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We’ve been watching the story for days now, though it’s far from making headline news. On February 14, 2014 radioactivity was detected in the open air above ground at our nation’s only deep geologic repository for nuclear waste, the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant (WIPP) in southern New Mexico. We’ve written about WIPP several times on this blog, most recently during the production of our video project, Look Only at the Movement, for which we traveled the same Interstate highway routes that transuranic waste in our country travels — to WIPP.
What did make it into news “mentions,” if not news headlines, is the “puff” of radioactive materials that was released, which included plutonium and americium. The half-life of plutonium is 24,000 years. And, workers at WIPP were exposed.
WIPP was designed to contain waste underground inside the Permian salt dome beneath WIPP for 10,000 years. But some of the waste escaped this week, 10,000 years early. February’s puff constitutes a change in containment status worth noting.
When such inexplicable “puffs” of radioactivity enter the atmosphere (or ocean currents), it’s worth revisiting Timothy Morton‘s discussions of hyperobjects. It’s the accumulation and free-ranging movements of uncontainable hyperobjects that, alongside human actions, co-create our contemporary moment.
“There is no away to which we can meaningfully sweep the radioactive dust. Nowhere is far enough or long-lasting enough. What must happen instead is that we must care consciously for nuclear materials …the future of plutonium exerts a causal influence on the present, casting its shadow backward through time. All kinds of options are no longer thinkable without a deliberate concealment of the reality of radioactive objects.” – Timothy Morton, Hyperobjects: Philosophy and Ecology after the End of the World
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photos Eric William Carroll via the Walker Art Center
We’re continuing research on what it means to inhabit change. We’re particularly interested ephemeral structures that provide shelter while being responsive to changes unfolding in the surrounding environment.
This week we learned about two notable projects. First, the Art Shanties project in Minnesota. Here, artists have created upbeat and wildly different reinterpretations of the traditional fishing shacks that dot frozen lakes in Minnesota every winter. The Art Shanties encourage community among frozen lake fishermen and art-lovers.
Also notable are two architectural models of a historic three-by-three square meter hut at Kyoto’s Shigamo Shrine. Both huts refer to Kamono Chomei’s home. The Japanese recluse immortalized his tiny house in a famous piece of literature written over 800 years ago called the Hōjōki (translated as “An Account of My Hut”). If you’re not familiar with this ancient work, one highlight reads:
“I leave my span of days for Heaven to determine, neither clinging to life nor begrudging its end. My body is like a drifting cloud—I ask for nothing, I want nothing. My greatest joy is a quiet nap; my only desire for this life is to see the beauties of the seasons.” - from, An Account of My Hut, by Kamo no Chomei in 1212, translated by Donald Keene.
Chomei intended for his hut to be mobile and enable him to relocate in response to the volatile political events in Japan that were affecting his life. A traditional model of the house has graced the Kyoto shrine for some time. This past winter, Japanese architect Kengo Kuma offered an ephemeral, modern interpretation, also located on the shrine’s grounds. It’s composed of cedar, magnets and plastic sheeting.
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If you’ve ever wanted a movie-based crash course in how humans have put uranium to use on the planet, you might be interested in attending a film or two at the upcoming Uranium Film Festival. The festival runs for six days (February 14-19th, 2014), at Brooklyn’s Pavilion Theater. The films range from the experimental to the political, but uranium is the substance of connection. So, if you’re curious about how contemporary artists and filmmakers are responding to global atomic realities, don’t miss your chance next weekend.
We are also grateful to have recently met the volunteer coordinator of the Brooklyn-based iteration of the Uranium Film Festival, Yuko Tonohira. She is a co-founder of Todos Somos Japon, a project worth checking out. And, in case you need an extra deck of Repository spotter cards, they will be available at the festival.
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Q39 Why do you like being in the water?
“We just want to go back. To the distant, distant past. To a primeval era, in fact, before human beings even existed. All people with autism feel the same about this one, I reckon. Aquatic life-forms came into being and evolved, but why did they then have to emerge onto dry land, and turn into human beings who chose to lead lives ruled by time? These are real mysteries to me
In the water it’s so quiet and I’m so free and happy there. Nobody hassles us in the water, and it’s as if we’ve got all the time in the world. Whether we stay in one place or whether we’re swimming about, when we’re in the water there’s always too much stimulation for our eyes and our ears, and it’s impossible for us to guess how long one second is or how long an hour takes.
