Monday, October 29, 2012

Liberty misleading

La liberté guidant le peuple, Eugène Delacroix. Source: Wikimedia
There is a reason why national flags are rarely anything but abstract and correspond to the quality of firstness according to the tradition of Peirce. Even there, variations in interpreting the colours give us a rainbow of possibilities as to the meaning of the banner one should rally to.

The reason being that as nations are artificial superstructures, they are in desperate need of vindication by appealing to imagery and other third-party sources, that are in fact grounded in innate qualities of man. Call it branding. Thus the need to zoom out and find a uniting principle to bind together something that in fact was never united. As the magnification level becomes less and less, so does the value of symbolic meaning. What we are left with are stripes that everyone can relate to, but in that inclusiveness they now lack content.

Nation states as such are a tool of interaction, cooperation and defence. They are not sacred and they are not the ultimate in human evolution. It is just the nature of power, even a necessary function of it, to claim absolute supremacy — how many times have you heard that your country's soil/flag/anthem is 'sacred'? — and to demand absolute loyalty. In this regard, religion and nations do not differ. This again is no wonder, as religion likewise fulfills the same basic goal of cooperation etc.

But we do evolve, as those who cooperate are always stronger, and I feel we have moved past requiring this means of organisation. With digital communication, men are already breaking up into smaller communities that are located apart in space, and the current century will need a lot of effort in recognising such structures in an official capacity. For why can I not be a citizen of the world, literally?


Sunday, August 12, 2012

Reverse entropy

Nina Canell. Impulse slight (detail)
Image source: Kunsthalle Fridericianum
Energy constantly moves toward a lower density, while both culture and life itself are processes working in the opposite direction. To achieve their aims, anthropogenic and natural surprisingly do share many similarities and in recognizing these, in building on the constellation of them, can a work, such as Canell's composition, achieve a penetrating power beyond the individual reach of either.

The basic issue of energy density is that of compressing, or placing maximum amount of content in the smallest possible unit of time and space. In information technology it is a well-established field, and in fact there is hardly an image or sound in the online ecosystem, which has not been mathematically altered to reduce its size. In nature, the same can be observed in the placement of seeds in a sunflower, for example, or the chrestomathic shape of a nautilus shell. These shapes — same shape, in fact — maximize the amount of seeds or living space, given limited resources.

And the natural compression algorithm can, also be described in mathematical terms, namely the Fibonacci sequence. Being one natural fundamental (according to less trustworthy sources on the internet, it is also the basis for proving the existence of divine entities) it can not but have implications for the arts. Which it does, as the Fibonacci sequence is the golden mean expressed with natural numbers, and not much more needs to be said about this. Research is out there.

Thus while some basic guiding principles for both processes can be expressed with the same mathematical formula, in what anthropogenic and natural approaches differ, is their flexibility and depth. For a living organism, the Fibonacci-based compression algorithm can for all practical purposes be considered hardcoded. Exceptions are mutations and most likely will not survive to propagate, the power of the pattern is too overwhelming. Additionally, living objects also hardcode millions of years of history embedded in their DNA, of which arise seemingly random, yet causally motivated chains of meaning.

Anthropogenic information, however, is not limited by this encoding scheme — although we'd be beyond foolish to propose that aesthetic preferences are not largely determined by evolution — and can approach the issue in a much more experimental way. The survival of the fittest works slightly differently here, and information density is augmented by other criteria, such as institutional acceptance and sheer serendipity, if you will. On the downside, the depth of connotations can not have the dimensions of a DNA sequence, being limited more by cultural sediments, and thus the absolute information content of man-made objects is never comparable to that of natural. It is not however on an absolute scale that information is processed, thus the flexibility and reference system to culture allows artworks to carry the more specific meanings necessary for human communication.

All in all Canell's work is an excellent intersection of these two forces and evokes the better of them both. In a very broad sense, the grid of seeds can be interpreted in an analog or digital manner, though the latter comes with caveats and the strength of the work clearly lies in the former.

