As I wandered back into town, burning my mouth on hot cheese, I thought I heard a sea shanty playing. I was a bit fazed by the coincidence, half worried that I had indeed fallen into a hallucinatory Village where lost sailors rubbed shoulders with ex-government agents. As I got closer, I realised that this was the Captain from the ticket come to life, reading tales to a shipmate in a salty old sea dog voice. Unless this was a stunt for a pretty avant-garde Fish Shop, something else had to be going on. I watched for a while, but no clues were given away, the sailors seemed in a world of their own where it was normal to be dressed for the sea in the middle of England and talking of the deep and not the shallow.

Trying to get to the bottom of this, I scrabbled around in my pocket for the bus ticket - there was a website, but more intriguingly a tiny drawing of a crow. There must be more strange images to find. Perhaps it was some kind of treasure hunt, a secret trail around the city. I got on another bus, a little thrown off by the driver’s challenge to my quest, but I managed “Two stops, please?” which seemed to work. Sitting down, I enjoyed the artist’s clever mimicry of a standard transport information advert, calling into question the nature of the journeys we are all on, it was so authentic it was… it was… it was just a normal ticket, wasn’t it.

Still, I wasn’t going to be put off, this might be an important part of the initiation process: the secret would only be revealed to someone who persisted. I tried again, a different line, another two stops. Painfully nervous, I turned the ticket over, but instead of gold I just got more of the archaic dot matrix style text that appears on the front of all Nottingham bus tickets. This must just be some gibberish spewed out by a malfunctioning machine. I glared at it, furious that I was being ridiculed like this. My watery eyes seemed to be desperately trying to make sense of the image, as if I could make it resolve by an act of will into something, like an old computer game screen, Space Invaders, or Galaxian perhaps. Hang on, it must be meant to look like that, there was the Captain’s hand jutting into the edge and that same website! I was back on track.

At the stop I scribbled down a map, details about other people waiting, then smiled out my mantra. More joy: an oddly familiar dove became a free-floating symbol of many things at once: capital, transcendence and peace. Surely a sign that I was reaching some kind of understanding, accepted by the forces behind this peculiar game. There were a few duds of course, but I resisted the urge to check with the drivers whether they had the funny ones with pictures on, and made notes on everything, now that I realised it was all part of a much larger picture.

The next showed me a fragment of another ticket from another time, a real or imaginary cloakroom had been guarded with half a paper stag, tangled up in string. All I saw just led me right back to myself, I started to feel I was feverishly travelling the folds in my skull, colour and number coded for your convenience: lilac 23; red 45; orange 36. With too bright eyes and shaking hands I took my next clue. Two things slammed simultaneously into my forebrain: 1) A double slogan: “We are all living / We are all dying” like the logo of some post-Benneton corporation mindfucking us with an Eros/Thanatos double bind; and 2) a tiny drawing of a crow. I’d reached the loop.

Dazed and illuminated, I realised that I didn’t need to find a copy of the last frame with the two birds together: the fissure was more perfect, suggesting thousands waiting in potential. I’d thought this adventure would show me the sights, but instead I had been putting together pieces of a puzzle where I was a part of the solution. Daily scrap had become a gift, but one that attached itself to me symbiotically, giving me as much as I was prepared to offer it back. Think of a whole city of commuters spending their journey meditating on these little poems. Thousands waiting in potential

And the number of the beast is 3 x 3 x 3.

Three for the dreams, three for the fears, three for the new reality. The new reality, the where I live, the place where new holes are punched and others filled in, filled in with pixels, a Photoshopped reality in 3D screamorama.

I don’t regret it, she was vile, everyone agreed, but somehow still loved her: her perfect black bob, her perfect white face, her perfect red pout that we all wanted to eat. How can you hate someone so much and still do anything they ask? That tiny flaw in judgement that whispers: maybe if you do this you’ll get in there, inside the fantasy fuck. Well I’m inside now alright, and it’s more HP Lovecraft than wank mag.

And the number of the beast is £4.99

Flies buzzing around the screen in swarms of zeroes and ones. She’s making me do the backing track over and over again, like she knows best, and why don’t I get paid like she does? The fucking tracks are all written by me, she just comes in at the end and howls some shit over the top, not even proper lyrics, just sounds. “Knowingly Retro” they call it, well I could fucking sample a few old divas and get rid of her, make shit ten times better and no-one would know to listen to it, but they don’t care about that, she’s a ’star’ and I’m just a tech. Finally it’s done, another hit in the can, everyone telling her how fabulous it is, and I just get my standard paycheck.

And the beast is straight in at number 1.

Drunk, and on God knows what designer drug is fashionable this week, she throws her arms round me in pretend camaraderie. Tells me how they’re trying to give me the push, but she won’t let them, she’s on my side, see? Now could I go and get her another bottle? I drink the champagne I paid for and watch her stagger off, dancing, laughing, not knowing what’s going to hit her. The bubbles boil in my brain, and I formulate my plan.

First the easy part, crunching on the computer for a few hours, for a few days, for a few weeks and my voice breaks into hers. Still my own when I want it, but also a perfect lip-synch of her sexy, throaty, fuck-drawl. My body was more difficult, shaving down the flesh, painfully airbrushing out blemishes, stretching and twisting myself into the perfect shape.

And the numbers of the beast are 36-24-36

You’d think people would start to notice the difference, complement me on losing weight, chat me up, but somehow I managed to make her figure look like shit. I told myself I was just trying to stay unnoticed until it was time, but what’s inside can’t help seeping out. She knows she deserves for everyone to crawl before her, to be used for her pleasure, and they comply. My self-loathing stinks around me like a rotten cloud, making me worse than invisible: you see me but wish you hadn’t, and try to blot me out of your mind as quickly as possible.

Then at last I looked in the mirror and I was her. Everything I’d always wanted to be, seamless as a robot designed to destroy you. My mouth watered.