People with autism have no freedom. The reason is that we are a different kind of human, born with primeval senses. We are outside the normal flow of time, we can’t express ourselves, and our bodies are hurtling us through life. If only we could go back to that distant, distant, watery past—then we’d all be able to live as contentedly and as freely as you lot!”
Q47 Would you give us an example of something people with autism really enjoy?
“We do take pleasure in one thing that you probably won’t be able to guess. Namely, making friends with nature. The reason we aren’t much good at people skills is that we think too much about what sort of impression we’re making on the other person, or how we should be responding to this or that. But nature is always there at hand to wrap us up, gently: glowing swaying, bubbling, rustling.
Just by looking at nature, I feel as if I’m being swallowed up into it, and in that moment I get the sensation that my body’s now a speck, a speck from long before I was born, a speck that is melting into nature herself. This sensation is so amazing that I forget that I’m a human being, and one with special needs to boot.
Nature calms me down when I’m furious, and laughs with me when I’m happy. You might think that it’s not possible that nature could be a friend, not really. But human beings are part of the animal kingdom too, and perhaps us people with autism still have some leftover awareness of this, buried somewhere deep down. I’ll always cherish the part of me that thinks of nature as a friend.”
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Fifth Avenue and 13th Street, Manhattan, January 22, 2014, 12:30 pm EST, 15 degrees F (feels like 3°), image Meridith Kruse
Last Wednesday a major water main broke under Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. The 36 inch pipe, dating to 1877, was one segment of the 7000 miles of water mains that run through New York City. Age and recent temperature fluctuations are credited for causing the burst. This particular event was prominent on our radar not only because it disrupted public transportation and flooded a number of basements, including that of The New School’s University Center slated to open this week, but also because it opened up the street to reveal otherwise hidden infrastructures that are always undergoing change. The gaping hole in the street lays bare the city’s vital connection to distant reservoirs and ancient geology (PDF) that deliver fresh water—one billion gallons of it each day—from upstate New York.
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“How to grasp fully the effects of a warming global temperature may require some originality of thought and action that is not yet clear to us. Routine and revelation have always been steadfast allies, and it is my suspicion that such an imagination arrives most frequently through measured work, and that local epiphanies are a common product of rote discipline. At a time when apocalyptic rhetoric so often colors the conversation around changing global ecologies, it may be useful to consider what are sometimes called repetitive motion tasks.” – Akiko Busch, from The Incidental Steward
It’s a new year and we’re trying out a new format. In 2014 we will aiming for short-form posts and different content here on FOP. For the next little, or perhaps long while, we will share quick, unfinished thoughts related to observations on impermanence and responses and practices related to change itself.
These relays might take the form of short statements, questions, sets of images, field sketches or data recordings made at various locations. The content may or may not be as literally geological as it has been in the past four years.
We’re doing this because we feel that we’re in the midst of a changing world-reality. That reality clearly includes monumental geologic change that is Anthropocene-epoch making in scale. But, in order to get a sense of how the monumental plays out at the scale of human lives, we will start small and cultivate practices for regularly and simply paying attention to change itself as it occurs in our daily lives — on its way to adding up to much larger world realities.
The planetary change that humans already are embedded in activates forces that we associate with the geologic, geographic, seasonal, cultural, economic, environmental, linguistic, cognitive, social, emotional — and more. It’s from various perspectives on change that we aim to blog in 2014. Our friends back in the Pleistocene were also engaged in observing and practicing monumental change as they began to stand upright, find food, and develop communities as means of adjusting to evolving daily life realities of their own epoch of climate change.
So, we look forward to “being with” the realities of change itself as it unfolds this coming year. We will use this blog to develop ways to make various forces of change relevant to contemporary conversations in the arts, sciences, media studies, and beyond. We are scheduled to take up two extended residencies in New Mexico and Norway in the early part of 2014. We sense that they will be key locations from which to signal the work as it’s in progress.
So, starting from where we are, literally from what’s right in front of us outside the window: We offer an image of the white brick wall we now look out on here in Brooklyn. After more than a decade facing a bright red building, FOP has moved locations. We now face a fundamentally different view. Though such a change might appear minor, overall, the move has shaken loose all kinds of habitual assumptions and perspectives that had taken root, many without us taking note. This blank slate is where we will start again.
