landscape: Exploring a Sense of Place’, “An object or person does not exist in isolation, but through relationships with its context. These relationships support a necessary state of being…”.
Tough question.
Aaron Higgins. Mnemonic Passage, 2017
You have expressed your interest in incorporating the viewer into your work, through interactive installations. How would you compare your interactive work with your films and animations in terms of their concept, production process, expectations, and outcome?
So, I think, picking up where we left off in the last question… I am interested in introducing more randomness and perhaps an element of surprise to my work and how others experience it. Something that is always on, and loops endlessly, runs the risk of becoming monotonous. Adding some randomness and unpredictability can thwart the monotony, and keep viewers engaged. This also speaks to the landscape, self-portrait concepts, as well as the viewer/art/artist relationship, and how things change over time.
In the ‘Tallgrass’ series, for example, the viewer would trigger events in the landscape: lightning striking, the sun setting, moon rising, bird calls, different poses and movements, etc. For each scene, a clip from a library of audio clips with variations of bird calls could randomly be paired with a video sequence of a bird singing. Motion sensing cameras trigger events as viewers move through the space. This adds slight variation and randomness in experiencing the work, so that experiencing the work again would almost certainly be different in variation and sequence of events. To me, this more closely resembles my experience in the tallgrass prairie, where things are the same, but different each time I visit.
“Adding some randomness and unpredictability can thwart the monotony, and keep viewers engaged.”
My life experience, my interrupted or failed plans, my unexpected successes and victories, all the predictable and unpredictable events… This sort of ‘passive interaction’, allowed in ideas of control vs chaos which made the work feel more alive and real to me. Back to the prairie, when I would hike in the prairie and see an animal, they didn’t act as though I wasn’t there, they responded to my presence.
In turn, this extends to the viewer, who in some cases was literally incorporated into the work, i.e. Karmic_Lapse, and altered the work by viewing it. As it relates to the artist/viewer relationship, the work is completed upon experiencing. That is to say, work is meant to be shared with and received by a viewer, an audience. That is when a work comes alive, not in my mind, but the mind of the viewer. We can relate this back to the Lavoie quote, “an object (or person) does not exist in isolation, but through relationships with its context.”
Aaron Higgins, Karmic Lapse. Interactive video animation. Installation view.
In relation to your code-based work, you speak of a “collaboration” with the software. How do you balance control and randomness in these projects, and what would you say that you have learned from the machine?
I enjoy how these questions are threaded together, these are really good questions. First, I am not much of a coder, but I use After Effects java-based expressions, visual coding languages- connecting inputs to outputs, I used to use actionscript, that sort of thing. To answer your question, though, the machine, its operating system runs on code, the software runs on code, I implement code, etc. It’s all doing things for me, in a sense. I mean, I tell it what to do, but I don’t completely understand how it’s doing it. So, in that way it is a collaboration, I guess. But, as far as balancing control and randomness, there are serendipitous things that occur throughout the creative process. I try to let these things occur, even push the process, the machine, to catalyze their occurrence. These are moments where something unexpected, something random occurs that adds to the piece. There’s a lot of experimentation involved, trial and error, but it’s a sort of dance seeing where things go and knowing when you’ve gone too far. This applies to painting, as well, there are some tools, like the palette knife, that can offer great control, but also, if used in a certain way, can create randomness in the application of paint to the surface. It further removes ‘the hand’, so to speak.
“I guess my background in more traditional media is keeping me grounded, and I am not quite ready to let the machine take over.”
Aaron M. Higgins. astrocyte, HD 1080p (32:9) video animation, 2:00 loop (video still)
I’m not sure what I’ve learned from the machine. It’s constantly changing. It’s a great tool and allows for infinite possibilities. But it can get old, too… Sometimes I feel that things have been homogenized to a degree, and things all start looking the same. I see a lot of that in AI art, especially. I guess my background in more traditional media is keeping me grounded, somewhat, and I am not quite ready to let the machine take over.