Analog approach expects a pattern to emerge when the individual characteristics of seeds — such as their size, shape and colour — are interpreted in relation to those of all others and the result is expected to be more than the sum of the parts. This works much like in those collages, where an image is constructed of individual photographs, ASCII symbols or whatnot. While Canell's work lacks such a pronounced visual image, intellectually it can and does have several holistic approaches of interpretation. I'll stick to one of them, which again touches on the topic of information content. Namely, as each of the seeds does still carry in them a historic legacy, then what could just as well be interpreted as random fluctuations of colour etc, can in the same manner be interpreted as having an innate coordinating impulse — which they do. Such an impulse is the kernel of an information pattern and patterns are all about propagating themselves. In a situation where we have several patterns, we can talk of interference. Think throwing rocks into a pool. When every seed is such a wave generator, the image as a whole starts producing ripples of meaning entirely on its own, without any further input from the artist.

Just watch the image closely for a few minutes and feel the nephelococcygia kick in. There probably are parts of the brain from the 'fight or flight' circuitry, that go into overdrive from such imagery and start offering a series of interpretations in rapid succession. Now this is something which is very difficult to achieve with any anthropogenic imagery, as information content will be lower, more easily interpreted and thus will not trigger such pattern-matching chase.

The digital interpretation is in some ways more difficult, for we stop looking at the whole, the pattern, and concentrate on the sequence of individuals entities. I will make a slight leap here and skip the literal interpretation of the zeroes & ones according to common coding tables, but instead skip to a sequence of filled spaces and unfilled spaces. Or the other way around. This opens up new layers of meaning, which most definitely reach into the cultural sediments of the spectator. In my case those are early computer games Space Invaders & Tetris. It was always the interplay of void and matter, that captivated me in them. For Tetris, the aim was to fill rows at the bottom and achieve an orgastic sense of achievement as completed lines disappeared with a flash. For Space invaders, the lines atop were the enemy and careful tactics had to be used while their wiggly joints mesmerized me into adoring the pixelated belly-dance and neverminding the air defence battery.

Thus from the Fibonacci sequence to alien abduction, there are avenues within this given grid (and the other dozen or so that I've gazed upon, they all reverberate similar sensations) to identify the meanings mentioned and more. On the whole, I would consider the strength of the work to be precisely the near-zero emission of the artist's ambition and thereby the near-maximum release of the potential of the audience, or at least the more primordial parts of their brain, or their own cultural reference system. Which is not to mean that artist has naught to do with it, for I am sure that the choice of material and its placement have been guided by muses, amuses and sparks of that, which should not be defined. Art can be a mirror and it can be a window. This work is both, and it's polished glass, a wonder to gaze through, a wonder to gaze at.

Thank you to M.W. for the encouragement and Nina for the inspiration.

Friday, July 13, 2012

Titanic

Source: Wikimedia
Ever since I was old enough to feel the inevitable weight of compassion, I have been fascinated by the ironic story of the Titanic. Not for what some might call her hubris, not for the dream it stood for, but as a focal point of another narrative that I am attached to. That of time and the invisible traces it leaves, moment by moment, and how those traces turn tides, take ships under and undo things that were made.

I used to re-enact her maiden voyage with a ladle and a can of milk, back in the day when our neighbours still raised cows. We'd walk over to their farm every day and fetch a three liter can that had been lowered into a well to keep it cool in the hot summer (strange how summers always were hot when you were a child). At dinner table, I would balance the ladle precariously in the can, so that the rim was barely above the milkline and an occasional ripple, as others — heedless of the tragedy unfolding under their eyes — shuffled their feet and reached for the bread, would send a few drops down her insides. Her sheer size made those drops hardly matter, but this was the crack in the bow and without anyone knowing yet, her fate had been decided. Drop by drop they came and weighed down the ladle, making her sit deeper in the milk now.

It was never clear how those moments would eventually lead to her going under, but they did, not on a linear scale, but as the droplets turned into small streams, rivulets that added their share to her burden, suddenly destiny manifested itself and milk came rushing in, the ladle sinking within a heartbeat. This was the moment I had been holding my breath for, the culmination of small insignificant, even unrelated events, that nevertheless all ultimately followed the same course.

No matter whether it is a ladle and the Titanic, or a block of driftwood on the beach, where the waves eat at its flesh, or the slow grinding of the knife as it cuts bread for years and years and years, I am still fascinated by how things are worn out until suddenly they are no more. But it did take me a while to find out that people, in fact, work in a similar manner to luxury liners, blocks of wood and metal blades. We too get shred and torn and bruised, slowly, second by second, year by year. Until we too sink and break and are no more.

I thank B.K.C. for her comments on this one.