We’re currently dis-located, and from here, it’s easier to notice details large and small. Pretty much everything feels new and somethings feel entirely foreign. We’re not quite sure yet where we’ve landed. We appear to be in a generative time and location to try out new thoughts and practices while the changes and new sensations are still raw.
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Poised together here on Planet Earth to begin our next big circuit around the sun, while we also move into our fifth year of FOP, we wanted to pass on a link to Akiko Busch’s recent opinion piece in the New York Times, “Life on the Edge.”
From the fertile vantage point just before the impending new year, we concur with Busch: from this charged edge, we can sense the potential of actively renewing and inventing wholly new intentions and practices for meeting the change that will mark the coming days. From this temporal edge, where what has come before meets and blurs into what will come into being, much is still undecided. This edge of the new year “is where the action is, or the place you push things to for the best results.” (Busch)
Here’s to 2014 becoming a year of ongoing edge-ness — one that sustains a cresting wave of actions and wild potentials — one that springs into reality the generative changes that material realities of contemporary life now call for. Happy New Year on the Edge!
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screen glow, image cc
Back in the Pleistocene, or at least pre-1800s, humans had a different kind of relationship with light. Nights were dark unless lit by fire — a very different quality of light than that of our digital age.
As the days get shorter and shorter in December, and the longest night of the year only five days away, we find ourselves bathed more frequently in the bright cold, bluish glow emitted from various technological devices. The eventual crescendoing of natural light is one of the best parts of this season, while the increase in electronic screen glow-time is the less welcome consequence of being able to keep the same screen schedules no matter the time of day or solar season. Many have suggested that exposure to certain spectrums of bright light can over-stimulate our senses, especially at times of day that our biological clocks expect us to be in darkness. When our eyes should be sending end of the day, “winding down” messages to our brains and nervous systems, they often aren’t. And this can disrupt deeply engrained circadian rhythms.
We recently had the pleasure of attending a class on lighting at the Brooklyn Brainery. And for more than two hours we received an incredibly in-depth introduction to the science of light; how to playfully surf the NYC electricity system during off-peak hours in order to pay the lowest rates (via timers and the modlet); and to how to use our cell phone to turn our lights and heat on and off even when we aren’t home.
The quickest adaptation we made as a result of our evening of light immersion was inspired by a side-note to the main program. A comment from an audience member introduced us all to F.lux, a free software application that “makes your computer screen look like the room you’re in, all the time. When the sun sets, it makes your computer look like your indoor lights. In the morning, it makes things look like sunlight again.”
We quickly installed F.lux and have begun adjusting to the eerily calm, warm glow now beaming from our screens ever since. It takes some getting used to, but once you’ve made the switch, it’s jarring to see just how bright 6000 kelvins of “daylight” feels across your whole body when you’re sitting in a dark room. Light becomes a material force that undeniably shapes everything in the surrounding environment. The F.lux creators have posted a page of research documenting the health and cognitive effects of the blue screen at night, in case you want to learn more.
F.lux is literally synced to the sunrise and sunset, and self-adjusts based on the coordinates of your zip code. It can transition to “night” lighting gradually over an hour, or it can change in a quick 20 seconds at the moment the sun rises or sets at your location. You get to choose the degrees of nuance you want to experience. The application has several settings, allowing you to adjust night screens to match your home lighting and/or choose custom preferences that include “halogen,” “daylight,” “tungsten,” “candle,” and “fluorescent.”
We appreciate how suddenly our computers are signaling back to us an attentiveness to change that would otherwise be lost in the frozen pool of constant blue glow. The planet is moving and each day it presents a new and shifting rhythm of light. Suddenly, with this slight affordance, we can re-sync with deep evolutionary patterns and cosmological movements unfolding around us, while acknowledging the reality that we are biological-cosmological assemblages. What we do in response to experiencing the sun “rise” or “set” through a gradation of screen color day after day, is left up to us. We can simply enjoy the lowered sense of eye/brain stress immediately, or maybe we can be prompted to ask whether it’s time to get out from behind this screen and experience the sun-earth dance more frequently.
