Thursday, 27 January 2011
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
This is a link to the south sampler I put together today in anticipation of the workshop/seminar I'm presenting in February for the GLITS literature thingy:
stuff like this:
Before following any of the exercises contained in this sampler readers are urged to discover what ‘type’ they are by downloading a free version of the South book from this location:
Every good book needs a protagonist and luckily you’ve come along just in time to fulfil that role. According to How to Write a Blockbuster ‘characters provide readers with the emotional key, the route into your story’. This principle seems equally applicable to any decent guidebook or gazetteer, but the authors of this book also warn: ‘if your characters are flat and lifeless, no one will want to read it’.
Are you feeling flat and lifeless? You’re in for a pretty boring read if you are. Your job is ‘come alive’ so that I can just sit back and type. You should expertly discover who you ‘really’ are and help the rest of us to get to know you. You might of course be shy or introverted and reveal yourself just a little bit at a time, facet by facet as it were, or you might on the other hand just burst into life like a New Years Eve firework display along the Southbank. It’s up to you.
Other characters will be fleshed out by the people you’ll meet while reading this book, by friends and family, passing strangers and by me, the typist.
So what is South? South is an instrumental discrimination borne out of the fact that without a North there is no South. It is a navigational system created by your own networks of meaning. South is a reference axis emanating from the Southbank area of South London. It is perfectly possible to find a slippery surface, lay this book down upon it and spin it round to create a new orientation; perhaps we could call it Weast or the South East Pole as my Grandfather put it. Whatever name you choose, the particular form that your journey to this destination will take is the subject of this book. The author and publishers wish you great luck on your journey, however they would also like to point out that they cannot accept legal responsibility for any strangeness, temporal or subjective dislocation, psychogenic slippages or other oddities that might result from it.
How This Book Works
South may be represented as a radical form of construct elicitation or subjective geometry. The history of the South East Pole which is spread throughout this book as a distributed chapter (there is also an enhanced, computational version available on the web) describes the background to the development of the mysterious South system, explaining how it was formulated in the turmoil of the 1930’s and in the personal turmoil of its creator, my grandfather, Ivan Dâr. For those of you, who would like to read this history a complex navigational exercise will ensue, those of you who would like to jump straight into the South system can avail themselves forthwith of a rapid introduction:
The South software and a free download of the South book are all available on the web here: http://www.doc.gold.ac.uk/~ma501ed/south/south_Download.html
Before undertaking the core algorithms presented in this book the reader should complete a series of processes, these processes will help the South system to construct a hypothesis about you, or, what my grandfather called a psychogenic topology. Some of these processes take the form of ‘repertory grid’ tests, the investigation of your own networks of beliefs, which may also be called constructs. (Exactly how you use these tests will be explained in great detail) Other processes may be more familiar, such as multiple-choice questions involving five level Likert scales such as:
Please indicate how much you like bananas:
Not all 1 2 3 4 5 very much
Most of these processes use bipolar scaling methods, identifying the magnetic attraction of dichotomous concepts, discovering which pole a particular notion pulls you towards. Oddly numbered scales do not allow for equatorial malingering. Your ontological commitment is required at all times.
Before you depart it is crucial that you collect useful items to take with you, these items, if chosen well, MAY SAVE YOUR LIFE, so proceed with care.
Each of you should pick a word associated with the Southbank and the River Thames. It’s a good idea to test this word out loud before finally committing to it. The sorts of words I have found useful in the past have been BASTULE, RIVERINE, POWER-STATION, WATERLOO, SEA-CONTAINER and OXO. These are purely subjective choices and may be wildly different from your own word preferences. Unfortunately there is only room for one word on this expedition. On the whole, the better the word the greater its relative atomic mass.
You will also need to choose a colour out of RED, GREEN, VIOLET, BROWN, YELLOW, BLUE, GRAY and BLACK.
You should also choose between a FERN, a ROSE and a SUNFLOWER.
Please write in this book whenever instructed to do so. It will increase its second hand value as you are adding new content. Obsessive collectors will have an excuse to hunt down multiple copies. Others might swap copies on the Internet or sell them on Ebay etc. In no way should writing in this book be seen as damaging or undermining it. If the book is a library book however, you are entreated to use only the pages marked ‘Library Users’. Those who do write in library books should be aware that there is a special circle of hell awaiting you (see Dante Alighieri’s The Divine Comedy for more details).
Above, Dante’s special circle of hell for the perpetrators
of library book defacement.
The History of the South East Pole begins
The content of this book represents an attempted reconstruction following my grandfather’s fragmented and sometimes illegible notes. In reconstructing his system I have pieced together an instrument that deploys aspects of George Kelly’s repertory grid system, the I Ching, sir Francis Drake’s putative programming language Dra (later adapted by my grandfather to become the strongly situated language known as Dâr) and other processes that most closely approximate the schema my grandfather describes. The full extent of his method remains a mystery, what seems certain from the notes he did leave, is that a complete system was constructed and implemented, but in the intervening decades the full details of that implementation have somehow been lost or maliciously destroyed. We can only assume that this loss is irreversible. The system that I have salvaged from his legacy is, however, a powerfully interpolating assemblage of forces. Use them with discernment and the rewards will be numerous.
Like Aldous Huxley my grandfather embarked upon a mind-altering journey. I too have travelled that tenuous road in writing this text. The following algorithms expand upon the esoteric processes and transformations that entailed the writing of this book. These phenomena are in a state of flux, subject to erasure, scour, the pulling and pushing forces of the fluid and solid, the interplay of the exterior and the interior. Categorical descriptions of these processes are problematic. Perhaps, (and I suspect this more strongly as I experience the matrices of the South system), this ontological breakdown is what my grandfather had designed for his system all along. No doubt you will find your own answers and generate even more questions in engaging with it.
You are here to provide a point of view. You are the most important character in this book, so let’s establish some important facts about you.
Go to the twenty-one acres of the Southbank centre, walk along the Festival Terrace towards the National Theatre, regardless of the weather sit down outside the theatre complex and open this book at page 103
Criks: go to page 95
Make your way to the Skylon Restaurant, it offers a range of cocktails and an extensive wine list, as well as a modern British menu in stylish surroundings. But you won’t be enjoying any of this today. You are on an important mission that involves carefully watching and writing a meticulous report on a Lerq. Carry on up the staircase until you reach the wide balcony that overlooks the Festival Terrace; try to get a good overview of the area before proceeding to the darkly concrete environs of The National Theatre. Go to the terrace that looks down on the pavement outside (if you can afford it you could go to one of the flashy restaurants they’ve got up there, as long as you have a view of the area below). You should be reasonably tired by now having climbed those two sets of stairs, possibly more if you got lost. Good. A degree of physical exhaustion can make surveillance work easier; your legs won’t be itching to move on. Remember that this silent, isolated and analytical process, though in many ways at odds with your outward-looking character, is actually good for you and, more importantly, it’s good for this book as a whole.
