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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buying it…

Tuesday, May 31st, 2011

© Reuters

Americanisms have been entering Britain for quite some time. It is natural for oldtimers like me to bemoan the language being pulled out from under us. However, I am well aware that it is inevitable that language should change constantly – and I am certainly not interested in being any kind of linguistic (proverbial) Canute. Further, I am also aware that it is an error to see American English as diverging from British English: the truth is, of course, that both diverged from a common ancestor – and that, no doubt, half the differences we British speakers notice in American usage come from our Transatlantic cousins having retained the original word; whereas it is we who have come up with the innovation.

Colonial separation unzipped our language in Britain from that in North America; and the bringing together of our two cultures, that has resulted from the ever increasing closeness of technologically enhanced cultural exchange, is zipping it up again. Of course, it is America that, with its much larger population and far more influential cultural output, is winning the battle for what constitutes the evolving common speech. That’s perfectly natural. The very success of the spread of English throughout the world has meant that its original speakers are now very much in the minority.

All of this is just fine. I may find the increasing use of “awesome” all around me as being somewhat off putting – because, to my ear, it really does sound VERY American (it seems to me the verbal equivalent of everyone wearing Stetsons!) – but I accept that I am the one who is going to have to adapt.

(Not that it is likely that I will ever use “awesome” in my writing – neither, any longer, can I use the meaning of that word that I grew up with. In a similar way, people older than me complain about the loss of the word “gay” – that, in truth, by becoming used for “homosexual”, has left a gap in the spectrum of words we use to describe the various shades of ‘being happy’.)

However, there is one Americanism that grates as much on my ear as “awesome” and that is a particular use of the verb “to buy” – to mean something akin to “to believe” – and this I would like to take an exception to.

Use of “do you buy it?” has become increasingly prevalent. So much so that it is now even common to hear it being used by BBC news presenters – and this without most people seemingly being aware of it?! I feel that this indicates a profound and insidious change in the way we perceive transactions of understanding. Does it not, after all, suggest that all such transactions have been reduced to some form of commerce? Along with addressing passengers on trains as ‘customers’, it seems to indicate that everything is now being bought and sold; that everyone is a trader of some kind. I wonder if it can be an accident that the adoption of this term seems (certainly this is my impression) to have come into general use quite recently? Could this indeed have anything to do with the collapse of the Soviet Union and the adoption of market capitalism in China? I do think an argument could be made that socialism filled a role previously occupied by religion: both are traditions that – at their best – have stood in opposition to raw capitalism and against the ‘law of the jungle’. When socialism writ large collapsed, Francis Fukuyama famously pronounced the “End of History”; that Western liberal democracy had proved itself to be the end point of human political evolution, and the final form of human government.

I fear that when we ask each other: “do you buy it?”, we may be collaborating with this reductionist and morally impoverished view. Personally, I think I will continue to ask: “do you believe it?”…

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the divided brain…

Saturday, March 5th, 2011
The Master and the Emissary...

The Master and the Emissary © markswan.net

The Master and His Emissary: The Divided Brain and the Making of the Western World is not a self-help book, nor is it one of those books of cod-philosophy that promise amazing (though ultimately ill-founded) insights into the modern condition. It is instead a carefully argued thesis meticulously supported by references to research, as well as by appeals to personal experience.

Its core premise is that we possess a single consciousness, but two wills: one each in the right and left hemispheres of our brains. McGilchrist posits that these hemispheres are profoundly asymmetric – not only physically (they have measurably different widths and lengths, for example), but functionally.

The right hemisphere perceives the world as a whole, is deeply attuned to the particular, the individual, the immediate; and has no problem with ambiguity and paradox, with complexity and unknowability. The left hemisphere, by contrast, is obsessed with abstraction, with wheedling out underlying geometries, with generalities; what it perceives it dissects and analyses. It focuses on what it knows and seeks certainty and single, definitive answers. Critically, the left hemisphere’s field of operation is essentially what the right hemisphere passes to it. McGilchrist suggests that an optimally functioning human brain should gather impressions from the world with its right hemisphere, pass these to the left for analysis and then, crucially, integrate these analyses into its holistic picture.