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The 2014 card features the Euphoria dune shack in the Provincelands of Massachusetts
If you are on smudge studio’s analog mailing list you might have been the recipient of one or more of the following images. Each year we send out a photo card to mark the change of year, often with a theme (often pertaining to landscape, travel, and time) that we sense will be inflecting our work for the year that is about to begin. We’re always on the look out for what each year’s image might become. 2014 marks the tenth year of this practice. This decadal anniversary, plus the fact that FOP turns four on January 1, 2014, makes it a good time to dig through the archives and see this year’s card in relation to the previous ones.
It feels as though 2014′s “inhabiting change” tagline captures our sense of the coming year more aptly than ever. As a forecast of what the overarching theme for our work and process might become in the new year, the caption and image suggest our sense that in 2014, we’ll begin to engage “geologic change” through daily life practices. We anticipate that the coming year will be a year where the planetary changes previously relegated to the “out there” will leak into daily routines and realities. We expect this will require us to reassess, if not reinvent, how we meaningfully engage the hours of each day while the current window of opportunity remains open.
From the signals we have received from friends and family in recent weeks, it seems that living within the forces of change, at times tumultuous and deeply personal, is becoming a shared theme. We sense that the potential of 2014 is not only to acknowledge and invite the realities of change into our daily lives, but also to inhabit and engage them from within their unfolding.
Super 8 still from time-lapse at CLUI Wendover’s southbase
“manifest your reality” in 2007 (Provincelands of Massachusetts)
for 2005 a Jenny Holzer Plane (via Creative Time) flying over the Hudson River (banner reads: “Whatever you are be a good one”)
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After September 11, 2001, the phrase “Go Bag” became common in New York City’s vernacular. In case of a natural or man-made emergency, citizens were told it’s important to have a bag of essentials ready to take with us at a moment’s notice. The contents are supposed to be items that will allow us to be self-sufficient for days without electricity, food, or water. Scores of New Yorkers prepared Go Bags, just in case. With recent storms Irene and Sandy, the Go Bag became newly relevant and was emphasized by the New York Office of Emergency Management’s campaign: “Ready New York.” These days, the OEM promotes its “Go Bag” on its website in conjunction with a host of social media links and a monthly quiz that New Yorkers can use to test their preparedness. The prize? An OEM Go Bag.
Since Sandy, we’ve been wondering what else we might need besides iodine tablets, water and flashlights for the events of change that continuously affect New York City. In this new age of the Anthropocene, we’re always already “inside” events of change — such as the formation of one of the largest typhoons in recorded history half way around the world. If there is no “outside” of such change events, what do we need in order to stay with their complex realities and engage them on a daily basis? If there’s no “away” to go to, then maybe we should reframe the very terms of our engagement with change events—through something like a “Stay Bag.”
Designing a “Stay Bag for Resilient Futures” is this semester’s final project assigned by FOP’s Jamie Kruse for her undergraduate course at Parsons. She asked students to design a “bag” and contents that illustrate the concept that there is no “away” when it comes to change events, and that offers some sort of resiliency for a specific population or zone in New York City. The Stay Bag reflects the reality that we (all humans) have nowhere to “go” to in relation to emerging planetary futures. We are all, especially artists and designers, charged to meet, engage and respond as creatively as possible to changing environmental conditions wherever we are and pretty much all the time.
This project isn’t about slighting the Go Bag, which offers an extremely useful set of tools and affordances in the case of an extreme event. But, what might we design for times when the sun is out — but Fukushima continues to leak across the ocean? What “tools” can the Stay Bag offer us that the Go Bag can’t because it’s designed for emergency mode?
As Earth continues to accumulate and respond to the effects of human impact, a Stay Bag might take the form of a set of aesthetic and conceptual happenings disguised as a portable community center. Or an aesthetic experience that takes audiences “through an inner space that is hard to traverse” (Morton, Hyperobjects, page 184)—such as the dawning realization that we are already inside the Anthropocene. How might a Stay Bag offer sensations that encourage us to recalibrate our responses to ongoing change and our (human) role in intensifying uncertain futures? What things and realities, previously overlooked, might such a bag aid us in co-existing with?
Here at FOP, we’re intrigued by the possibilities of the Stay Bag as an aesthetic and design provocation. What forms might Stay Bags take for our neighborhood in Brooklyn? How might this “bag” and its contents be reinterpreted, say, Los Alamos, New Mexico, Vík , Iceland, Oslo or Tokyo? Despite the massive differences and distances between those places, humans in each one of them are affecting, and being affected by, the same larger “hyperobjects” (such a global warming or the need to quarantine nuclear waste). So, what might a set of Stay Bags designed for different cities offer when considered in juxtaposition? FOP will explore the Stay Bag-as-provocation over the course of the next year though several projects and collaborations currently in-progress.