As an Um you probably enjoy being outside amongst the crowds and thinking outside of yourself. Your energy flows outward. In the first stage of this journey you spent time listening, this can be quite a challenge for an Um, but no doubt you rose to that challenge. In the West Ums are probably the most appreciated of all the types identified by the South System. Your brain is a little different from the others too; some research suggests that your posterior thalamus and posterior insula are more active, making you highly attuned to sensory and emotional inputs. In the past you might have been characterised as having a choleric or sanguine temperament. Stereotypically, you should be a risk taker. Tempered by your social intelligence and talent for happiness you will make an excellent team leader. But how will you handle difficulties and periods of isolation? Try to spot a Lerq in the crowd below. A Lerq might be chracterised as your diametrically opposite charcter. Lerqs are stimultaed by their own company and by their own thoughts, they do not need others in the same way that you do. You can learn a lot about yourself by studying Lerqs. Try to imagine what thoughts and feelings they are experiencing that enable them to remain so self-contained. How could this Lerq way of being help you? Do you envy or reject it? How, if at all does your Um nature impede you in life? Write your answers here:
Now go to page 137
You Criks are enviably adaptable in social situations but we will not take advantage and subject you to an overly boisterous group of people. Instead you will visit the London Aquarium. There you will study the three-hearted genus Octopus. They too are adaptable, to the extent that they sometimes change colour to suit their surroundings.
Where do fish keep their cash?
Please note the London Aquarium tests its fire alarm system every Thursday between 10 am and 11 am, so try to look a bit surprised, perhaps even panic-stricken when it goes off.
Like any Crik an octopus is a flexible and intelligent creature. An octopus can camouflage itself by deploying incredible mechanisms; these include specialized skin cells that transform
the colour of its skin, including its reflectivity and opacity. Octopus can also change colour in order to communicate with other octopuses; these communications may be friendly or hostile. A blue-ringed octopus can make itself bright yellow with blue rings if it gets angry.
Extraordinarily some octopus like the Mimic Octopus have an additional defence mechanism, they can transform their flexible bodies and the colour of their epidermis to imitate more deadly creatures such as eels and sea snakes. They can also change the texture of their mantle to make it spiky like seaweed, or scraggly and bumpy like a rock.
But how does the octopus remember who it is? There is no subjective security in these transformations. How do you know who you are between one setting and another? In this condition of near non-being you must anchor your own being in your present state. This consists of a journey within a journey. My grandfather characterised this state as an egg within an egg, and sometimes as an empty egg.
Look into the face of the fish here, but also look at the faces of the other human visitors, can you find anyone (fish or human) who looks like yourself, or in some way feels like home? Do you like the look of this person/fish? If not why not? Write what this feels like. Perhaps you have had to compromise because no one really looks like or reminds you of yourself, in that case writes what that feels like. Does it make you feel lonely or unique, do you begin to feel any sense of yourself as a location? It has been said that octopus, like other cold blooded creatures, including fish, do not dream, some people think this is because their cold hearts heal quicker from trauma.
Now go to page 148
Degrees of freedom
If I am supposed to be writing an autobiography there is a fundamental flaw in the contract which my publishers have hitherto not noticed - there is no real ‘I’ to autobiographize. Although it is true I use this solitary symmetrical construction on a habitual basis. This ‘I’ of which there is no solid empirical evidence represents a vast number of un-useful habits – the continuous construction of un-resourceful representations, self destructive symbols, phobias and fear. Taking a small stroll through Borough Market will expose a cornucopia of such fears, the fear of not having material things and sensuous experiences, to name just two. You may retrace these steps yourself; beginning perhaps by the ship of avaricious cruelty we currently call the Golden Hind. A boat that represents every malignancy you can care to name. Start there, at this mendacious centre piece of Thames-side reverie.
Have I lost you yet? Who are you anyway? Those of you who are expecting to read a scientific treatise should already be dismayed by the subjective slant of my writing today. Others may be wondering what on earth I am doing using such resources – as the phobia, the displacement, the un-resourceful representation. Are these theoretical resources? Are you interested? Do they fit into a programming language as remotely valid entities?
My goal may once have been to make you all say a resounding communal ‘yes’ following a meticulous submission to the elegance of my logic. But there is no longer an ‘I’ to either persuade or be persuaded.
We are largely sets of unobservable relations, to even use that term implies an anthropocentrism I cannot support, nor yet can I support any form of essentialism. This is the world as I encounter it today. Tomorrow I plan to write a chapter on differential geometry and group theory that will clarify my slippery realism. I will present the case for manifolds, transformation groups and vector fields as fitting processes for a differential morphogenesis that works across both time and space, a philosophical terrain that consists of both the singular and the ordinary. In short a multiplicity, a set of relations and a rate of change.
Walk from the Golden Hind to Borough Market. You will surely become increasingly aware of gustatory representations. Can you resist them? What happens if you do? After 20 minutes suspend resistance, now what do you do? Write down exactly what happens. Describe before, after and during. Describe urges, flavours and regrets. Next time you come here do the same exercise. Note carefully any differences between each visit. In this way you will understand your own degrees of freedom.
Cartographies of Constraint
My parents always criticised me for my fear of bridges, which I now know is called ‘gephyrophobia’. We lived so close to Waterloo Bridge my parents were exasperated by the limitations my phobia created, by what they characterised as my ‘scenes’ and ‘tantrums’ every time we crossed to the North. I didn’t want to be criticised for my fear of bridges. I wanted them to accommodate it, but this was not possible. My father would carry me across the bridge screaming. My mother would stride across it, leaving me to choose between the twin horrors of bridge crossing or maternal abandonment. At about the age of five I began to devise strategies that would nowadays be characterised as tantamount to a neurotic compulsion, but which at the time I found absorbing and satisfactorily distracting.
Tunnels have never disturbed me. I could cycle to Greenwich and cross under the Thames, or, if I had the money take the underground from Waterloo to Embankment. It fascinated me to learn that London has not always been resplendent with bridges, until relatively late in its history I would have been able to traverse north and South via myriad ferries, and thence drawn no attention to my phobia. But, as the London of my youth was, as far as I was concerned, over accommodated with bridges, I began necessarily to impose a range of restrictions and complex procedures upon myself, like an inverted version of the Bridges of Göttingen problem. I challenged myself to move through London with the maximum amount of riverine proximity without actually crossing any bridges. Though I have no liking for railway or motorway bridges, it is particularly bridges over bodies of water that terrify me. But my permutations and schedules of algorithms somehow mitigated my fear. In this way I gradually also eroded my desire for parental praise. My parents had no appreciation for my search algorithms so instead I sought praise from myself and lived in fear of my own disapprobation. I was like a rat who had built a maze for himself from which I desperately needed to escape, by exhausting all sets of combinations. A problem I am still trying to solve.
Lesson: What seems like a solution to one problem can cause even more inconvenience than the originating predicament.
