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TECHNO RITUALS Humanizing Technology
by Donald Kuspit
Technique is of necessity, and as compensation, our
universal language. It is the fruit of specialization. But
this very specialization prevents mutual understanding.
Everyone today has his own professional jargon, modes of
thought and peculiar perception of the world... Today the
sharp knife of specialization has passed
like a razor into the living flesh. It has cut the umbilical
cord which linked men with each other and with nature. The
man of today is no longer able to understand his neighbor
because his profession is his whole life, and the technical
specialization of this life has forced him to live in a
closed universe... Yet technique, having ruptured the
relations between man and man, proceeds to rebuild the
bridge which links them. It bridges the specialization
because it produces a new type of man always and everywhere
like his duplicate, who develops along technical lines. He listens to himself
and speaks to himself, but he obeys the slightest indications of the
apparatus, confident that his neighbor will do the same. Technique
has become the bond between men. By its agency they communicate,
whatever their languages, beliefs, or race. It has become, for life or
death, the universal language which compensates for all the deficiencies
and separations it has itself produced. This is the major reason for the
great impetus of technique toward the
universal. Jacques Ellul, The Technological Society1 The products of
this art shift from object to process, from information and presentation
to interaction and communication… This, however, should not necessarily
be equated with a process
of vanishing into virtuality. Aesthetics as a qualitative category of
sensory perception remains relevant in cyberart as well. Gerfried
Stocker and Christine Schöpf, “Preface,” Ars Electronica2 The idea of an
electrifying aesthetics, or, if one wants, an aesthetics of electricity,
was already on the art table in 1912 -almost at the
very beginning of modernism -when Kandinsky, identifying with
the “keen proponents” of “the theory of moving electricity, which
is supposed completely to replace matter,”3 suggested that such
an aesthetics was the core of a modern spiritual art, that is, an
art of pure consciousness. He wanted his abstract expressionist
paintings to emulate moving electricity -to be as exciting as
electricity- emotionally as well as visually “electrifying.” For Kandinsky,
moving electricity stood to “internal necessity” as matter stood to
“external necessity.” Traditional art was a compound of “the purely
abstract,” which conveyed dynamic, electrifying feeling, and “the
objective,” which conveyed static material facts. But in modern art
spiritual abstraction and materialistic realism went their separate
ways, as he unhappily noted, even as he celebrated the liberation
of the inner world and the unconditionally abstract from the outer
world and the materially real.4 The split in art was unfortunate, but
it allowed its purification, and with that its autonomy -a declaration
of independence from everyday appearances and ordinary reality that
allowed it to unfold its abstract wings and fly to the aesthetic heights
of pure perception.
Kandinsky’s painting has been understood as the two-dimensional
beginning of kinetic art, which was first realized in three dimensions-in
sculpture (as a dramatic clash of planes)-in 1930 by oholy-Nagy’s
light-space modulators. What begins as a fascination with the
abstractions of science in Kandinsky, becomes an obsession with
technology in Moholy-Nagy. He is perhaps the first artist to realize
that to be truly modern art must be grounded in-even submissive
to-scientific technology. The reconciliation of art and scientific
technology is essential in modernity, for science and technology are its
dominant modes of theory and practice, and as such responsible for the
modern sense of reality (in contrast to religion, the traditional
theoretical source of the sense of reality, and thus a guide to the
experience, practice, and consciousness of life and art).
For Moholy-Nagy technological and artistic know-how converged, and the
work of art became an experimental engineering feat meant to “prove”-or
at least “demonstrate” (not simply illustrate, but display)-a scientific
thesis. (In his case, about light and movement.) Art was thus indebted
to science, and even in pursuit of
scientific knowledge. Technology was understood to be implicitly
aesthetic—machines were understood to have their own peculiar
aesthetics--which the techno-artist made explicit, abstracted, and
emulated, that is, epitomized in his own “high” tech work. (Moholy-Nagy
was the first practicing techno-artist; the Russian
Constructivists were theorists of techno-art rather than convincing
practitioners. They glorified modern technology -the machine-but did not
fully understand that it was a revolution in aesthetics, that is,
heralded and embodied a new aesthetic vision. Indeed, for them the
machine was defiantly anti-aesthetic—aesthetically indifferent—a
dismissive overthrow of traditional aesthetics and art,
all the more so because the kind of work that went into making the
machine [and making it work and thus socially useful] was radical.
it as an aesthetic as well as social phenomenon. In his hands,
technology is no longer simply the triumph of instrumental reason, but
unreasonably emotional—charged with human emotion and existential
meaning. How does Electros do this? By appealing to ancient Greek
mythology, with its embedded existential/humanistic import. By embedding
technology, with its abstract aesthetics, in the archetypal
dramas of Greek mythology, so that his machines become
grand personages reenacting the mythologized human drama
in modernist terms.
