ebooks – a superior aesthetic?

Thursday, June 30th, 2011

my iPad...

Let me whisper to you a heresy: ebooks may be aesthetically superior to paper books. There, I’ve said it. Before they come for me, to burn me as a witch, let me try to explain what I mean.

First I would like to distinguish two different functional components of the paper book: the paper book as machine and the paper book as a (complex) surface that bears text. Though it is the latter that concerns me most here, I will say the following about the former:

Ebook reading devices can not only emulate many of the page turning, indexing, book marking etc functions of the paper book, but, by being programmable, can provide us with new facilities: ebooks can be searched, linked to other texts (or images, sounds, video etc), typographically modified (to use different fonts, or to use different sized fonts – thus tailoring the reading experience to the reader), and can come to possess any number of other features thought of or unthought of to date. These ergonomic issues are, of course, aesthetic in their own right, as are the actual physical characteristics of the paper book. This latter point seems to come up time and time again especially in the context of the ‘feel and smell’ of inked paper. I am the last person to dismiss this preference. However, not only is it possible that ebook devices will come to emulate – if the desire for this should continue – the ‘feel’ and ‘look’ of paper, but I would suggest that the ebook can bring its own feel and look to the reading experience; the slickness of metal and glass and all manner of textured plastics, and who knows what other materials. These particular aesthetic aspects of physicality will, no doubt, long continue to be a bone of contention – at least for those of us who have grown up with paper books.

Setting aside these considerations, I would like to turn to the second of my functional components: the book as a surface that bears text. This surface in paper books (and in scrolls, tablets and other devices that preceded the codex) is, after all, the one that most matters; it is that through which we actually ‘read’ the book. I would suggest that it is this surface that constitutes the primary aesthetic of any book (second only to its content). In the West (and I believe this carries through to other orthographies, printed or otherwise) the locus of this aesthetic lies in the laying out on the surface of crisp black characters in lines and in paragraph blocks, culminating in a macro-block, consisting of these components, that forms a ‘page’. It is thus the page that is central (everything else is merely a means of moving from one page to another). And it seems to me that there are two aesthetics that dominate the page: the quality of the print and the orthogonality of all the elements on a page.

Print by its very nature privileges repetition over individual uniqueness. For centuries scribes struggled manually to make each example of a given character identical to every other. With the advent of printing this became just about possible. I believe that the ebook represents the culmination of this process… for even printed books suffer from variations in ink density across a page and, because paper is an organic substrate, the kerning between printed characters can vary. Ebooks, by contrast, supply us with text that is of a perfectly uniform density and with precise, invariable kerning.

Similarly, the orthogonality of the macro-block of text on an ebook page is also invariable, whereas its paper counterpart is not. However, there is, I feel, a more important difference in the orthogonality (the perils of orthogonality are another matter: refer to “orthogonality” tag) of the macro-block: the gutter of a paper book. We are so accustomed to this that we hardly notice it, however, it is for many of us a cause of some irritation. It seems to me that, with all the advantages gained in the move from scroll to codex, there came also a major disadvantage: the gutter that was introduced by the need to attach the pages to the spine. Of course, in expensive books, hardcover rather than paperback (or even worse, those that are perfect bound), the way a page slopes down into a gutter is somewhat ameliorated – not only because the superior binding allows the book to lie flatter when open, but also because the macro-block is often kept away from the gutter by a wider margin. Paperbacks are altogether a different matter, with sometimes a reader being forced to peer down into the gutter into which the text seems to be slipping. In this sort of book the reader almost has to pull it apart to read it; perfect bound books literally come apart, so that the cover ends up as a folder holding a sheaf of loose pages.

The reader of an ebook is spared all of these misfortunes. Each page is presented perfectly flat and square and with no danger of being lost or of any damage coming to the device from the attempt to read what it displays.