The New York Thruway Authority will lead gephyrophobiacs over the Tappan Zee Bridge. A driver can call the authority in advance and arrange for someone to drive the car over the bridge for them. The authority performs the service about six times a year.[
^ a b c Foderaro, Lisa W. (January 8, 2008). "To Gephyrophobiacs, Bridges Are a Terror.". New York Times. http://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/08/nyregion/08bridge.html?_r=1&oref=slogin&pagewanted=all. Retrieved 2008-01-08. "Mrs. Steers, 47, suffered from a little-known disorder called gephyrophobia, a fear of bridges. And she had the misfortune of living in a region with 26 major bridges, whose heights and spans could turn an afternoon car ride into a rolling trip through a haunted house."
^ "Gephyrophobia: A Fear Of Crossing Bridges. Even Before The Minnesota Collapse, Many Have Severe Phobia About Bridges.". CBS News. August 10, 2007. http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2007/08/10/eveningnews/main3156354.shtml. Retrieved 2008-01-08. "The monster she fears is the Chesapeake Bay Bridge in Maryland. At four miles (6 km) long and 185 feet (56 m) high, Ayers says the thought of driving the bridge - with the way it rises straight in the air - raises a sense of panic in her."
^ "Reasonable fear or bridge phobia?". USA Today. August 8, 2007. http://www.mywire.com/pubs/USATODAY/2007/08/08/4184015?extID=10051. Retrieved 2008-01-08. "Jerilyn Ross, a psychotherapist and president of the Anxiety Disorder Association of America, notes that phobias are more than just being afraid of a certain object; they are marked by panic. Someone with gephyrophobia is afraid of panicking on a bridge, not necessarily the bridge itself, she says."
About your egg
The egg is a proto-novel, a book waiting to be hatched. We suggest you keep the egg close to you for the first few days. If you have spare folds of fat this is great, you can tuck the egg into them. Otherwise you might like to keep the egg in your pocket or under your jumper while watching television. When the egg has reached a temperature of about 67 degrees your book is ready to be hatched. Grab this book, head down to the Southbank, turn the egg on and take it for walk. By pressing the forward and backward buttons at the back of your egg you can experience the enhanced navigational range of this book. This will involve going up its stairs and through its secret tunnels, scampering over its many rooftops, clambering along ridges and down into its green valleys to find new and previously undiscovered pages. The book is designed to be smudged, thumbed, bumped, riffled through, used as a pillow, an occasional table and drawing book. It is also a form of compass. One way or another, (if you stay on Earth) this book will always point towards the South, just like your egg.
The largest of Ivan’s notebooks was held together by green garden twine.
I begin to read it as the light of the longest day faded:
‘The memories of what I have witnessed act as a filter, but they are only a map of these events and not the actual terrain upon which they unfolded. In 1963 Dr Eee at the Callois Wing of ST Thomas’s hospital advised me to listen to my own language in deconstructing these memories, in order to expose my own filters, the deletions distortions and generalisations that I have unconsciously passed these memories though and made into a baseline habitual state.
My representational filters, explained Dr Eee, include the feelings both inside and outside of the body, but unfortunately I was not in a position to identify these apparently polarised locations. I heard a voice describing these disembodied kinaesthetic phrases: “there is somewhere solid, tickle, preserve pain in the neck warm”. Dr Eee told me that it was my own voice recorded under hypnosis, but I did not recognise it. I was advised by Dr Eee to use breaks and redirections such as Goto and delay – much like those used in my early computer programs, in fact I was constantly minded of these similarities which Dr Eee seemed oblivious too.
I wanted him to praise me for my superhuman efforts in deconstructing my habitual predicates or the language of my preferred representational system, but this desire was itself characterised by Dr Eee as an equally filtered preference for self-talk, which Eee called an auditory digital preference. This was revealed in my frequent use of words such as sense, learn, perceive conceive and process. I nagged at myself continually with these vocabularies, to the degree that they pulled me into a semi-hypnotic negative trance, in which I was profoundly entrenched in my own thinking and negative imaginings that took me deeper and deeper into consistent anchors or triggers. In a sense I was hypnotizing myself with my own language. But was Dr Eee right in his conviction that changing my language would change my life? Wasn’t the fact that I was so often lost in space evidence that my location in the world was dependent on more than language alone?’
So here you are sitting outside the National Theatre on what is probably quite an unpleasant day. Perhaps you are trying not to concentrate on the negative aspects of this space. Your pain threshold in all probability is quite low, that’s not to imply you are a weakling or a whinger but to suggest that you often find things difficult (even intolerable). You are sensitive to your environment, sensitive to sound and smell. Other people may be intruding upon you right now with their noise and their annoying habits. Despite all these distractions you will probably be interested to know that someone is imagining your life. They are trying to imagine not only what you are doing right now but also why you are doing what you do. They may be observing you from the heavy concrete balconies above. You can try looking for them in the crowds but their number is legion (at least it should be if anyone actually buys this book). If things have been timed properly they will be writing detailed descriptions of you right now. Try not to feel self-conscious or bad about what they might be observing. You are being monitored all the time in this city so you should be used to it by now.
There are many different ways of feeling bad, no doubt during your trips to the Southbank you will experience several of them. That is so often the Lerq way. We highly recommend the following exercise as a counteracting measure to your multifarious bad states.
Practice not expressing unpleasant emotions, not 'identifying' with them but merely observing them. Practice not 'considering inwardly' the real or imagined opinions of others towards yourself, but merely observing them.
Now go to page Error! Bookmark not defined. (I don’t think the author has a clue)
Apparently authors should never allow their subjects to occupy more than one point of view at the same time. Let’s test this out right now here on the Southbank. Note the use of third person perspective in the opening sentence, this is a smoke screen designed to lull readers into a form of third person hypothermia. Now you are in this befuddled and even combative state watch out for further signs such as apathy, confusion and PARADOXICAL UNDRESSING.
This third person state can usually be managed with passive re-warming. This method relies on the victim's own production of specific subjectivity to re-warm the body. After wet perspectives have been removed and the skin dried, the victim should be wrapped in the infinite, warm regress of first person perspective, blankets, towels, or whatever else is available. We will now begin the non-Euclidean observation process. Return to one of the balconies along the Festival Terrace or a craggy overhang on the North face of the National Theatre complex. From there position yourself so that you have a good view of yourself in the area below. This is not hard to achieve with a little resourcefulness. You could try to imagine that one of the people sitting below you sipping a frothy cappuccino is you; if, for example, you had been born a few degrees further South or North, with one different parent or a dash of GM.
Describe that person in great detail. Where do they come from, what do they want, how do they hold themselves, what does their body language suggest to you?
Does this person look like they live to seek the thrill of a moment and yet although they are independent, outgoing and assertive they are also surprisingly trusting, often innocently walking into the lion's den at times? No matter what upheaval, challenge or triumph they confront – do they have a wonderful ability to bounce back?
Or does their life somehow fall short of their childhood dreams? Do their eyes often blaze with feelings that words never express?
Write everything you know about this person in the area below; when you have finished describing them turn your gaze upon yourself in the act of observing your self. Describe what you look like and feel like when you watch yourself:
Lerqs >>>> Make up a more expressive word for ‘lost’
Criks >>>> Trip on an invisible wire.