I sat in my carefully rehearsed pose for hours, waiting for the denouement, her undoing. As she stepped through the door it took her a while to notice me, and when she did it was a few moments before her eyes caught up with her babbling mouth. She still tried to finish her sentence, and I almost loved her for that.

“What the FUCK do you think you look like, love?” she finally managed to spit, with most of her usual confidence, but at last I was more assured than she’d ever been, because now I was her perfected.

I stood and slowly walked towards her, I could feel my smile become a sneer, but there was no need for caution now. As I looked her in the eyes and raised my hand, I felt a flutter of arousal as she realised her own hand was reaching towards mine. Soon both our palms were touching: we were exact mirror reflections, except that her eyes were as terrified as mine were exultant.

Then as she started to fade, like a layer losing opacity, she managed to plead in a whisper: “Don’t do this, I’ll give you everything I’ve got…”

“Oh, darling,” I breathe back, “I’ve already got all that.”

And the number of the beast is 0%

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The BLRF is an institution dedicated to cross-disciplinary practice investigating digital identities and interactions. There are three main departments exploring the transference of sensory experience into the digital, where staff and voluntary test subjects work together.

While in residence at the BLRF, Ana worked with volunteers in these areas to create pieces based on their experiences. She also temporarily redesigned the website, basing it on the corporate colour scheme but combining this with found objects, elements from the signage around the facility and images selected by her collaborators.

Kinaesthetic Department

Test Subject 404 believed that identity could be boiled down to an essential, Platonic ideal. We looked at the mystical symbolism hidden in the mixing of light in screens, the Ghost in the Machine:

“I was bored one day, so I scanned my hand into my computer. Not a big deal. I’m sure everyone does it, but something happened. I don’t know what I thought I’d do with it, but I got kind of obsessed with it, just kept opening the file up and looking at it. Zooming in. Watching something that was recognisably me turn into pixels. Then I’d zoom back out again, reassured to see myself return.

“Sometimes I’d just make the whole screen one pixel and stare at it for hours. I kept doing this over and over again, but was never quite satisfied. Could never find exactly the right pixel. There was something wrong with the hue, the saturation, the value…

“Then one day I realised I’d found it, the perfect pixel, just by accident, I’d paused while scrolling around to change my grip and it was right there in front of me. I can’t explain how I knew, it was just as if the colour sent a coded message to my cells that I wasn’t able to decipher, only respond as if triggered.

“I cropped it and saved it carefully, not daring to breathe in case I lost it somehow. I made back-ups on CD, hid them around the house, posted them to trusted friends. I printed it out, but it was never the same, it needed the phosphorescence of the screen to give it life.

“It was enough for a while, to know I had access to this wonder, I’d meditate on it endlessly, empty headed, while the screen bathed me in a holy light. But soon it wasn’t enough, I needed more, I felt dirty, imperfect next to it. The pixel had become my ideal, myself honed into a transcendental form. I had to become one with it. Hopefully I pushed my head up against the screen, harder and harder until my forehead bruised. To my disappointment the barrier remained. I was not going to achieve union thinking like this.

“I tried hundreds of methods to understand the problem: I played around with the talismanic image, splitting it up into its component parts, looking at the light side and the dark side. I even started looking at the code behind it, learning the string of binary that made up the file, repeating it as a mantra as I stared at the screen. Then I realised that the problem wasn’t the pixel, the problem was me. I had too many variables: I was messy, human. I needed to become digital myself, that’s why I’m here…”

(Text taken from transcript of an interview with subject)

Visual Department

Test Subject 010 became afraid that everyone else was a robot, and we investigated fictional tests for androids. By recording such empathy tests, we investigated the gains and losses once emotions become transferred into digital information.

“They look fine on the outside, but inside they’re all wrong. I can’t remember when I first realised it, seems like I’ve always known that everyone else was a construct. They’re all very convincing, very good at pretending to be real, but once you’ve caught a glimpse of it, you never forget it, start seeing it all over.

“It’s like a nothingness in the eyes, like you can see right through to the back, with no person in between.

“I hated their eyes on me, felt as if they were ripping into me, taking parts of me away, making me more like them. I hid inside, only communicating with them when I had to through the phone or internet. But soon I could feel their eyes on me even when they weren’t there, as if they were burning through the monitor somehow, travelling in binary. Eye open. Eye closed.”

(Text taken from transcript of an interview with subject)

Auditory Department

Test Subject 666 has been interested in lists of words for some time, so we investigated various sets of ‘most common words’ and came across a list from Brown University in the 1960s called the Brown Corpus. This list has been used in pattern matching in code breaking.

“Listen. Listen to me. Listen to my voice. Listen.

“Ha, sorry. Been watching a lot of films lately.

“I’ve always been told I have a good voice. Great for radio, they say. Trouble was, it never sounded right to me. You know when people tape themselves and listen back to it, it sounds wrong, recognisably you but kind of alien. I know, I know it’s something to do with it bouncing around inside your head.

“Anyway, with me it’s the opposite: I’m happy the sound of my voice when it’s recorded, but the sound in my head sets my teeth on edge. I used to avoid talking whenever I could, but of course this wasn’t very practical.
I started recording common phrases and tried to get by in telephone conversations by ‘playing’ them at appropriate points. It worked OK, so long as you didn’t mind sounding like a robot.

“Mind you, it got me thinking, I’d seen films where they got people to record lots of words and then they synthesised their voice and replaced them with robots. No, no, I didn’t want to be replaced by a robot, I just thought I might be able to make some kind of voice synthesiser, and here I am, rabbiting away on it, neat huh?”

(Text taken from transcript of an interview with subject)

http://blrf.org.uk/

The masked figure at the door ticked my name off the list and let me in, and I realised that the entrance space was unusually full of people. We were being herded forward with no way to escape. There was the unnerving feeling that we were cattle being led to the slaughter.