By investing technology with “classical” and
mythological meaning, Electros in effect “classicizes” and
mythologizes
iets products. “The Laocoon Group” and the “Celestial Visitor”, both are
two important examples. The former is an abstract sculpture,
the latter a public installation, intended for the central square
in Athens, but it is also a sculpture, if more geometrical than
gestural in its abstraction. The Laocoon Group is a gestural tour
de force, but more to the point is that by naming his intricately
fluid, rhythmically moving, freely expressive line after the famous
Hellenic sculpture—a marvel of solid stone, all the more marvelous
because of the twists and turns of the figures—Vekris imbues it
with memorable human meaning. At the same time, his abstract
rendering of the ancient sculpture, with its convulsive, tormented
figures--the liquid line spontaneously traces their ghostly presence,
enlivening the negative space which is the paradoxical substance
of the sculpture, even as it symbolizes the snake strangling them-more spontaneous dermizes
it. Electros dematerializes the sculpture,
undermining its three-dimensionality, and disembodies the epic
figures—reduces the ancient sculptural representation to an abstract
concept, changes it into a “moving” idea in the viewer’s mind, a lyric
phantom that seems to have sprung from the unconscious, rather than
consciously made like the ancient sculpture—even as he distills
its emotional essence, epitomizing the life and death struggle it
depicts through pure, line. Electros turns a weighty
three-dimensional classical work, locked in a space of its own,
into a weightless two-dimensional modern drawing that hovers
in pure space. But Electros liberated line—a line liberated from
the mass of the ancient sculpture, a dynamic line that conveys a
freshness of feeling that seems missing from the static sculpture, a
musical line that flows with time rather than grand figures whose
movements have been frozen, and thus seem timeless (and also
peculiarly de-energized however dramatic)--has the secret third
dimension of the Laocoon Group’s tragic meaning, making it all
the more magically moving.
The gods were responsible for the human disaster of the
Laocoon story. Troy’s time was up—the gods had foreordained
its destruction—and the so-called Trojan horse was the ironical
instrument of that destruction. Laocoon, a priest who warned the
Trojans not to bring the wooden horse the Greeks left on the beach
into the city--they pretended to sail back to their homeland, leaving
the wooden horse as a peace token (ironically, it had Greek
warriors hidden inside it)--had to be liquidated. Thus the “liquid”
snake from the ocean, sent by Neptune to do the evil job. The
ancient sculpture shows the struggle of Laocoon and his two sons
at the moment of its maximum tension, while Electros suggests
that humanity’s battle with fate—the gods carry out its will—is as
ongoing as his line. Indeed, the battle is unresolved in the sculpture—Laocoon and his sons may strangle the snake rather than be
strangled by them—suggesting that man does not willingly submit
to fate. Electros’ linear sculpture has this same humanistic quality—conveys the same sense of man’s refusal to reconcile himself
with let alone capitulate to fate, and death. And the primordial
forces of nature, which the snake also embodies.
What is significant to me about the “Celestial Visitor” is that
it—like Electros’ “Intuitive Navigator”, 2009, “Ecospheres” (1996,
1999), and various Satellites, 2009, as well as numerous other
space satellite-like constructions, including his Space Infractions
and “Geodetic Pixel Structures” (he calls them all “space architecture,”
that is, abstract representations of cosmic space as well
as technological inventions capable of exploring it)—signal the
triumph of technology over nature, of technical ingenuity over
natural creativity, of god-like machines over elemental natural
forces. Even when he engages nature, it is a technologized,
man-made nature, as “Arti Physical”, 2007, with its illuminated
plexiglass growths, accompanied by a breathing sound system,
and set in a twilight space, makes clear. Technology is sacred
for Electros, and the machine is a god, and the Celestial Visitor
is in effect a god from outer space, from the mysterious beyond,
or perhaps a vehicle—a new kind of chariot—bringing a deus ex
machina to decide the fate of the earth, which clearly depends
on technology. The snake in The Laocoon Group is a god from
the underworld of nature, the Celestial Visitor is a god from the
higher world of technology, and the former is invariably destructive
while the latter is inherently constructive.
It is worth noting that Celestial Visitor looks like a shrine or
altar, just as many of Electros mega structures can be understood as
temples to technology. They are not only symbols of technology’s
dominance of nature, but of its social dominance, more pointedly,
its fetishization: the secular religion of technology, the blind
worship of technology, implying a “totalitarian” technological
society, that is, a society totalized and perfected by technology,
and as such a technological utopia. The Celestial Visitor “project
comes out of the science fiction fantasy of an advanced Galactic
civilization,” Electros remarks, and the fountain at its center
symbolizes the fountain of a self-renewing, perennially young,
everlasting technology: his technological fictions are the artistic
fulfillment of the modern dream of technological immortality,
that is, eternal life achieved by means of technological renovation,
re-invention, as it were--of the body. Each of its parts will
be replaced by more permanent, refined parts, in turn replaced
by more durable parts as they wear out, and finally replaced by
enduring parts: the ultimate triumph of technological genius over
nature, that is, natural man. The three-legged Celestial Visitor—the legs hold up its head,
which is all the body it needs, for it is the product of a
technologically
advanced civilization, in which every being has become a
thinking machine, that is, reduced to its intellectual and technical
essentials. For Electros, this is the ultimate (if ironical) humanistic
goal—the integration of man and machine, as his “Talos” figure,
“a mythical self automated mega structure” or “Robo-monster,”
suggests. Its humanism is implicit in its purpose: “to watch out for
the enemy, a guard of the state,” and, more subtly, “an invisible
watch power to watch the watchers,” that is, a check on human
beings who would abuse technology by using it to dominate,
manipulate, and imprison other human beings. Electros’ robots
may be technological improvements over human beings, but they
protect society from human beings who are the enemies of society.