Ums >>>>> Kiss your own elbow
(The above examples are entirely facetious)
Write something here
6. ennui (look it up)
7. mendacity (ditto)
All types: answer the following questions about the River Thames >>>
Is it an extrovert or an introvert?
Is it lazy or energetic?
What kind of house would it like?
Is it happy or unhappy?
What job does it have?
What is its favourite colour?
How does it feel first thing in the morning?
If it was a film-star who would it be?
What does it smell of?
Who is its best friend?
What is its favourite song?
What gender is the Thames?
Michel Foucault’s Technologies of the Self:
Aspley Cherry-Garrards the Worst Journey in the World:
© dare 2011
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
note to self: having re-read Barad on diffraction this afternoon realise I should add some stuff
about Agential Realism and the non-representational,
about Agential Realism and the non-representational,
performative nature of my encounter with this photograph. Looking at Representation as a way of holding the world at arms length and assuming an a priori ontological separation.
Tensers and detensers; lost memories and embodied traces in the Marriage of Eliza Dagworthy 1915
Like many people I have gaps in my memories, and thus in the symbolic narrative of my life. Before the age of nine my childhood memories are largely without detail. By and large those years may therefore be described (at least by convention) as ‘lost’. As a visual artist and artist-programmer the notion of such an aporia or cognitive deficit is particularly problematic. In the absence of representation what, if anything, can be retrieved, and what exactly can be communicated to others? In a wider philosophical sense such questions of representation and stable meaning have a high degree of cultural urgency. Marita Sturken (1999) urges us to examine the ‘cultural encoding of forgetting as a loss or negation of experience’ (1999: 252). Her question ‘what is an experience that is not remembered?’ (234) is one of the fundamental riddles of my own childhood. Sturken asks us to question the presumption that unmemorised experiences should be framed as a ‘loss of self’, and a ‘loss of subjectivity’ (243). These are critical questions in the context of my own research into amnesia.
Lost Memories and embodied traces is an idea for a computationally based project about the representation of my missing childhood memories. The focus of the project will be to explore the notion that memory is not an exact replica of events but is pieced together in a dynamic process that is strongly influenced not only by past experiences but by social contexts and sensory responses. In this colloquium I would like to present my ideas for the Lost Memories and embodied traces project, explaining how the project will attempt to establish a theoretical framework for embodied autobiography while also creating an installation that will communicate auto-biographical content via sensory technologies. I should emphasise that although my own memories (and one particular family photograph) are the focus for this work, it us not a discourse on individualism, exorcism or ahistoricsm.
A core conceptual focus of the project is the idea that memory is not located in individuals, objects, or social systems alone, but is spread across complex social, technological, cognitive and biological systems. The project therefore aims to develop a conceptually innovative methodological and practice based focus for the exploration of memory.
The title of this paper might suggest that I am naive enough to be seeking what Italo Calvino described as a “true, total photograph” (1971). In this case, the photograph in question is of banal appearance, schematized into drab frontal poses and austere wedding outfits. But the photograph retains a dense impenetrability despite its many platitudes. One strategy in approaching the impenetrability of this image might be to deploy a Barthesian scheme of de-authentication, in this case by proving to myself and to you that it is not in fact a photograph or a representation but an event. I might dissolve this image by means of the opacity of my own projected desires. But in doing so would I also be dismantling Roland Barthes’s Camera Lucida, demolishing his bi-polar constructions of the punctum and the studium, (binary concepts of affect and intellect) and also destabilising the presumed codelessness of the photograph, by coding it back into my embodied memories?
My interest is not in forming a vituperative attack upon the putative agents (and agencies) that might have contributed to my childhood amnesia, or in dismantling the reputation of Roland Barthes, but, like W.G Sebald’s character Austerlitz, my concern is to investigate and articulate that which so stolidly resists a direct approach. As Proust wrote in relation to the past: ‘it is a labour in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect’ (Proust, 1913).
I have not accepted Proust’s assertion at face value but instead have used it as the catalyst for my core research questions, which are as follows:
• In light of Proust’s assertion what representative realm does the past (here taken to mean memories of the past) inhabit?
• If it is beyond symbolic/intellectual representation what other forms of articulation are available?
• Is there such a thing as somatisation of memory, or, less contentiously, embodied memory?
• Is memory itself an idealised notion – like that of the stable, originary subject?
•What is the relationship of time to memory, can we even be certain that a rigidly tensed time exists?
My attempts to address these questions have so far taken the form of generating two artist’s books and writing image manipulation software that uses EEG (Electroencephalography, the detection of the electrical signals emanating from the head) and GSR (Galvanic skin response, sometimes known as a ‘lie detector’) biosensors. The research has also drawn upon Philip Ausslander’s notion of ‘the performativity of performance documentation’ (the title of his 2006 paper), Peter Fritzsche’s paper ‘The Case for Modern Memory’ (2001), and, of course, Roland Barthes’s Camera Lucida (2000) among many other sources, including populist texts and Wikipedia articles about improving memory, losing memory and theories of forgetting.
This background research supports my plans for a complex installation/performance piece about lost memories. I would like to explain these practices and solicit critical feedback, relating to what, I am the first to admit, is a problematic and highly contested field, but it is also one that has both cultural and personal significance. As Peter Fritzsche writes, ‘the narrative of autobiography is both extremely durable and surprisingly weak, and it is this tension that gives life writing its dynamic and urgency’ (Fritzsche, 2001).
The first action I decided to take in attempting to examine my own amnesia was to create a book, arguably the reactive behaviour of a book-artist. But in the absence of coherent material what was I to put in such a book? Of course I am not the first person to try and represent absence in lexical form. Georges Perec’s novel, La Disparition (The Void, 1969), is a book without the letter e. These gaps represent, or so we might conjecture, the absence, and indeed, the murder in Auschwitz of his own mother. In a similar vein Austerlitz (2001) by W.G Sebald is a 428-page book without paragraph indentations. The book articulates absence through an embarrassment of riches or non-sequiturs – architectural and historical details as well as mystifying photographs that painfully magnify autobiographic lacunae. For my own book, Method of Loci (2011), the only content I have been able to draw upon is that which is publicly available, as I have no childhood photographs apart from one passport image dated 1971.
The child who looks out at me from that old blue passport is apparently lost to my adult self and to my adult memory structures. In the absence of other materials I have resorted to documenting web-based images of places, feelings and textures, symbols of fragments that have traveled with me into adulthood. These include low-resolution images of a church hall play group on One Tree Hill in South London which I attended in the mid 1960’s, the first road I lived in, swarming ants, black and white kitchen tiles, and Tom Thumb cigarillos, which my grandmother used to smoke while knitting, engulfed in a musky blue miasma. It was in documenting generalized memories into this book that I re-discovered online the old photograph that has become the loci of memory for this project.
The book, with that one exception, is therefore constructed from generalities, which might be characterised as ‘frames’ or ‘scripts’ in the language of artificial intelligence – declarative attempts to logically reconstruct human processes of remembering. These are contrived sets of structures amidst the chaos of missing data, not unlike the lexical structures assembled by Perec and Sebald.