I was surreptitiously given a way out - someone handed me a card offering me the chance to take part in a cultural experience, I snuck off up the stairs to a room covered with exotic fabric to be greeted by a man speaking an Asian-sounding language. Through gestures he led me through a series of rituals, answering my questions with polite but firm gibberish. I felt out of my depth and angry that I didn’t know what was going on - echoing the experience of being introduced to rigid cultural practices as a child.

By the time I emerged, everyone else had moved into the main exhibition space with AuntyNazi barking arbitrary rules at them such as only ten people being allowed in the bar at one time, and announcing that the event had ’started’. The audience stood around with almost identical expressions of mild fear. I realised I probably shared this, and distracted myself by looking around.

The layout of the show was much like any ordinary exhibition, with individual performances going on in discrete areas, and the space as a whole had not been altered. Works included a picnic where audience members read a jumbled argument from an autocue; an artist who spent most of the event on the floor, moving at timed intervals; a man standing in an alcove turning with a camera in his mouth, his body partly obscured and recreated by screens; someone explaining how their plastic polar bear was a van; a rambling talk; and a (possibly) live typed commentary.

What really brought the event to life were the complementary performances by Reactor and AuntyNazi. The latter, with crude masks and loud proclamations demanded most attention, but if you focused on the surface alone you’d miss their own subversion of authority. Every demand for obedience to Health & Safety laws was accompanied by dangerous behaviour; every announcement of a new activity from the timetable was combined with muddled flicking through notebooks.

Meanwhile, in the background, Reactor could be seen ushering people through a door, followed by disconcerting bangs and screams; and moving scary-looking objects that seemed destined for use in violence and intimidation. Finally they shepherded us into a room, built up the terror by filling the room with smoke, and eventually let us escape into the street through a window.

Gratuitous non sequitur to be used as a quote: Lies, confusion and shouting - some of my favourite media.

It wasn’t until seeing the recent show by Calum Stirling at the new Vivid project space in Digbeth that we started thinking about how they represent a kind of fractal extrapolation of signs.

The key piece in the show was a model of a city commercial district on a revolving platform in a locked office. The model could be viewed through a window, but also via an old black and white CCTV set up back projected in the main space. Together with the accompanying music, the piece took on the feel of an atmospheric, European film - an impression reinforced by the German signage on all of the model shops.

by Ana Benlloch & Stuart Tait

Subject received memory by neuroinsertion, combined with visual and auditory reinforcement stimuli, over the 3rd - 26th August 2004. Absorptions rates were higher than average, with a 73% acceptance using the Barndt-Millais congruence scale. The following account was transcribed from the subjects recall of the inserted memory, at the end of the process.

Operator 5: “Can you just confirm for us that you’re comfortable talking about this?”

Subject 92: “Yes, that’s fine, go on.”

Operator 5: “Well, if you just close your eyes and let yourself relax, you might find the memories just drifting up to the surface, becoming clearer all the time. You could find that you seem to be living those memories again, seeing all the details that you want to, feeling only what you are comfortable feeling. Just let the words start to flow and tell me whatever comes into your mind.”

Subject 92: “OK… well, it was about three years ago, I was between ‘A’ levels and Uni., summer… God, it was such a great summer, it was like all the stress was over and I could just… y’know be myself for a bit… Anyway, I used to go and hang out in the fields outside of town. They were full of these yellow flowers that year, the ones they put in now and then, I think they make cooking oil out of ’em…

“So this one day, I’d gone there to hang out, my mate said she might meet me, but she didn’t turn up, so I just sat and read for a bit - something by Philip K Dick I think, cos it started to do my head in and I had to lie down and think about it… It was pretty hot and I think I must’ve dozed off for a bit, but when I woke up my head was in this weird little puddle, I remember it clearly ’cos I freaked out at first, thought it might be blood, but it was just water… very dark water… seeped back into the ground after a few minutes, but it left me a bit, kind of, prickly, like something was going to happen.

“I had to get up and go for a walk to try to clear my head. It was odd ’cos it was such a bright day, but I felt kind of cold and… hollow…”

Operator 5: “Do you want to stop?”

Subject 92: “No, no, it’s OK…”

Operator 5: “You don’t have to feel anything uncomfortable, just let the memories flow through you…”

Subject 92: “OK, well, I’d been walking for a bit, and I thought I might have heard someone calling me, so I looked back over the field and there was this… spot… this dark patch in the sky above where I’d been laying. I didn’t think much of it, but then something made me turn round to look at it again. The patch was bigger, it looked like a kind of… rip in the sky, but it was moving around, shifting. I couldn’t figure it out, you know how sometimes you see something and you just can’t interpret it, can’t fit it in your frame of reference properly… I felt pretty stupid when I realised it was just a mass of birds, crows I guess, although I’d never seen them flock like that before, is that the right word? There’s a proper word for a group of crows isn’t there? It was like when starlings are going around, getting ready to migrate or whatever, but because they were bigger birds, it wasn’t like some graceful, fluid motion, it was… lumpy… heavy… dirty…”

Operator 5: “Are you OK?”

Subject 92: “Yeah, yeah, sorry… but they didn’t seem to be making any noise. There was this big bunch of birds flying over the field, loads of them, more and more all the time it seemed, but completely silent. I mean, I was a bit away from them, but it seemed like I should be able to hear something, some kind of call… It was like they were sucking the sound in, making a whirlpool that nothing could get out of…

“Then I found myself pulled in as well, like I wanted to be a part of it, and I was stumbling towards them through these plants that came up to my chest, but I got fixed on the idea that if could join them then everything would be OK, all this weirdness and confusion would go away, so I kept trying to float up to them, y’know how you do in dreams, but this wasn’t a dream so I couldn’t, and I tried to get them to see me, to help me, but I couldn’t pick out any one bird, anyway there were always more and more of them, and every time I thought I was getting close, I’d trip over a clod of earth and it was like they’d got further away again, and I was scared that I’d scare them off and never be a part of this huge, powerful force, so I was trying to sneak up, but get as close as possible so I’d be able to see them better, but the sweat was stinging my eyes and I couldn’t see properly through the watering, and I think I might have started to cry, give up hope of ever getting there, then suddenly I was there and it was like I’d been there all along, up in the clouds with my brothers and sisters…

“Then something popped silently, I don’t know if it was in my head or outside of it, and there was a kind of explosion… no, implosion… and I saw that there was only one crow… maybe there’d only been one all along… I’m not sure.

