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The Aesthetics of Technical
Difficulty
Mark Jones
If there can be three things said of the characteristics of electronic art
regardless of genre, they might be these:
- Electronic art is influenced by the limitations of technology
- Technical difficulties play a role in the very aesthetics of
electronic art
- Artists working in electronic art are as affected by the aesthetics
of failure as they are by their own concepts
By the aesthetics of technical difficulty, I don't mean the artistic
failure of the actual work itself from a critical point of view, but
rather the result of what happens when your computers crash, your internet
connection goes down, or your data projector blows up. I mean the quality
of a work in which everything comes to a brief (or perhaps not so brief)
standstill, and resulting responses of the artist and audience alike.
Having worked in and studied electronic art for the past eight years, I
know of very few works that have been technically trouble-free. And I
don't mean from within the production stage of a work, I mean when the
piece is mounted, performed, installed, whatever. There you are, all your
admirers observing the fine work you've spent plenty of sweat, time, and
probably some of your own money on, and seemingly out of nowhere something
goes wrong and your work basically shuts down. If you were a traditional
painter, this would be akin to the paint on your canvas suddenly beginning
to run while the latest batch of curious onlookers begin to wonder if you
actually meant for this to happen.
This issue of the aesthetics of technical difficulty came up recently
while I was in England giving a lecture to a group of performance students
at the University of Salford, which is within Manchester. We were
reviewing the limitation of the Internet in particular, and the daring
unpredictability of performances which depended on a certain amount of
bandwidth to feed audiences in other locations. As my cohort Steve Dixon
pointed out, low to medium bandwidth webcasted performances are often
reduced to shadows of their original selves: pixelated performers, rough
motion, shadows or halos following them around, choppy audio, and so on.
(If you've never seen this effect for yourself simply view any
low-bandwidth [28K] video clip with Real Player or another media viewer.)
His suggestions was that the visual quality of webcasted performances had
an aesthetic unto their own, independent of that of the original or of
traditionally televised performances, and that this quality should be
considered when planning webcasts. (Of course, this brings up another
interesting issue around technological classism: when I can afford a
faster connection than you, I have a better chance of receiving a webcast
that is closer to its original.)
To add to this train of thought, I reviewed several online performances in
which the Internet connection doesn't just slow down -- it dies, and the
technical people have great difficulty getting it re-established.
When painters study their craft, part of their training involves learning
different qualities of their tools and media: an acrylic paint will render
a different look from an oil-based or watercolour paint; painting on
canvas gives a different texture than painting on board. Likewise,
performers learn of how to play to different types of theatres: the way
you relate to an audience in a proscenium theatre is differently than that
of a theatre-in-the-round. These artistic practices aren't just about the
intent of the artist in the execution of their work, they are also about
the qualities that are imposed by their public environments, media, and
other external factors. You can't separate these things, and therefore to
these 'traditional' artistic disciples it becomes very important to
understand the relationship between the internal concept and the external
environment.
In industrialized nations, technology has become the hearth around which
we gather to warm our souls. We take its presence for granted; and yet,
anytime there is an interruption in its functionality, we are immediately
reminded of its limitations, and of the dangers that comes with investing
so much of our trust in it (been to California lately?). In spite of its
promise to the contrary, technology has made our lives more complicated by
imposing on it a series of concerns that are unique to the very
characteristics of its presence in our lives.
Did anyone really believe the rhetoric of the paperless society in the
early 1990s? Perhaps we all wanted to -- at the time. And this serves an
important lesson: the progress of technology, and indeed of society, is a
result of the tension that exists between the realities of today's
limitations and the hopes for tomorrow's promises. Just as a meditation
master's task is to stay in the moment while simultaneously understanding
the ultimate goal of a future enlightenment, we constantly wrestle with
the imperfections of our machines while trying to design ways to make it
more perfect, or at least error-free, next time.
Is a perfect technology possible? To suggest that is is contrary to the
nature of human creation -- even our bodies are imperfect. Some theorists
argue that the very evolution of human beings are being changed by the
impact of our technology, and that perhaps as a result, we are to become
more perfect.
But until that happens, the current reality is quite clear: our machines
are flawed. Things will crash. Bulbs will burn out. Power will fail. And
so, for an artist working in electronic media not to muse on the aesthetic
implications of technical failure in their work is like a painter who
doesn't want to bother with understanding how the type of paint he uses
affects his creation, or how an audience is affected by it.
This is not an easy thing to do. No one (at least no one I know of,
anyway) conceives a project with failure in mind. "Let's see, I have
three data projectors pointing to that white walls in the back, and the
soundscape is very sublime until an audience member walks in. Then,
suddenly, we blow a fuse! BRILLIANT!" The possible variations of
things that could go wrong are often so vast that to spend time
determining them would be considered a huge distraction by most artists.
Still, the issue remains. Maybe it's time some insightful curator or
director out there produced a show which triggered some thinking on this
subject. Until the aesthetics of technical difficulty begin to work their
way into the critical discourse of electronic art, we're all still just
whistling in the power failure.
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