Having constructed a book solely consisting of photographic images, some of which represent non-visual qualia such as postures, smells, sounds and felt textures, I then constructed a second book, Loci of Memory, which consists only of texts, though I have subsequently added a few drawings. These texts represent academic, populist and fictional accounts of memory loss and memory retrieval, as well as my written responses to them. Thus these books represent both reconstructed subjective memory fragments sourced from public data and collective accounts of memory also sourced from publicly available information.
I drew upon the data contained in Loci of Memory to try and construct a morphology of my own amnesia and would briefly like to outline my responses to the major theories of forgetting.Theories of forgettingMemory, like visual perception, while existing within discourse and ideology, is at the same time a physical entity, not just within the biological body but also within objects, such as memory foam, lazy battery effect, computers and, of course, as a biological mechanism in animals, including ourselves. Many difficulties arise when we relate conceptual scientific models of memory to the biological brain. Though there are apparently some physical structures that relate to the operation of proposed conceptual processes the operation of the brain bares very little resemblance to a computational model and indeed, is not modular in form.
Thus, the most dominant linear models of memory do not apply to our biological brains, which are fragmented and engaged in complex, distributed processes. Likewise, the dominant functional theories of forgetting are reductionist and cognitivist i.e. characterized as discrete linear processes such as encoding, storage and retrieval. These rely on information processing paradigms of cognition that have reified computational representations of human memory. The first major scientific and systematic theorist of forgetting was Hermann Ebbinghaus (1850 -1909), who proposed a logarithmic, exponential (gradually decreasing) theory of forgetting, which appears to hold up in relation to very specific situations, such as memorising nonsense syllables, but is apparently not scalable to memory in all its complex forms, including the loss of episodic or auto-biographical content (Foster, 2009:11).
More recently Daniel Schacter’s seven major categories of memory ‘sins’ (1996) involve sins of omission that involve forgetting, and sins of commission that involve distorted or unwanted recollection. The full seven so-called ‘sins’ are: transience, absent-mindedness, blocking, misattribution, suggestibility, bias, and persistence. But, Like many theories that relate to memory, they are unprovable and also unfalsifiable or based upon the closed paradigms of evolutionary biology, however Shachter’s insight that ‘the act of remembering is a subjective experience, in which memories are records of how one has experienced events rather than replicas of the events themselves’ is significant and sometimes forgotten in the mass of literature relating to memory. However, as Sturken (1999) points out, there have been ‘only a small number of empirical studies that examine the question of memory repression’ (233), and yet she also asserts the inadequacy of empirical research to ‘address the status of memory’ (233). An aporia that is ripe for artistic inquiry, for the imaginative and independent forms of research practice that Graeme Sullivan(2005) advocates - an alternative practice that is ‘incisive, robust, and fearless…willing to explore all kinds of theories and practices of inquiry in all types of settings’ 
The cognitive neuroscientist Michel Gazzaniga has stated “Everything in life is memory, save for the thin edge of the present” (Foster, 2009:2). This is a challenging statement in light of my own claims to have very little memory of childhood. If memory is everything, then how have I survived thus far with such glaring gaps? Upon further investigation I have refined my self-characterization into the more specific statement that I have poor episodic memory, this in turn, relates to OGM or over generalized memory. OGM is characterised by a lack of spatio-temporal context. However, Gazzaniga’s assertion is not without ideological significance and should not be taken as an unassailable statement of fact. When he says everything is memory, this is perhaps an over generalised memory of memory. Likewise there are pressing theoretical arguments for tenselessness that refute Gazzaniga’s belief in a thinly edged present, let alone a past represented through memories.
Serious doubts about the absolute value of time were implicit in Einstein’s conception of simultaneity (1905), in which time is dependent on both observers and on space, thus undermining Newton’s absolute belief in its ontological independence. Hilary Putnam (1967) extended this theory into tenselessness, the counter intuitive refutation of our belief in a tensed temporality. Instead he proposes a transitive and relational coordinate system of unprivileged observers situated at different coordinate points in space and time.Putnam’s simultaneity model of tenseless time.
Memory, like visual perception and the passage of time cannot be directly or absolutely observed, they are invisible processes (I shall address imaging technologies later on in this paper). The solipsistic and recursive proposal that we draw upon a ready made, a priori internal model of the world (constructed at some earlier point from memories) in order to navigate it is highly contested, and cuts to the core of the most pressing philosophical problems within the domain of computing and artificial intelligence – how we represent human knowledge and experience.
These issues have been critiqued by, among others, Lucy Suchman, (2007) Alva Noe (2004, 2009), Maturana, Varela, Rosch and Thompson (1991), Shaun Gallagher (2005), Antonio Damassio (1999), Karen Barad (2007) and Hubert Dreyfus (1972). However both Bergson and Proust complicate this issue with plausible notions that perception is a form of memory, indeed, with the idea that perception is not representation, but memory in the service of action.
I am not supporting the total abandonment of a priori structures but emphasising the dynamism and fluidity of our being in and of the world, which, to quote Maturana and Varela, ‘we bring forth in our coexistence with others, will always have precisely that mixture of regularity and mutability, that combination of solidity and shifting sand, so typical of human experience when we look at it up close’ (Maturana, Varela, 1992:241).
Psychological theories of memory and forgetting are no less controversial, particularly theories of repression and trauma-memory arguments, including explanations for amnesia relating to childhood sexual abuse, which raise the spectre of false memory syndrome, something I am of course not in a position to prove or dispute, I concur with Marita Sturken’s assertion that it is an issue that is ‘essentially irresolvable’ (1999), one that needs to be examined in a wider cultural framework.
Various feminisms, as Elizabeth Wilson states in Psychosomatic, Feminism and the Neurological Body, (2004) have largely dismissed biological accounts of embodied memory in their narratives of hysteria, somatisation or conversion, instead they have sought what Wilson describes as ’ideational’ explanations, relating to culture, signification or sociology (Wilson, 2004:5). Notable exceptions are feminist theorists of embodiment, such as Vicki Kirby (1997) Elizabeth Grosz (1994) and Elizabeth A. Wilson (2004) herself, who urges us to re-examine and to some extent theoretically reclaim the biological body and mind, thus eschewing the huge corpus of theory (if you’ll forgive the pun) which is predicated on a mind body split, from Descartes to Showalter’s writing on hysteria (1985).
However, I am not supporting a polarized stance on this subject, Elizabeth Grosz’s image of the Möebius strip is an apt metaphor for the complexity of mind-body integration and also I would suggest, the non-linear inter-relationship of materiality, culture, discourse and biology. The Möebius strip has also been used to illustrate the non-orientability of Spacetime in which the past and the future can be folded into each other.