“I watched it fly off.”

Operator 5: “Any more?”

Subject 92: “Well, this is going to sound pretty weird, but… during that whole memory my hair was blonde… ”

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Fantasies about the body and technology and human/machine or organic/inorganic combinations. There’s just typed words. You see this attempt to go through language to something beyond. Is it as real or more real than reality, is it mistaken for reality, or is it a new reality that shows up the constructed, performed, artificial nature of our old off-line reality?

He was particularly interested in the questions of thought transference and of apparitions of the living, and in November, 1896, he commenced a series of experiments in conjunction with Mr. Vincey, of Staple Inn, in order to test the alleged possibility of projecting an apparition of one’s self by force of will through space.

When I read the advertisements in the paper I see they are all lies. Funny little Martians that laughed at us humans for eating real potatoes! Featuring Menacing Motor Action! The making of the big machine progressed all the more rapidly for this. Once you push the “Upload Photo” button, depending on your connection speed, it may take a few minutes to upload. When freedom is practiced in a closed circle, it fades into a dream, becomes a mere image of itself.

Check out this girl. I think she’s in love with you. Do you know a weed when you see it? Of course, one person’s weed is another’s flower, so the answer is partly personal and philosophical. When I start painting I shall stop writing!

I had seen the Magic Shop from afar several times; I had passed it once or twice, a shop window of alluring little objects, featuring three authentic Cyberman commands. Being asked to become a wizard often is a powerful experience for a user. In the ancient Egyptian mysteries it was attributed to the god of catastrophe and drowning.

This fantastic cult classic authentic Dalek commands keeps getting better year after year. You want to put on your custom button and flashing lights with brand new pictures. The subservient battle hardened silver androids resembling humanoids in armour and date fact-file. This is the collectors group of vinyl and rubber, sensor rich mannequins that have selfishly saved thousands of lives by being ‘accident-prone’.

Ethnographers typically begin their research with a set of research questions from which to guide their observations. Do you feel like there’s something missing from your life if you don’t blog for a day? If a behavior is rewarded, it is more likely to be repeated. If it is punished, it becomes suppressed.

Despite the incredible distances and differences that exist between these areas, the movie spectaculars, the junk food, the consumer electronics, and the pre-recorded bits of entertainment, we will be in control of a prized asset, and we will seek to develop its potential, raising it to new heights. The birds would return and sing once again.

The worldwide technological revolution of our own era–the digital, networked, information age– provides a context for a retrospective analysis of the cultural meaning of technology. How is the introduction of technology represented as a “fall” from an idealized origin? Convergence and complexity are the key words of the Information Age.

writing is unfortunately like painting; for the creations of the painter have the attitude of life, and yet if you ask them a question they preserve a solemn silence. And the same may be said of speeches. You would imagine that they had intelligence, but if you want to know anything and put a question to one of them, the speaker always gives one unvarying answer. And when they have been once written down they are tumbled about anywhere among those who may or may not understand them, and know not to whom they should reply, to whom not: and, if they are maltreated or abused, they have no parent to protect them; and they cannot protect or defend themselves.

The term “android” was invented by science fiction writers to denote an artificial human made mostly of organic parts, in distinction to a robot, made of purely mechanical parts (though Carl Capek, from whose work the term “robot” comes, actually depicted androids). It comes from the Greek word “andros” meaning “man” and the ending “oid,” meaning “similar to.” George Lucas’ untraditional use of the term ” android” to designate purely mechanical robots who could be like R2D2, not at all man-shaped, has hopelessly confused the terminology ever since.

It’s some sort of temporal divergence. As you look around, you realise the only noise you can hear is the faint sound of wind whistling through the nearby buildings. It’s a ghost town. The radiation levels are perfectly safe now. “Well, what am I going to do now?” you ask the time machine. The lights on the console blink confusingly.

AWHFY - Are we having fun yet?

It should by now be common knowledge that the camera is primarily a tool of social control. The camera as used in advertizing presents to the populace the goods and lifestyles that are deemed desirable. The camera as used in film and TV then educates the populace on how to live one’s life in a proper manner, so that one can acquire these goods and lifestyles (whether by legal or illegal means).

In order to keep us happy and spending more as consumers then capitalism is going to have to tap rather more darker strains in our characters. Perverse inversions and unsettling paradoxes, they appear to be meaningless. The psychopathology of everyday life, cold and distant or abstract. The consumer society hungers for the deviant and unexpected. A perverse sexual act can liberate the visionary self in even the dullest soul, affectless casualties of the nihilistic, over-mediated consumer landscape. A paralysing conformity and boredom that can only be relieved by some sort of violent act. Our latent psychopathy is the last nature reserve, a place of refuge for the endangered mind. Morality reduced to aesthetics, a controlled and supervised madness. All we have left as an ideology is consumerism, searching for meaning in a meaningless universe, by taking your mail-order Kalashnikov into the nearest supermarket and letting rip. The total acceptance of the substrate of violence in consumer societies when it manifests itself. What else can drive the bizarre shifts in the entertainment landscape that will keep us ‘buying’?