Friday, July 6, 2012

The Tower of Babel


Tower of Babel. Pieter Brueghel the Elder. Source: Wikimedia
There is no god, but as those who know me have probably heard me say — there is language and language is the closest thing to divine we can achieve. In this regard, the etiology of the Tower of Babel is a captive one, if only as a stepping stone to a few points about human communications, and a few fallacies.

It is the story of one tongue, that all men understand, therefore a condition that simply cannot be. Problems start with the misunderstanding that language is a tool to name existing objects. This would mean not only that objects, rather than concepts, exist, but also that in theory, there is a right word, a name, for every object.

This is fundamentally wrong, as a characteristic of language is producing an infinite combination out of a definite set — for example by using phonemes limited both by our physiology and cultural background, we can express endless amount of ideas. This is what language is. Naming every single item out there with absolute precision is a classification system, and one that is impossible to achieve.

Why? Because when you take a lump of sugar and plunge it into your cup of tea — or whatever is your poison — the cube goes through an infinite amount of steps from being a sugar cube (and what is that, exactly?) to being sugar molecules dissolved in herbal infusion. I dare you give a name to every stage as the cube progresses on that scale. Every single stage, not the main ones, or we cannot speak of precision and have to resort to vague concepts. And once you've named them all, you need to repeat it all over again with next cube, if you're a sweet-tooth as me, because no cube of sugar is the same as the other. It's the basic “how many trees is a forest” type of problem.

There is an obvious solution to this, and to a great host of situations where it is easier to blame others rather than accept our limits — “God could do it!” Beyond the magical boundary of the supernatural lies the power to precicely name all the cubes of sugar in the universe, in each of their stages, both in the past and in the future, including the imaginary ones. Yes, indeed, in a divine language, where everything has its proper name, that is possible. But that language in turn would be absolutely useless for communicating divine knowledge to mortals — AFAIK, most religions have a thing or two to say about how we can not fully grasp the divine, and in that they are correct — for the simple reason that every single word uttered would be uttered only once, as the thing that it referred to would not be that thing any more after the word has been used. Divine language is the ultimate deconstruction of meaning.

Therefore it is not things that are named, and words refer to concepts, rather than realities. Some men might have different concepts in mind than others, and thus the words they use carry slightly different meanings, hence confusion is bound to arise. Confusion is that natural state of languages, but only up to a certain point. As humans are different, they are also the same, and while our understanding of sugar cubes, or colours, or what is right or wrong, morally, might differ to some extent, it also overlaps to an extent that makes communication not precise, but adequate. Whole human civilization rests upon the fact that I sort of understand you, and you kind of follow my meaning.

Thus when all men suddenly spoke one language and understood one another, god had every reason to be worried. For those men must have crossed the aforementioned border of divinity and achieved omnipotence. And were I a god of a monotheistic religion, I too would very upset at this news of competition. Hence the ensuing acts of retribution and the crumbling of the tower.

For me the beauty of languages is their very imprecision, which allows for new meanings to be generated, and the beauty of communication is that it happens regardless of the confusion, and allows us, very briefly, to touch one another.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Science

Science cannot answer every question, but it can question every answer.
Me

Friday, June 1, 2012

Chestnuts. P.S.

A little while ago
I wrote a poem about chestnuts(*)

---
* horse-chestnuts — a fact I was reminded of again,
as rain carried away the last petals.
And that moment where the poem was born,
where there were real chestnuts,
was carried away the same.
But strangely enough this ceased to worry me,
as my gaze was drawn to a no-name hedge,
a generic shrub, third-party bush lining the courtyard,
covered in tiny blonde blossoms overnight.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Spring


I cannot believe
In apple blossoms
I think they are born of the imagination
Of people with too much time

Not to mention the cherries
Just like the haiku
Nothing but a crazy dream
A non sequitur

Now chestnuts(*) I believe
They light up their candles
Right on my street

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* Horse-chestnuts in fact

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Pálinkát mérnek-e már

The measure of man's suffering
Is the man
And I make you suffer

By breathing silence
Down your neck
You shiver in my absence
As I trace my fingers
Between your shoulderblades
Making you sigh and strech
Brushing my palm against your belly
Spreading my fingers
I feel the beat of our children
Unborn, unconcieved
My touch becomes firm as I
Grasp your thighs
There is a sharpness, a sweet pain
Under your breath
I slide down your slender legs
Down to the last toenail
Painted crimson red

The measure of man's suffering
Is the man
And I am yours