So – I’ve not got long now before they come for me – though ebooks may be extremely disruptive to us readers, and though some things may be lost, I feel that, on balance, ebooks are destined to provide us with an aesthetically (never mind functionally) superior reading experience…

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life and art in one gear…

Tuesday, June 28th, 2011
motion blur

motion blur © xaxor.com

In writing, and in other art forms whose expression occurs across a span of time, pace is important, however I feel that we are, as a culture, somewhat obsessed with it, and I would like to lightly explore why this may be so. Let me admit from the outset that some of my work has been criticized as moving along at too slow a pace, and so you may say: I would say this, wouldn’t I…

My key concern is the notion that there is an ‘optimal’ pace, ‘correct’ even, that should reign over all time-spanning artworks (books, films, music, dance). This seems to me akin to claiming that our hearts should always beat with the same rhythm. Of course the pace that is supposed to be optimal is a fast one; the complaint is predominantly that something is ‘too slow’. The corollary of this seems to be that ‘slow’ is equated with ‘boring’ and ‘dull’, whereas ‘fast’ is equated with ‘exciting’. To suppose that everything needs to be exciting (in this frantic, breathless sense) seems to me to be related to the way in which our culture worships youth. Human beings slow as they age. I feel that to see this slowing as some kind of unfortunate diminishment is to miss the point. Travelling in a train, we watch the world rush by; as we slow our progress by driving a car, riding a bicycle or walking on foot, we see, geographically, less and less of the world, but, critically, we see it in much greater depth and detail. Similarly, artworks that possess less pace can allow for greater depth. Western classical music – and probably many older traditions of music – can match the frantic pace of popular music, but deploys many other paces besides, and by this means can explore a much more expansive and deeper realm of musical experience.

In short: I believe that the gearbox of our art and lives has more than one gear…

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the retreat from reality…

Friday, June 24th, 2011
sanna, ardnamurchan, summer solstice 2011

view from Sanna, Ardnamurchan, on the summer solstice

For most of human history our facsimiles of reality were very clearly man-made representations: no colour we could produce or use could compare in subtlety or vibrancy to those in nature; no fabric could approach the glossy texture of a rose petal; nothing, not even the finest acted mimicry, could hope to capture an animal in motion. Reality in all its splendour remained unassailably enthroned beyond our attempts to emulate it. This hierarchy has, more recently, begun to be eroded with, I feel, unfortunate consequences for each of us.

Film first captured moving images in a manner wholly artificial – jerky black and white and silent. Still, the excitement of this primitive capture of motion drew crowds. With the advent of sound, and the addition of colour, film became the first of our technologies that could plausibly represent an experience of reality. Mostly, what we have done with this technology is to give our fantasies the semblance of reality. More recently, flat screen technologies have taken over the accelerating process of making our dream representations ever more ‘real’. As each year passes the resolution of these screens (the pixels per inch), and the depth of colour (the number of bits assigned to a single pixel to encode colour) approach and will finally exceed that which our eyes are capable of discerning. Our dreams are coming closer to mimicking reality so completely that, in comparison, actual reality is beginning to seem less real.

Our inner notion of reality as expressed by facsimiles (pictures, carvings) has always been so compelling that, even when these were crude in the extreme, we could still fetishize them in preference over the far more luscious outer reality, coloured as it is in infinite gradations and displayed to us at an infinite resolution (in that however close you look at something, it has levels of detail beyond the acuity of our vision). How much more compelling then are the facsimiles we are beginning to produce? The one triumphant quality of reality that we could not deny – its irreproducibility by us – is under attack. Surely there will come a point when we will dethrone reality and set up before it an idol of our own making; our own dreams and aspirations clothed in all the seductive glory of reality. Nature dethroned, we shall instead worship the products of our minds. Turning a blind eye to reality, we shall worship ourselves…

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tablets and the cloud…

Thursday, June 9th, 2011

iPad being used as portable TV...

using my iPad as a portable TV over breakfast...