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Telephone TNTPIMP to TC TTFN

I give you bitter pills in sugar coating. The pills are harmless; the poison is in the sugar. The Spectacle is not just a collection of images. It is the medium of communication between images and is the means by which the real world is interpreted. Public Relations. The mass media is spectacular. Even in extremis it is unable to see itself as a participant in real life. Instead it turns real life into a spectacle - and participates in that. The spectacle offers ‘new lamps for old’. Powerless and alienated in our real community it encourages us to live the community life of Ambridge, Crossroads or Coronation Street. All is conterfeit. So confident - it can taunt us with our own gullibility. Does your life match up to the spectacle?Isn’t real life best left to the experts? …Enjoy. The producer sells; The Consumer buys; and the COMMODITY gets sold. The TV companies produce the programmes, the advertisers culture. That really big commodity. The one that sells all the others. The mass media turns real life into a comic strip. “The black panther”, “The Jackal”, “The Penguin”. The blood is real but the language is the language of Gotham City. In the right words. In the right order. Without the mass media there can be little effective propoganda. …. with it there is very little else. ‘You might just as well say’, added the March Hare, ‘that “I like what I get” is the same thing as “I get what I like”‘. Sometimes the mass media will even bite the hand that feeds it….. but it will never bite it off. It’s only Rock n’ Roll! Technological Valium. Programming? Isn’t that what they do to computers?

Our ambitions are clearly megalomaniac. The depletion of modern forms of art and style is all too obvious. The development of this task presupposes a revolution that has yet to take place. This desire gets smothered. It is their timidity that keeps people from looking beyond the decomposition, the pursuit of fragmentary works combined with simple-minded proclamations of an alleged new stage, a mechanistic idea whose function is to reassure. Very much “of today” in relation to their audiences, and nothing more, sidetracked in outdated theories, no longer offers even the memory of a reality.

In keeping with Channel 40s policy of bringing you the latest in blood and guts in living color, you’re going to see another first – an attempt at suicide.

I could not recognize a single constellation. A distant voice reached me through the murmuring and crackling, shifted unexpectedly, penetrating my pneumatic cocoon. I had missed the precious moment. Successive bursts of static came through the headphones, and ran through my entire body, organic, sentient, unimaginably powerful, profoundly indifferent. The stars having vanished long since the vibration reached me, I felt no fear, I was falling against a background of deep, low-pitched murmuring. My gaze was swallowed up on the pale reddish glow of infinity, swaying with a peculiar slow-motion rhythm imposed on it by the artificial magnetic field, filtered through the insulating layers of the outer skins the lurid sky became grey, distant and flat; everything was blotted out; I was falling in a spin. I turned round. There was total silence.

From Constant Gibson Blog Performative Writing project.

All text taken from other sources and re-presented.

so we were thinking about science and fiction and science fiction, and figured it’d be a good way to thrash out a bunch of ideas we had and get some other people to join in too, of course this was a while ago and now we’ve driven ourselves mad with it all, but we love science fiction even though we know it’s escapist and perpetuates the status-quo by giving us something outside of the everyday that we desire and then when we’re addicted they sell it back to us, and we’re too blinded to think about how little revolution there actually is in the future, but still, it was watching and reading those things that pumped up our imaginations so that we believed we could make something happen, and the lower the budget and the more cobbled together the sets, the more you see what’s really important, that everything is as true as we want to make it, and that the future doesn’t exist, so it’s all about now, the most outrageous plots and aliens are no more fiction than any gritty drama or politicians speech, and science is fiction anyway, it splits everything up into manageable pieces and makes things seem valid by using a method, but art and literature use methods too and no-one thinks they always tell the truth, science is always changing what it tells us: the world is going to be wiped out by a giant asteroid, no it’s alright we could destroy it in time, oh no we couldn’t, oh yes we could, some science accepts the uncertainty, the fuzziness of logic, but what’s always presented in the media is science as a solid, trustworthy authority, white coat = believe, its all acting, and it spreads into fiction, people trust the opinions of actors who play doctors more than those who play killers, and have you noticed how there’s all these programmes where it seems like they’re fiction but everyone talks like they’re real, as well as all the ones they admit are fakes, we’re all losing our boundaries between truth and fiction, which can be a good thing if you are aware of it, and make use of it, but sometimes it gets difficult and you find yourself caring more about who wins big brother than something really important like, like, see it’s getting difficult to say what’s important anymore, we’re getting our information about the world through media which we know are flawed, so we doubt everything and maybe that’s what they want, of course the idea of ‘they’ is another fiction, this conspiracy theory that those in authority are plotting how best to manipulate the masses, which is probably partially true, but as individuals they’re all as fucked up and self-obsessed as the rest of us, but we like to think there’s someone out there fucking with our heads so that we don’t have to face the fact that we’re fucking with our own heads, that we want to believe the lies and that’s why they work, even though we know it just makes us more likely to waste our lives and money if we identify with this film, this computer game, this book, this comic, this album, this computer, this mobile phone, we still do it, we’re still wired to project ourselves outside our bodies into stuff, use a bone, use a phone, and it’s very easy to imagine that art is immune from all this and we don’t have to watch for the same stories here, but of course that’s just wishful thinking and we’re just as likely to idealise our favourite artist as a rock star, believe that something is a good piece of art if we see it in a respected gallery in london, or think an organisation is professional if they produce an orderly, attractive web site.

“Do you see it? Do you see the crack?”
“The crack was already there when we took off”

When I first heard about the Columbia project, I got confused with the Challenger disaster and just remember thinking that I should feel as if it was a sick thing to base an artwork on, while actually feeling nothing. Even when I was told more about the history of the space shuttle Columbia, and I realised my mistake, I wasn’t very clear on the details. I suppose I must have heard about it in the news, but it was just something I hadn’t really paid attention to. I find it difficult to relate to any kind of tragedy; my strongest emotion is usually guilt that I don’t sympathise as much as I imagine I should. But at least that guilt proves I’m not a sociopath, right?

I was interested in the plan of making the exhibition ‘the making of a movie’. I know from my own work that the usual expectations of the audience can be disrupted by blurring the boundaries between what is preparation/behind the scenes and a finished artwork; and who is the performer or audience when visitors are encouraged to participate rather than be passive observers. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but you can always learn something.