We are dependent on technology to save us from our selves, is
the ironical message of Electros’ robots.
Somewhat less paranoid, “The Tesla Project”, dedicated
to “Nikola Tesla, one of the greatest inventors and technologists
of our time,” celebrates “the man that could produce mega phenomena
in the earth, by the use of free atmospheric energy”—“a
pure genius” who epitomizes technology’s control and mastery
of nature. Tesla is also a celestial visitor, as Electros’ monument
to him suggests—two legs supporting an arch with a head-like
disk as its lynchpin, receiving cosmic energy-information while
deftly balanced on the earth. A fountain of steam—the water of
life in atmospheric form—could also be placed between his legs,
as it is between the legs supporting “A Beam Towards The Stars”,
indicating that Tesla also is able to reach the stars—encompass
the cosmos--as the schematic constellation of stars mirrored at
the bottom of the fountain implies. If Tesla is a god, then Electros’
artistic inventions are his technological angels, effortlessly bridging
heaven and earth. Obsolescence may be built into technology,
but it evolves faster than nature, as has been argued, endlessly
mutating towards greater efficiency and aesthetic perfection, as
Vekris’ technological art shows.
As I have suggested, one can understand Electros’ work as
a utopian project, if only because of its seamless integration of
old and new technologies—mechanical, digital, solar—and, more
crucially, because of its humanistic and intellectual idealism. Their
integration is evident in Leonardo’s famous drawing of “Vitruvian
man” inside a square and circle—in effect squaring the circle, a
seemingly impossible intellectual feat. Electros appropriates it, in
effect using it as his state of purpose. Leonardo’s Vitruvian man,
with his perfectly proportioned body and intellectual brilliance,
signifies the classical ideal of humanity. He can also be understood
as “intervening” in the cosmos by uniting its opposites, symbolized
by the square and circle, geometrical emblems of cosmic completeness.
Similarly, Electros’ art can be understood as an attempt to
unite humanism and technology, seemingly “cosmic” opposites.
Electros’ suggests that technology has a “higher” human purpose
as well as a “lower” instrumental purpose. Technology is useful,
but it also satisfies the existential need for transcendenceto
master nature with technology is to transcend it, to create an
aesthetic and intellectual margin of human freedom within it--as
Sidereal Spectacle makes clear.
An imaginative steel structure” in the shape “of a Giga coil,
”Sidereal Spectacle” is “a multiple system of air cooling ion reactors
one mile in height, built by aliens that will be capable to
provide energy all over the planet.” “A power supply collecting
loose universal solar energy,” it solves humanity’s biggest problem,
thus ensuring its survival, perhaps despite itself. Without
advanced technology to harness the forces of nature humanity
cannot survive. Electros is implicitly the brilliant alien who can
build the Sidereal Spectacle—the visionary artist who conceived
its fictional technology. He is an “alien artist”—an artist who
intervenes
in technology, which art is not supposed to do, since it
is presumably inherently irreconcilable with and alienated from
science and technology. Does Electros look to the Renaissance—to Vitruvian man, body and mind seamlessly together in one heroic
figure—because it was a time when art, science, and technology
were integrated, especially in the work of Leonardo? Electros
understands advanced technology, and the science behind it, as
few contemporary artists do, suggesting that he is not simply an
artist but a technologist. Or rather he safely navigates between
the Scylla of art and the Charybdis of technology without being
crushed by either.
Nonetheless, Electros’ work suggests that the power and
grandeur of technology have become greater than the power and
grandeur of art. Technology has usurped art’s place in the human
imagination, if only because it has become more absolutely necessary
for human well-being, and thus more important than art.
(Richard Huelsenbeck, the Dadaist-psychoanalyst, ironically noted
that modern man could live without art, which may be among the
reasons he lives longer than traditional man.) Today technology
certainly plays a greater, more vital, more crucial role in human
life than art does. “This kind of power plan is not yet possible to
be created,” Electros writes, referring to Sidereal Spectacle, “it
needs some kind of celestial intervention to be realized.” Electros’
celestial technology intervenes in art, lending art its power, and
giving it a new relevance to life, and a new aesthetics. Electros’
art draws on technology’s power, becoming as powerful as it,
suggesting that art inspired and informed by technology is the
future of art, and because of that the art that speaks directly to
the future of humanity.
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