My subjective, experiential response to these varied theories of forgetting is that there are entangled biological and social reasons for my own childhood amnesia. Episodic, or autobiographical memory loss is related to stress. My own childhood semantic and procedural memories are intact, but these are typically robust in the face of stress and ‘encoded’ differently from autobiographic content. Current theories propose that episodic memory is transferred from short-term memory to the hippocampus, which is especially vulnerable to adrenal (stress) hormones. The presence of such hormones can cause neural degeneration and thus a compromised episodic memory. Of course it is very difficult to quantify stress but my subjective assertion is that the experience of childhood maternal abandonment at some point between the age of three and five was both psychologically and biologically stressful and that this stress continued into early adolescence.
A bio-chemical account of my own amnesia is more compelling then the trauma-memory argument. In a study of 10,000 trauma survivors (Pope, Hudson, Bodkin & Olivia, 1998) found there were virtually none who suffered from trauma-amnesia. Indeed my own memory of the ‘private’ trauma of maternal abandonment is clearer than the events that surround it (though never conforming to full a blown narrative, but more akin to an unedited film without a script (Sturken, 1991: 235), in which I am always an external observer). This is in keeping with models of memory that posit (in certain circumstances) the negative and traumatic as more memorable then the neutral or pleasant .
The thin edge of the present: memory and the concept of now
Michel Gazzaniga’s statement “Everything in life is memory, save for the thin edge of the present” (Foster, 2009:2), is at odds with other neuro-scientific accounts of experience, in particular those of Francisco Varela, Evan Thompson and Eleanor Rosch (1993). It is also at odds with philosophies associated with Varela and Maturana’s enactivism, including Bergsonian Process philosophy, Buddhism and Nils Bohr’s principle of complementarity (1933-), the idea that items can have contradictory properties and subsequent conceptions of quantum level behaviour and the influence of observers on events. Between them these bodies of thought may be drawn upon to support a conception of human experience that is contingent, unfolding and for want of a better term, always occurring, or entangled within, the present. In Bergsonian terms time is a non-discrete, flowing duration (which is not, perhaps as radical as Putnam’s detensing).
My work with biosensors aims to explore a more process based conception of memory, and to test the distributions of agencies that relate to the way we remember what we call the ‘past’ through what we call the ‘present’ through the body. I propose that the body is always entangled with the past, and is in fact in both places at once – the past and the present.The Marriage of Eliza Dagworthy, 1915 has become the focus for my work with biosensors and image manipulation techniques. But of course an image is not a memory or a fixed reality and to treat is as such is to enter perilous theoretical territory, but as W.J.T Mitchell (Mirzoeff, 1998) warns in relation to the post-modern presumption of the non-naturalness of images,
the naturalistic fallacy should not become an:unexamined dogma, it threatens to become a fallacy just as disabling as the naturalistic fallacy it sought to overturn. To what extent is vision unlike language, working (as Roland Barthes, 1982, observed of photography) like a message without a code? In what ways does it transcends specific or local forms of social construction to function like a universal language that is relatively free of textual or interpretive elements? (We should recall that Bishop Berkeley, 1709, who first claimed that vision was like a language, also insisted that it was a universal language, not a local or national language.) To what extent is vision not a learned activity, but a genetically determined capacity, and a programmed set of automatisms that has to be activated at the right time, but that are not learned in anything like the way that human languages are learned?(W.J.T Mitchell in Mirzoeff, 1998: 91).
The photograph entitled The Wedding of Eliza Dagworthy is the Loci of memory for an investigation into the ontological integrity of both memory and photographic images, enabling me to test their distributions within both cultural and non-cultural dimensions. The image is particularly significant in light of Marianne Hirsch’s (1997) concept of post-memory, or ‘the experience of those who grew up dominated by narratives that preceded their birth’ (Hirsch, 1997:23). My paternal grandparents, and to a slightly lesser extent, my own parent’s lives were temporally and experientially anchored to the second world war, events were defined as having taken place before, during or after it. The war was their compass point, indeed, I think of my own birth date as ’20 years after the end of the war’, something my grandparents must have instilled in me by example.
The Wedding of Eliza Dagworthy 1915, was taken one year into another defining war, and arguably represents the entangled nature of the personal and the historical, family history and national history. Within my practice this photograph also relates to the performativity and dynamism of documenting events and to the embodied nature of both photography and memory. Peter Fritzsche writes that the:
capacity to picture oneself recapitulates the method of historicism in which the specificity of the case is associated with the strictures of periodicity. In other words, the remembering self should be regarded as a historical rather than a transcendental subject, if it is an entity formed by the practices of social life and does not stand ready-made on its outskirts’ (Fritzsche, 2001).
The Wedding of Eliza Dagworthy apparently presents a hackneyed trope of yokels in their best clothes standing outside their family farm in South Devon, it is superficially reminiscent of Lark Rise to Candleford (1945) or Cider with Rosie (1959). A quick troll through the world-wide-web will reveal many such images of wedding groups standing stiffly outside English farms. However on close examination only one or two members of the Dagworthy wedding party can bring themselves to present full smiles. Perhaps the subjects are bored or aching, having stayed in the same stiff postures for several minutes? Everyone has long sleeves and the flowers are restricted to white roses or carnations, an indication that it is early spring and that there is an uncomfortable chill in the air? Or perhaps there is a deeper reason for their half smiles. The clothes are not fashionable, the ugly outsized hats are from an earlier era and the women’s dresses are also unfashionably long, indicative of both the economic situation of the family and the fact that the war has been going on now for a year.
We can see then that the counter-narrative of this image is rapidly emerging, and is quite separate from the ostensible theme of a happy rural marriage. As Roland Barthes writes, it presents ‘an altogether different ‘script’ from the one of shots, sequences and syntagms’ (Barthes, 1988:57). But the punctum of this image (that which both wounds me and connects me to it, as opposed to the studium or intellectual content) is not the economic restraint of the situation or the stereotypically unfashionable dress of rural families. It is historical and personal, the knowledge that many of the young men in the villages of Woodbury and Woodbury Salterton are away at war. Those with the Devonshire regiment are stationed in India, Egypt, Iraq and Italy, undoubtedly their first trips abroad. Perhaps even their first time out of the county of Devon. An additional punctum or piercing element in this image is also represented by the absence of my great grandfather who I presume has just died in his late thirties or forties, and by the forlorn presence of my own three year old grandmother, Amelia Dagworthy, who will one day have to look after myself and my siblings after we are suddenly abandoned by our own mother. She is standing unsteadily at the front of the group, frowning at the photographer.
This impression of loss is at odds with the national image of its time, of necessary sacrifice and patriotic fervor. It is at odds with a telelogical picturing of history, as a path towards progress despite wars and premature, violent deaths. As Peter Fritzsche (2001) writes, ‘the power of national memory is indisputable and is manifest again and again in its ability to keep other pasts and other renditions from articulating themselves’ (Fritzsche, 2001). But are these false divisions –between the punctum and the studium, the pain of the punctum is informed by my socio-historical and cultural knowledge of what this image represents. I am not convinced the division is real, nor am I yet to be convinced that they meet in a via media such as Bergson’s conception of intuition. (But I’d really like to know what other people present here think about this.)