I’ve been hankering after a tablet computer for many years (I hope not as a result of having been brainwashed by Star Trek!?). Specifically I was wanting Apple to produce one. I have been using their computers since 1984 and supported them through the hard years before Steve Jobs returned – much in the way other people support a football team that keeps losing. Now that they are becoming masters of the galaxy I find myself somewhat embarrassed by my adherence to Apple – as communists perhaps did when Stalin turned their dream into a totalitarian dystopia. However, I have spent all my working life within Apple’s ecosystem, and whatever criticisms can be levelled at them – the lock ins, the strong arm tactics, the hyper-capitalism – I still believe that, ergonomically and technologically, their ecosystem is the best one out there. And so, last month, I finally got myself one of the new iPads.

Of course the device is beautiful, and beautifully designed. It is slick and seductive. What it is not is a replacement for my laptop: the means provided for entering text cannot compete with a keyboard. However, my tablet has already replaced my laptop as my primary way of interacting with the internet. For anyone not needing to enter a lot of text into a computer, it seems to me that a tablet is a superior device. Further, I am convinced that tablets represent the future of non-business computing and, with the integration with the ‘cloud’ that Apple have announced this week, I feel we are moving into a new era where computing will become ever more pervasive, while at the same time becoming ever more subtle and, essentially, invisible.

The form factor of the tablet seems to sit in a ‘sweet spot’. Long tethered to desks by cables, computers had already slipped their bonds. However, laptops, for all their power and luggablity, are very much present; if not by their weight and size, then by their need for at least the desk we make for them on our thighs, which they reward us by trying to cook them! This heat is itself an indication of one of their major limitations – their short battery life.

And though smart phones slip into a pocket and run longer on a single charge, for all their sophistication, they are like peering at the world through a keyhole and, if that world is the web, then we have been forced to operate it by performing something like keyhole surgery.

A tablet is large enough for you to feel that your view of cyberspace is essentially unimpaired and it provides a field of operation that does not feel overly constrained. It is light, thin, small and mine seems to run for days on a single charge though I use it all the time. It also switches off and on, simply and cleanly, like those others of our gadgets (TVs, washing machines etc) that we barely notice are there.

I am old enough to have grown up with all the computery gubbins of commands and controls, of settings and variables, of virtual filing systems; old enough that I have programmed directly in machine code – the direct instruction layer lying just above a processor chip. Though this kind of esoterica may seem to some ‘sophisticated’, to me it has long seemed the very height of crudeness. I have friends who keep telling me that the fatal flaw with Apple computers is that you can’t easily lift the bonnet and tinker with the engine. I am one of those people who really can’t be bothered with the engine. I simply see my computer as a means – not an end: I simply want it to ‘get me there’. Further, I believe that the trend in everyman computing is to gradually dissolve the device until it becomes invisible. What is a computer but a window that you look through? – and as Elizabethan glass, with its countless tiny distorting panes, has given way to plates so large you can’t see the edges; so clear you can almost, like a bird, forget it is there – with the tablet, computers become more nearly extensions of ourselves. Further still, the elimination of the prophylactic that is the keyboard allows you to interact with the device directly with your naked fingers: skin on glass, though that glass is, through gesture, enlivened to a surface that you can twist and pull, pinch and ruck. I imagine that, once haptic feedback is refined and incorporated into the device, we shall be able to feel its skin, to prod and squeeze its callouses, to ruffle its feathers *grin*… If this comes to pass, will it be possible for us to consider such devices as anything less than an organic part of ourselves?

The final element required to sink the computer interface beneath the surface of the sensual world is to liberate the medusae, that are our data, from the cages of our desktop computers and laptops, up into the ‘cloud’ – letting them swim freely in cyberspace (the problems inherent in the server farms that will support that freedom are another issue). This transformation is going to free us from the tedious rituals of backing up (or the anxiety of not backing up), and of synchronisation. Our data, safe (at least from loss; security from being viewed or used by others is yet another issue), and that we can beckon to us from any device we’re near, will, it seems to me, become an almost unconscious extension of our minds…

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