The first half of the book builds up what appears to be an impressive body of evidence to support this view – evidence not only from neurological studies and practice, but also from art and philosophy. In the second half of the book McGilchrist then applies this theory to Western history in an attempt to explain many of its developments; a venture that he admits is extremely ambitious.

Roughly speaking, he claims that in the West we have, as a consequence of a move into abstraction that began with the ancient Greeks, coupled with our increasingly materialist perspectives, gradually moved into a way of being that favours the left hemisphere – that, finding itself in the man-made world resulting from its manipulations and over which it feels it has complete mastery, it is no longer prepared to relinquish control back to the right hemisphere. This “betrayal”, McGilchrist suggests, is increasingly dangerous for us – for the left hemisphere view is necessarily narrow: the greatest whole it can conceive of is that that it can assemble from the pieces into which it breaks everything down. Thus we cease to see living things, our planet, the universe, as anything more than a machine that is a sum of its parts: a vision of living things as misguided as Dr Frankenstein’s…

McGilchrist’s arguments seemed to me convincing enough, though necessarily I had to take most of the supporting evidence on trust – as in most such books, how can we hope to be able to check it out for ourselves…

However – and this is why I am writing this endorsement – I found that much in the book gels with my own experience. Like many (most? all?) people, I have two sides: one that is intuitive, connected to nature, free flowing; the other analytical, obsessed with orthogonality, analysis, precision and getting to the right answer. These war in me all the time, but never more so than in my work. In the Stone Dance, for example, I would often get lost in ‘research’, exploring every avenue, pursuing every problem until, frequently, I would squeeze every last drop of blood from the visions that had inspired me to write at all. (This ‘deadening’ is, according to McGilchrist, a sure sign that the left hemisphere is hard at work.) But then that other part of me would swoop down and snatch up these dead fragments and absorb them into a vision more vibrant than before.

Thus a constant problem with my creative process is that I feel I have spent altogether too much of my time slicing away at ‘corpses’ and perishingly little in exhilarating ‘flight’. In the struggle to maximize the latter and minimize the former, I have often veered towards attempting ‘flight’ on its own, without any of the preparatory surgery of research and analysis (Icarus not bothering to glue the feathers to his wings?), only to find that it all becomes so airy that it dissipates away to nothing. Imagine my excitement when this process is explained to me; its necessity, its naturalness; to become confident that what is required is to seek a balance between the two.

This book, then, seems to me to provide a description of something that I live with every day and, unless I am weird and crazy, then it seems to me likely this is a description of how your brain works too…

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yoga bear…

Thursday, February 17th, 2011

bear demonstrating yoga posture "dancing bear"

bear doing yoga © Meta Penca


Upavishta Konasana

© Beryl Bender Birch doing merudandasana

This picture is one of several taken by Meta Penca, a 29 year old web programmer from Slovenia, of Santra the bear doing her exercises at the Ahtari Zoo in Finland. Strangely, or not so strangely, this is exactly the same as the yoga posture Merudasana, Balancing Bear Posture (rather more prosaically also known as Upavishta Konasana, Seated Angle Posture.) Taking this name into account and comparing the two photographs, it seems obvious to me where the idea came from – it seems unlikely the bear is copying some human.

In the past humans learned a lot from animals. Yoga is filled with examples, then so is T’ai Chi (a part of one form is called White Crane Flaps Wings). Now you might say that the reason for this is because our forebears (*grin* no pun intended) were much closer to nature. However, I imagine that bears were no easier to watch then than they are now in our zoos, books or TV. I would suggest the real difference is that our forebears actually considered animals worth learning from. For them, the gap between us and animals was much smaller. Clearly by the time our civilizations began industrializing this gap had grown almost unbridgeable (some of this is down to religion, but that’s another issue).

If it had not it is hardly to be supposed that Darwin’s revelations about our origins would have caused quite so much consternation. In spite of now knowing that we are directly descended from apes (and they from other creatures all the way back to the first organism), we still have an ‘us and them’ attitude to our fellow animals. That we no longer feel we have anything to learn from them is an example of our hubris, and is not just our loss, but also theirs…

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