Aside from Barthes’s division of images, this image is also representative of gaps between local memory and national memory, and ‘it is precisely the instability of memory forms’ their fragmented, interiorized nature, that allows for renewal and redemption’ and resists official accounts’ according to Fritzsche (2001). In other words, localised memory might generate counter narratives that are at odds with idealised nationalistic histories. But to make greater truth claims for family histories and family photographs is also to deny the presence of constrained memories within those families, indeed ‘the subjective capacity ensures confusion because it makes human beings doubly historical. It engages them simultaneously in the socio-historical process and narrative constructions about that process’ (Michel-Rolph Trouillat, 1995). As Annette Kuhn writes of her own family images, they do not represent a transcendental reading, but a ‘timefull, contingent, and historically situated reading’ (Fritzsche citing Kuhn, 2001).
In relation to the conditions of my own childhood a deep-seated cultural suppression is at play. In spite of the shock and incomprehension that was customarily offered to us as a response to our own childhood abandonment, (this was in an era just before the liberalisation of Britain’s divorce laws) such abandonment is not historically rare, or biologically inconsistent. Indeed there have been what Sarah Blaffer Hrdy (2000) describes as ‘epidemics’ of both infant abandonment and infanticide:
The ethnographic record for numerous pre-technological societies shows that infanticide is considered the best option for a mother who knows that her child will not survive and who may jeopardise the mother's own survival. Nor is this suspension of the maternal instinct limited to supposed savages. For the past millennium, Europeans under legal and religious constraints preventing them from killing their children have still opted to abandon them whenever opportunities arose. By 1640, 20 per cent of baptised babies in France were being left at state orphanages. Anonymity in this and other depositaries was preserved by ringing a bell and placing the baby in a rotating barrel in the wall, to be received on the other side. In lean times, grills had to be placed across the opening to prevent older children being shoved in as well. Whenever philanthropists opened orphanages, they were immediately flooded. It seems that women's desire to abandon their children has always been underestimated.
(Thomas Sambrook, 2000).
Amnesia relating to children’s experiences is not limited to my own childhood memories; it has deep seated implications for our understanding of the historical realities of family life and the conditionality of parental attachment. The conditionality of that attachment is very well articulated by Thomas Sambrook:
In the 1960s and 1970s, John Bowlby revolutionised this field by putting mother-infant attachment in the context of evolutionary adaptiveness. He envisaged the child's attachment to the mother to be based on the perils of predators and the like. Hrdy's "modest addendum" is that what the Pleistocene infant really dreaded was not a hungry hyena, but a much more likely threat - the possibility of abandonment. Nor need this have been an all-or-nothing thing. Infanticide lies at one end of a continuum of maternal retrenchment, psychological withdrawal and denial of resources (2000).
The photograph of Eliza Dagworthy’s wedding seems similarly ambivalent, withdrawing and denying an umbilical nexus, in this case, with the past. However, despite its ambivalence and the generality of its composition, I still recognize myself in the image of my great aunt Eliza’s marriage, and also likenesses to my father, my uncles, my younger half brother, my sisters, and my grandmother. But should I ask myself as Barthes does, ‘who is like what?‘ (Barthes, 2000:100). Am I imagining an identity in these fragments of myself and my living relatives - scrying a ‘truth of lineage’ as Barthes calls it (103), a generalised ‘persistence of the species’(105), an identity that is at odds with reality of this image? For, in addition to my own memories the photograph, like all photographs, in its ‘seizing of a moment always, even in that very moment, assures loss’ (Kuhn, 2002).
As Fritzshe states ‘in this view photography is the very expression of Terdiman’s “memory crisis”, at once creating a documentary record of the past to fashion a sense of continuity and performing the anxiety about the durability and authenticity of the connections that have been established’ (2001).
Do I imagine the loss and anger of my infant grandmother? I am oddly shocked and repulsed by the presence of Reverend Chase in this image and his proximity to her, who despised religious figures. One of her most virulent dying wishes was that the family shouldn’t let priests get hold of her. During my research I came across accounts of war recruitment campaigns in rural Devon, supported by the local churchmen, and wondered if they had been the seed of her hatred for religious and other authorities. I wonder how unique her attitude was? I had always imagined it as a subjective trait, particular to my eccentrically rebellious grandmother, but my readings suggest a local stance of disdain for the war recruiters, I can hear her voice, her sarcasm in their responses:
Up to date, 26 names had been enrolled but, comments "The Western Morning News" representative who accompanied the march: "The apathy of the young men in the country districts is, in many cases, almost unbelievable. Beyond all doubt, much of the blame rests with the farmer's sons, who, if they choose, could set an excellent example to the labouring classes". At Buckland Brewer, for instance, half a dozen stalwart labourers were appealed to, but their reply was "We'll go when the farmers' sons go. Let them lead the way."When especially interrogated by Mr. Millman, one young farmer replied, "We'll stay at home and do the farming; let others do the fighting." Similar excuses were heard at Parkham. "Us farmers' sons be going to stay home and look after the grub and the money," was the answer actually given. "But look at this man, " said the questioner, bringing forward one of the soldiers. "He has been to the front and done his share. Won't you join and help the others?" "I never asked him to go," said the unwilling farmer. "I won't join, so there." "Then you ought to be kicked!" was the well-merited reply. Frequent excuses were: " I'll go when I'm compelled,"
My grandmother despised those she was supposed to look up to and respect, including Winston Churchill, the Queen Mother, religious leaders. Her hatred for them went hand in hand with her hatred of all nationalism and sentimentality. I wonder if these traits were forming as this image was taken, whether she was even then harbouring resentment towards the sentimentality and mendacity of this photograph itself?
And yet my own reactions to this image fluctuate; I observe that they are in process. Do these fluctuations point to the contingency of memory itself or the subject who ‘holds’ these memories, if they are even seperable? I suspect the obvious answer is that it points to the contingency of them both. One day while looking at this image I felt a kick in my stomach, a moment of visceral shock. It was not a moment of logical analysis. I realised that we were both, in a sense, abandoned and betrayed by our parents at about the same age, the age my grandmother is in that photograph. So much made sense to me after I felt this, perhaps even my choice to work with this image out of all the many images I had amassed for this project.
What else might my body tell me? Was I remembering or reconstructing? Was this deductive logic, embodied knowledge, or Bergsonian intuition? More importantly, what might my body tell you about my memories and about the nature of memory itself? In other words, what is there beyond a textual reading of this image, beyond my previous exegesis? I wonder if there are other responses that might disrupt my own narratives of family history as reflected in this photograph from nearly a century ago? What is there now, or indeed, is there only the now in which to articulate memory?
Conclusion: Point-Instant, sensing and making memory traces
In keeping with Plato’s Pharmakon my work with images and memory supports the idea that symbolic representations of memory are at once both poison and remedy. At the same time, I would like to test the notion that memory has neither meaning nor autonomy outside of the present. Of course I am not alone in questioning the tensedness of time, belief in the totality of the present moment as Michael Eido Luetchford explains (2004) is a core tenet of Buddhist philosophy:
According to Buddhist thought, the past is not real, because it no longer exists, and the future is not real because it has not yet come into existence. Only the present moment is real existence. Early Buddhist philosophers developed a theory of existence as a point-instant
(Michael Eido Luetchford, 2004).