Kaen-doki flame-ware vase, Middle Jōmon period (3,500–2,500 BCE). Earthenware; 11 5/8 inches high, 11 5/8 inches diameter. Collection of John C. Weber.
We ask you to take one more conceptual leap with us as we sort through some initial thoughts on what a Stay Bag might be/come.
Recently, we had the chance to experience Mariko Mori’s exhibition, Rebirth, at the Japan Society. The show is self-described as one that transforms the Japan Society galleries into “Mori’s world through 35 sculptures, drawings, photographs, sound and video works, strung together into a narrative of birth, death and rebirth—a continuous circle of life force that the artist observes on a cosmic scale. Journey through space, time and consciousness in this immersive installation.”
The core inspiration for Mori’s work in Rebirth was her engagement with ancient Japan, primarily through fieldwork that she conducted at Jōmon archaeological sites throughout her native country. As noted on the Japan Society blog, this included stone circles that are thousands of years old and Jōmon pottery, which remarkably has been credited with being the first pottery in the world.
Upon entering the galleries at the Japan Society, visitors are immediately confronted by a Middle Jōmon pot (pictured above) that is more than 5,000 years old, resting under a dramatic spotlight in an otherwise cool, dark and silent space. As the New York Times comments, this first encounter is a highlight of the show.
When we look at such ceramics, we look at (and experience) how humans have activated design as an affordance for navigating change. The alchemy of clay and fire rendered life massively easier for humans from that point forward. It immediately changed our relationship to challenges of food preparation and storage, and how we could henceforth move through the world. The ability to transport things without leaking and breaking down was previously an impossible reality. Jōmon pottery was invented during a significant turn in human evolution and design—a time when planetary changes, namely climate change, were transforming daily life. This pottery became an extremely useful tool for navigating geologic change at the end of the Pleistocene epoch.
If we can manage to experience this pot as a mighty signal of humans’ capacities to design for the challenges of planetary change, it might communicate something valuable and prescient to us today. Seemingly inert materials writhe with potential. Enchantment lies in the unknowability that separates us from the specifics of the pot’s creators and its previous uses. Nevertheless, to us, this pot provides inspiration for a contemporary “Stay Bag.” It communicates the wildlydynamic potential of what things might look and feel like when human capacity to design meets planetary change from within daily life practices — from within the “stay” position, so to speak.
What might be most intriguing about the Jōmon pots is that they are functional while ALSO being expressive, decorative, performative, ritualistic and animistic. The ancient pot pictured above is startlingly alive and vibrant. Known as “kaen-doki” or “flame-ware,” it’s easy to imagine the pot’s twisting forms projected by pulsing firelight onto the walls of Jōmon interiors during rituals, as archeologists suspect they once did. Arguably, designs that supply such a gamut of functional and aesthetic capacities cultivate a certain mode of human existence. The humans that invented Jōmon pottery were highly attuned to the forces of change that surrounded them on many levels simultaneously. How might we activate the materials that surround us today and make things that ground us within, and draw us closer to, the complex planetary realities that we face — while supplying us with objects that deepen our experiences of “here and now” beyond mere functionality?
This specific pot, as it passes through Mori’s show, continues a recontextualizing relay among artists that has been thousands of years in-the-making. What might Stay Bags of today relay to artists and citizens 6,000 years from now? The pot is an object from the deep past that also enacts a message that extends into the far future. How might we pick up and continue that relay from here? What do we need our “bags” to hold on a daily basis, while supporting the new, unprecedented movements that sea-level rise and radiation leaks will require of us?
The invention of Jōmon ceramics marks the emergence of a lively assemblage of co-existence humans, materials, time and earth forces, and daily life practices necessitated and enacted in the face of massive change. The pots are simultaneously outcomes and processes. They are reminders that humans have navigated monumental change in the past — and that we are capable of inventing things to meet the massive difference/change that is just now coming into existence. The provocation to design and build a Stay Bag is a context for activating our capacities to design and make within, and from, what we can sense and experience when we deeply inhabit the planet from a responsive “stay position.”