The People’s Elbow were particularly interested in how to make a film about something that was not the real focus of the news story - what were they actually doing up there anyway? They decided to fictionalise the events leading up to the break up of the shuttle, based on what little they knew about the crew and the mission. They were also keen to make it as filmic as possible, within the restraints of the space, their lack of budget and the fact that filming/sound would be done and characters would be played by whoever was in the gallery at a particular time.

I was too busy to take part in the first few days of shooting, but when I did arrive I was shown around the ‘set’ and we viewed rushes of what had already been filmed. What I saw was funny and well composed, and there were easily identifiable characters. I was pretty jealous - my own non-budget no-set-cast film was having trouble - but I soon got involved.

I didn’t really know what was going on as I took part in the filming, I was told to put on different costumes, told to say lines, told how to act. It was quite enjoyable in an odd way, I just turned my head off, and became a robot. Of course there were times when my self broke out. I had to crawl through several holes to get from room to room, which wasn’t easy for my fat arse, and once when I was in the background of a scene I realised I had been staring fixedly at something for too long and burst out laughing. In the final film, I am consumed by horror and can’t enter the illusion at these points, but that has an interesting, defamiliarising effect. The final scene was shot on the same night that the film was going to be premiered which ensured that everyone who first saw it would feel particularly involved. Columbia was also shown a few weeks later with scenes added that had not been finished for the opening night, but I have not made a distinction between the two versions here, for no good reason other than I’m a sucker for what people wanted something to be like over what it was actually like.

The film opens with a scene of the astronauts being shaved, a familiar scene from war films, however the implement used is a huge cooking spatula, which sets the tone for the uncanny humour we experience throughout. The gung-ho rock music over this cuts suddenly to silence and clouds, another precursor to the unsettling use of sound and it’s absence that runs throughout the film.

Perhaps knowing that people aren’t very familiar with the crew, there is an overtly contrived exposition by Husband to his family, and here we learn the relationships that have been given to the crew, based on what little was known. The central dynamic is that Husband idolises McCool, and despises Brown, mirroring the simplistic characterisations of Hollywood, but exaggerating this to absurd levels.

When we first see all the astronauts together, they are in slow motion and there is overblown choral music, perhaps an angelic requiem, another cinematic cliché to signify heroism and subtle tragedy. Sound effects are used to give filmic qualities and heighten tension, but also gives authority to less than perfect sets and acting. Over-lighting is used partly to hide the sets, but this gives the effect often used to signify heaven in films.

At one point in the take off sequence, the boom mic and soundman are entirely visible in shot as the Chief says “…and that’s how we do that ladies and gentlemen!” I don’t know how accidental this was, but I find it significant as a message of intention - the People’s Elbow show you what they are doing, show the techniques of illusion making and manipulation in their work, in mainstream films, and in society (American in particular).

Weightlessness is only used now and then, which heightens its dreamy, hallucinogenic effect. “I’m so high I could be in heaven,” says Chawla as “she“ floats. Old-fashioned comedy music plays as sweets and astronauts fly around, but when we cut to the outside shot the silence of space makes their jollity seem ironic in face of what we know happens.

When the crack in the wing is discovered we see Brown silently swearing. This is a guaranteed crowd amuser, used in many films aimed at teenagers, but also shows how his fears will be ignored and dismissed as paranoia. The crack in the wing is the Lacanian fissure in their idealistic world-view that is too horrific to look at. McCool often suggests that Brown’s worries are indicative of his own mental state, and that he needs to adjust himself, rather than anything else. Is this simply a suggestion that we create our own reality; a reference to how dissenters are subdued and distracted by self-doubt and self-analysis; or is McCool trying to point out that they all need to right themselves with the universe before certain annihilation? The problem is often described as “cosmetic”, and it always makes me think of how social and political problems are disguised, hidden and dismissed by those in authority, even if it will lead to destruction.

Clark’s son rushes in to see the television, but where we expect to see him watching his mother in space we see an episode of a space animation, Ulysses 31, where a starship is being damaged. This highlights the difference between fictional disasters where something can always be done to make things OK again, and the actual disaster, where nothing could be done. In fiction there were explosions and excitement, but everything is alright. In fact (as presented in this fiction) the crew get on with mundane everyday tasks, but then die meaninglessly. This disparity is mentioned again later when Brown compares their situation to Star Wars saying they won’t have a happy ending: “This is real life, this is Columbia”. Of course, trying to say the events depicted are real and not fiction is a common filmic technique.

By this point, everyone is drawing away from Brown, we seem to be seeing things through his eyes, everyone is smiling like Stepford Wives, lines are repeated, slowed down and speeded up in a way that signals hallucination or insanity in the traditional manner. The futility of their activities is shown by Clark showing off a model of a space station while babbling about how important it is in a way that reminds me of under-critical post-modern claims that hyperreal simulacra are more valid than actual truth. Has he gone mad or have they? He leaves them to look at the wing, becoming a literal outsider. The buzzing sound associated with him fades away, which is a relief to the audience until the silence becomes uncomfortable too. The space scenes seem too long, I’m told there’s a reason for this, and it does leave enough time for us to feel Browns isolation on more than an intellectual level.

Back on board there is a shadowy scene with McCool talking to Brown about the buzz of an insect that is reminiscent of the Kurtz scene in Apocalypse Now. We associate the insect with Brown, because of the buzzing noise that accompanies him which gets louder during the course of the film. He is being turned into scapegoat, a Christlike sacrifice and I’m also reminded of the exclusion of Piggy in Lord of the Flies but that’s probably because it was burned into my brain during school days. McCool seems to be trying to find meaning in a meaningless event, as this film is.