This is supported to some extent by Bergson’s resistance to the mathematical reducibility of time as an experience, but to instead a non-linear and flowing, mathematically unbounded experience of time or duration. However, Bergson clearly does believe in the past (as well as the future) but it is one that is activated as memory by action in the present. Memory in Bergsonian terms is a strange agent. Grosz writes of the Bergsonian assertion that ‘memory returns to objects the rich potential they have for functioning outside their familiar use; it returns to them the qualities, properties, contexts that perception must eliminate in order to act on the object. Perception can never be free of memory and is thus never completely embedded in the present, but always retains a reservoir of connections with the past as well as close anticipation of the imminent future. The present is extended through memory into the past and through anticipation into the near future’ (Grosz, 2004:173). Yet, at least since St Augustine wrote the Confessions in the 4th century AD, the idea of such temporal divisions as the past, present and future has been contested. St Augustine proposed that time only exists as a subjective quality, engendered within individuals by memory.
Again this notion of memory accords it an agency, but can it really hold such power and if it does, is amnesia also agential? My use of biosensors, in the form of EEG and GSR sensors enables me to perform the dynamism of my relationship to my own memories and my embodied responses to the photograph of my Grandmother and her family. I propose that the photograph has the potential to be both symbolic and sub-symbolic, offering a complex complementarity, in this case, that they are both culturally and biologically received and conceived, signifying absence and presence, that like memory they are embodied and dynamic, indexical and generative. As my relationship to this image unfolds the image itself is transformed, when the GSR sensor detects a significant drop in resistance I am shocked, and at the same time the software generates a new image of Eliza Dagworthy’s wedding photo.
The shock to my body triggers a re-imaging and dissolution of Eliza’s wedding, one that is ontologically entangled with its own documentation. Phillip Ausslander highlights the paradox at play in two notable and even more extreme works of performance documentation, Chris Burden’s Shoot (1971), a ‘notorious’ work in which the artist enlisted a friend to shoot him (with a gun) in a gallery setting, and Yves Klein’s Leap into the Void (1960), in which the artist appears to be flinging himself out of a window. My work with Biosensors and photography aims to similarly destabilize the originary event while questioning and inverting the status of documentation and the conventional notion that an event precedes and authorizes its documentation. As Ausslander points out, our perception of these processes is taken for granted:
the presumption of an ontological relationship between performance and document in this first model is ideological. The idea of the documentary photograph as a means of accessing the reality of the performance derives from the general ideology of photography, as described by Helen Gilbert, glossing Roland Barthes and Don Slater: “Through its trivial realism, photography creates the illusion of such exact correspondence between the signifier and the signified that it appears to be the perfect instance of Barthes’s ‘message without a code.’ The sense of the photograph as not only representationally accurate but ontologically connected to the real world allows it to be treated as a piece of the real world, then as a substitute for it.’”
At the same time, the vulnerability of biosensor technology (even medical grade EEG sensors) to environmental noise and false readings adds another element of ontological doubt to the technologies of representation at play in this work and arguably blurs the boundaries between subjects and objects, originary and documenting events. Leading to, as Amelia Jones (1998) frames it:
an expansion of the phenomenological relation to a technophenomenological relation that intertwines intersubjectivity with interobjectivity: we are enworlded via the envelopment of our bodies in space, the touch of the keyboard, the stroke of our gaze on the video screen. Seemingly paradoxical, given the conventional association of technology with disembodiment and disengagement from the world, recent body-oriented practices have increasingly mobilized and highlighted this reversibility, using the artists’ own body/self as both subject and object, as multiplicitous, particular, and unfixable, and engaging with audiences in increasingly interactive ways (Jones, 1998).
This is in keeping with my conception of the Lost memories and embodied traces performance / installation (loosely diagramed below). The roboticist Rodney Brooks wrote ‘In AI, abstraction is usually used to factor out all aspects of perception and motor skills…When we examine very simple level intelligence we find that explicit representations and models of the world simply get in the way. It turns out to be better to use the world as its own model’ (Brooks, 1987). But what happens if you try to factor out abstraction and leave only perception and motor skills in an arts context? Not at the level of Brook’s very simple situated robots, but at the level of human interaction with such a performance/installation?
This is the core methodological framework for the project.To participate in this work subjects will be finely calibrated via their bodies to the corresponding state diagram of my own body at varied times of memory retrieval. Calibration will be facilitated via heart rate (using a treadmill), galvanic skin response and EEG readings. I am also considering the use of urine and hormone tests to establish both a biological and psychogenic calculus of my unfolding experience of memories. Participants will experience mild electric shocks when near exact states are matched. The shock will also trigger and impact on the documentation of our corporeal synchronization and a reconfiguration of Eliza’s wedding photograph.
In effect I would argue that this is a type of sub-symbolic time machine in keeping with a detensed and embodied theory of time and special relativity. Whether this type of spatiotemporal synchronisation and performativity is possible, or indeed, is in violation of physical or logical laws will become apparent at the time of its implementation. At the same time the project seeks to explore Maria Sturken’s question (1999) ‘what does the act of forgetting produce?’(243). The project acknowledges the possibility that forgetting is, to quote Sturken, a ‘primary means through which subjectivity is shaped and produced’ (243).
Available at http://www.informationphilosopher.com/solutions/philosophers/putnam/Accessed 20/01/11. J.E. McTaggart (1908), among many other physicists and philosophers, questioned the existence of time, although he recognized the value of tenses, he also asserted the logical incompatibility of the past, present and future. The biggest challenge to Newton’s conception of a stable, independent and absolute time was Einstein’s emphasis on relativity or simultaneity, in which the order of events is dependent on an observer’s reference frame. An anecdotal experience of vivid trauma memory was the witnessing of a multiple high-speed car crash a few years ago. I was with several friends who all reported afterwards that, like me, their view of the event had unfolded in slow motion. As we witnessed one car somersaulting over another it felt as if we could have made phones calls, drank coffees or chatted about the weather before it finally landed and smashed into the other cars. An experience that illustrates the strangeness of both memory and time, and, perhaps, their non-linear co-dependence and arguably the way they are both entangled with our biochemistry. ‘Recruiting for the Devonshire Regiment in 1915’Available at http://www.devonheritage.org/Nonplace/DevonReg/RecruitingfortheDevonshireRegimentin1915.htmAccessed 11/01/11 Before relativity the main theoretical approaches to time included absolutists (such as Newton) who believed that time exists independent of material objects or anything external and on the other hand, relationists, who believed time was dependent on physical movement. Conventionalists such as Poincaré, did not believe in an absolute time as Newton did, but were committed to the convenience of a general agreement upon time.
 Sullivan, G. (2005) Art Practice as Research, Sage).
 Available at http://artpracticeasresearch.com/ accessed 28/01/11
 Sullivan, G. (2005) Art Practice as Research, Sage).
 Available at http://artpracticeasresearch.com/ accessed 28/01/11