There is another space walk by Brown, with psychedelic effects that suggests of 2001: A Space Odyssey, which ends with a visit to a Russian Space Station. It is becoming increasingly unclear whether what we are seeing is actually happening or in the fevered imagination of Brown, but this just means we identify with him more. The red-lit, visceral partying of the Soviets is in strong contrast to the dutiful, clinical American mission, but could also suggest hell. Perhaps the whole film is some moment of death vision, where Brown is struggling to find his path to the afterlife, as in Jacob’s Ladder.

At the start of the final scene of Columbia we hear “Action!”, the first of many breaks in the filmic illusion. The set and actors inside the shuttle can be seen in the background of shots of mission control, multiple uncertain looks at camera, people fluffing lines and grimacing, lines repeated. These are extreme forms of what has been happening throughout the film and are interesting on many levels: it reminds us that the making of the film was the artwork rather than the final film; it startles us out of being captured by the narrative so that we can be critical about what is being presented; it becomes a film about film and film’s impact on the space programme; and it is part of what makes the film post-real. This is not a standard post-modern analytical distance and suspicion of ‘truth’, but uses transparent fiction to transform our experience of reality.

I didn’t know anything about the people who died in Columbia before I took part in this project, and that didn’t really bother me. This could have been a worthy dramatisation, using a documentary style to tell their story and while I would have learnt some facts, possibly even shed a tear, but I would still essentially not give a fuck. Instead, I feel like I know these people: Brown chews gum and is a bit paranoid, McCool plays chess and philosophises, Husband shadowboxes and is weirdly paternal to his crew. Of course I know that these are just characterisations made up by the scriptwriter in bored moments at work, but that just makes me feel more protective towards them. These are people completely turned into fiction, their originals are dead, they don’t even have a fixed face associated with them here, but we gave them existence by becoming them and accepting their continuity as we watched them in different actors. When we see actual footage of the break-up on entry of the space shuttle, we feel that we are watching ‘our’ crew die, and the jump to ‘real’ film coincides with the ‘post-real’ feelings we have.

Most films based on actual events destroy the reality, turn it into fiction so that the truth vanishes. A post-real film can use it’s own explicit falsity to highlight the illusion and manipulation that are presented as truth by authorities and the media. The whole space programme is based on fictions: that astronauts are heroes; that we need to do things before the ‘other side’; that progress is going ‘out there’ rather than solving problems ‘down here. Many people have wanted to become astronauts because they enjoy the escapism of science fiction, but end up serving the militaristic interests of the establishment.

Columbia asked “What were they actually doing up there anyway?” and the answer it seems to have given is “Becoming Science Fiction”.

______________________________________________________________
The 28th and final flight of Columbia (STS-107) was a 16-day mission dedicated to research in physical, life and space sciences. The seven astronauts aboard Columbia worked 24 hours a day, in two alternating shifts, successfully conducting approximately 80 separate experiments. On February 1, 2003, the Columbia and its crew were lost over the western United States during the spacecraft’s re-entry into Earth’s atmosphere.

Seven asteroids orbiting the sun between Mars and Jupiter were named in honour of The Space Shuttle Columbia crew, Commander Rick Husband; pilot William McCool; Mission Specialists Michael Anderson, Kalpana Chawla, David Brown, Laurel Clark; and Israeli payload specialist Ilan Ramon.

http://www.nasa.gov/columbia/home/

http://www.columbiaspaceshuttle.com/

cyberaddict2: Yeah, I always start researching something vaguely useful, but as link follows link, I’m soon out to sea, with no choice but to go further on, deeper down.  The choices seem random but something in my subconscious leads me to weirdness.  Strange sites and communities of people who could have spent their whole lives thinking they’re the only one, if it hadn’t been for this space, that flips and wormholes us together.

cyberaddict1: I always find myself wanting more.  I always want to make a connection.  I log into Chat under one of my false identities and look at what information I’ve got to picture others from.  All the usual ways of seizing someone up (appearance, voice etc. ) are stripped away, and I project enough when I have those.

cyberaddict2: Sure.  With nothing to go on but a carefully chosen pseudonym and profile, fantasy goes crazy.  From tiny clues I imagine identities to fit the names, a collage of people I know on the outside, stereotypes and my own desires.  I lurk, reading the conversations going on without me, watching how senders optimise self presentation, how receivers idealise senders.  I drift into and out of a few chat rooms, most are very cliquey, and it’s impossible to tell what people are talking about.  Strange references, mostly to present and not-present members of their group, become like poetry.

cyberaddict3: game synopsis is scant, yes, but I can work with it.
cyberaddict4: ep miff cam
cyberaddict3: lol
cyberaddict4: spots a miffsie
cyberaddict5: ish teasing huma with sweet chilli crisps
cyberaddict3: ty the tasmanian tiger
cyberaddict4: wb blade

cyberaddict1: I float on, looking for somewhere I can fit in, with text that I can make sense of, and interact with.  I wonder whether anyone registers my presence as I enter a chat room, watch silently for a while then leave.  Was someone just about to talk to me?  Have they talked about me after I left?  Were they not saying anything interesting because I was there?

cyberaddict2: Yeah, this kind of space makes you paranoid, you know you can’t give too much information in case some kind of crazed stalker gets after you, so you watch everything you say.  This makes you feel as if everything you say is a lie, even if it’s something you really believe, and you get the guilts.  You also know other people are probably not being entirely honest, and if someone is saying everything you want to hear, they are probably trying to get you to do or feel something for their own purposes.  Also, because you get so little information about others, every detail achieves significance.  Chatters overreact to whatever is said, become attracted to someone from a few words of description, launch into a violent tirade after a slight disagreement, ‘laugh out loud’ at the slightest joke.  It doesn’t matter because you never have to face any consequences: you only have to leave the chatroom and everything is solved, you can even change your name and go back for more.

cyberaddict1: Do you ever go in those rooms that are like role-playing games?

cyberaddict2:  Yeah, the elaborate characters and systems of behaviour seem completely alien if you stumble into them.  Complicated introduction posts, coded actions and emotions, and out of character messages are all jumbled together.

cyberaddict6: makes her way to the bar tying back medium length chestnut hair
cyberaddict7: his tail squeezes hers as they rub together
cyberaddict6: smiles and takes a glass of wine “I’ll take a small portion of the beef”
cyberaddict8: enters w. a warm breeze
cyberaddict7: o O (nice pic Foxy)
cyberaddict9: the lights blow out the wind grows stronger the door breaks down a shadow walks through the door fire blazing behing him he stands…

cyberaddict1: It makes my head hurt after a while, and I have to move on.  When I find a room to stay in for a while, I find myself trying to analyse the other names in the box.  I try to imagine them all from their pseudonym, idly clicking for personal profiles if I’m intrigued, but they give little more away.  As I read the talk, I find myself putting people into categories: the type that (tries to lure others to disclose information / naively gives too much away  / controls the conversation to make up for inadequacies / is only interested in cybersex).  Some are not typing anything in the main area - are they just a silent watcher like me, or are they having a fascinating private conversation with someone?

cyberaddict2: I know.  Outside I try to treat everyone as an individual, but here I’m pre-judging habitually, thinking badly of people I’ll never meet, being drawn to people from the slightest connection.  I feel perfectly comfortable about doing all this, I’d usually feel self-conscious about observing people, but here I feel invisible, without inhibitions.  This is true even if someone starts to talk to me: I don’t feel as if I have to answer back, and if I choose to, I usually say more (whether it’s friendly or insulting) than I would in ‘real life’.  I feel safe, protected by a false name, unmeasurable distance, and the screen.  Complete freedom, complete lack of responsibility.

cyberaddict1: It’s like a dream that you can change and wake up from whenever you want.  It’d be perfect if only there wasn’t the nagging feeling that there’s probably something more useful I should be doing, that outside reality is actually more fulfilling, despite - no, because of - having to face up to my actions.  But, maybe in a little while, I’ll just check out one more chatroom…

??? ??? ????? ??? ??? ????? ??? ‘??????’? ???? ??? ????. ??, ??????? ???? ??? ???? ????, ??? ??????? ??? ??? ‘??’? ????. ??? ??? ???? ? ??????? ?? ???, ??? ???? ??? ?????? ???. ? ?? ??? 98? 12?? ????????? ?????? ??? ?? ??·??? ???.

1973?? ???? ?????? ????? ?? ????? ?? ????, ????? ?? : ?? ?????? ‘? ?? ????? ??(The Fake as More)’?? ???? ???? ??. ??? ? ?????? ???? ?? ??(Hank Herron)??? ???? ??? ?? ???. ? ?? ??? ??? ???? ??? ??? ??? ???? ‘????? ? ??? ?(Stellas plus)’?? ???, ??? ? ???? ??? ‘??(fake)’?? ?????? ‘???(originality)’? ???? ????? ???.1)

?? ? ??? ???? ?? ?? ? ?? ??? ??????? ??? ????? ??? ??? ??? ??????? ? ? ??? ?? ????? ?????? ??????? ??? ???? ??? ????. ??? ?? ???? ?? ??? ??? ? ???. ??? ?? ?? ?? ????(Cheryl Berns - tein)??? ???? ??? ??? ?? ?? ????? ??? ??? ??? ??(Carol and Andrew Duncan) ??? ???? ???????. 1970? ?? ?? ???? ? ???? ?? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ????…

…1980??? ??? ??? ?? ??????? ???? ?? ???? ???? ???? ?? ????? ??? ??? ???? ??? ?? ???, ?? ? ??? ???? ?????. ?? ???? ????? ???? ??? ??? ?? ?? ???? ??? ???? ????. ?? ??? ??? ??? ??? ‘???’?? ????. ??? ??? ??? ??? ??, ??? ??, ???? ????, ??? ?? ?? ‘??(depth)’? ??? ???? ??? ??? ‘???(surfaces)’? ????? ???.15) ??, ??? ?? ?? ?????? ??? ??? ???? ? ????? ??? ???? ???? ? ???.

??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ?? ‘????(pastiche)’? ‘??? (schizophrenia)’??. ???? ?? ??? ??? ?? ??? ??? ??? ????. ?? ??? ?? ???? ? ??? ???? ????? ??? ??? ?? ????. ????? ???? ?? ?????, ???? ????? ??? ????.

??? ???? ????? ???? ?? ?????, ??? ??? ???? ??? ??? ??? ???? ?? ????. ???? ??? ??? ?? ??? ???? ??? ????.16) ????? ?? ??? ???? ??? ?? ?? ??? ? ???? ??????? ??? ??? ?? ???? ????? ‘??’? ????? ???? ????? ??? ??? ????.

?? ?? ??? ??? ? ????? ???? ??? ???? ???? ? ?????? ??? ?? ??, ? ???????? ??. ?? ????? ????? ??? ?? ?? ??? ?????? ???? ??? ???? ?????, ?? ? ??????? ??? ??? ??.

?? ?? ???? ?? ??? ??? ???? ?? ??? ??? ‘??(the real)’? ???? ?? ‘???(the hyperreal)’???? ????. ??? ??? ??, ?? ??? ??? ??? ??? ????. ??? ??? ??? ??? ??? ??????? ??? ??? ?? ?? ???? ?? ‘???? ?? (precession of simulacra)’? ?? ???? ‘??????(panoptic system)’? ‘????(system of deterrence)’? ??? ????. ???? ??? ?? ??? ???? ????? ??? ??? ???? ???? ??.

?????? ??? ?? ??? ???? ???? ??? ???? ??? ??? ? ???? ???? ?? ???. ??? ?? ?? ?? ??? ???? ???? ????. ?????? ???? ??? ??, ??? ??? ?? ??? ??? ???? ??? ??? ???? ‘??(implosion)’? ??? ?? ?? ?? ???? ??? ??? ????? ???.17)

Excerpt from http://www.paintseoul.com/Report-21c-03.htm