I’m contributing to an online course Jon Hoem is coordinating on media-rich ebooks, and I’m making video presentations and mini analyses of some examples of electronic literature. My first try was Blast Theory’s fictional life coaching app Karen (2013), mostly because I had just discovered how easy it is now to get a video screen capture from an iPhone. Here’s the result, with my narrative in Norwegian because the online course is in Norwegian.
I’m thinking making a video presentation of a work of electronic literature might be a good student assignment for the course I’m teaching this autumn, DIKULT203: Electronic Literature.
Er det bra forskningsformidling å svare på telefoner fra journalister? Ja, ofte er det det. Jeg lærer mye av journalister som ringer for å spørre meg om et eller annet som nettopp har skjedd i sosiale medier. De forklarer meg hva som har skjedd og jeg prater mer enn gjerne om hvordan forskningen kan knyttes til det.
Vi forskere skal drive forskningsformidling. Det er en del av jobben vår. Men ofte syns jeg tiden jeg bruker på å snakke med journalister er dårligere forskningsformidling enn å bare holde kjeft. La meg prøve å forklare tre kjipe mediesituasjoner for en forsker som jeg skal prøve å unngå i framtiden. Jeg har opplevd alle tre flere ganger, men nøyer meg med å gi eksempler fra de siste to ukene.
1. Saken som ikke finnes men som journalisten prøver å skape
Du fikk kanskje med deg at på 17. mai i år postet en stortingspolitiker et bilde på Instagram av naboen som sto og tisset fra verandaen. En journalist sendte meg lenken. Jeg stirret og stirret på bildet på telefonen min og klarte ikke å se penisen, bare hender foran buksesmekken, og hår foran et ugjenkjennelig ansikt. Jeg åpnet det på laptopen for å se om det ble tydeligere. Fortsatt ingen synlig penis.
“Det var ikke så lett å se den penisen,” sa jeg til journalisten. “Å, da har du nok mindre skjerm enn jeg,” humret han. Jeg burde ha googlet pikselstørrelsen på Instagrambilder straks, men jeg gjorde det først nå. Instagrambilder vises i max 612 x 612 piksler, altså var skjermen min mer enn stor nok til å se det som kunne sees, og det var jammen ikke mye. Jeg tror journalisten hadde stor fantasi i tillegg til stor skjerm.
“Er det ikke sjokkerende, da? Kan en stortingspolitiker poste slik?” spurte journalisten. (Oppdatering 2/6: mulig at journalisten brukte et annet ord enn “sjokkerende” men det er slik jeg husker det.) Instagrambildet hadde én kommentar og en håndfull likes. “Lol” eller noe sånt var kommentaren, jeg tok ikke skjermbilde. “Mjo, det er vel ikke spesielt smart å poste bilder av folk som tisser,” sa jeg. “Men dette er jo en helt upolitisk Instagramkonto med bare vanlige, personlige bilder,” sa jeg, “og kontoen heller ikke mange følgere, og ingen ser ut til å ha brydd seg om bildet selv om det har lagt ute siden i går.”
Journalisten ville tydeligvis ha en sak, og spurte igjen. Jeg sa noe om at det ifølge norsk personvernslov ikke er lov å poste gjenkjennelige bilder av mennesker uten deres tillatelse om det ikke er en offentlig situasjon. Ingen bør poste slike bilder, spesielt ikke en stortingspolitiker, og det at personen tisser gjør det selvsagt ikke bedre. Jeg mener jo det.
“Er det ikke en dobbeltmoral her da,” gravde han videre. “Ville ikke det blitt ramaskrik om en stortingspolitiker postet et bilde av en jente som tisset?” Jeg tenkte på det. “Det kommer jo an på hvordan bildet var tatt,” sa jeg. “Det er ganske lett å se for seg et bilde av en jente sett bakfra hvor hun er på huk i gresset og du må en måte skjønner at hun tisser men hvor du ikke ser noe som helst av kjønnsorgan eller hud. Det ville vel ikke vært så annerledes fra dette bildet, og jeg tviler på at det ville skapt så veldig mye debatt.”
Dette bringer meg til den neste faren du som er forsker må vokte deg for:
2. Journalisten som allerede har bestemt seg for hva du skal si og vil stille deg spørsmål inntil du sier det.
Journalisten ringte meg opp igjen noen minutter seinere. “Men mener du ikke at det er en dobbeltmoral her, og at folk ville reagert annerledes om det var en jente?” Joda, medgikk jeg litt trøtt. Kanskje det.
I denne saken ble jeg ikke så veldig feil framstilt. Det var bare en så utrolig teit sak, skapt av en journalist som bare vil ha en nyhet. Nå ser jeg at Journalisten har diskutert dekningen av saken:
– Mimir Kristjánsson og Heidi Nordby Lunde mener BT senker takhøyden for politikeres rett til å gjøre alminnelige feil?
– Det poenget ser vi. Men vi mener dette ikke handler om mer enn å uttale noe uklokt eller skrive noe uheldig. Det var en alvorlig handling og kan oppfattes som en krenkelse av en ung person. Vi mener det var verdt å problematisere.
Den diskusjonen fikk jeg dessverre ikke med meg. Takk til Mimir Kristjánsson og Heidi Nordby Lunde for å ha kommet med mer nyttige kommentarer enn mine.
Jeg tror journalister ofte har skrevet saker på forhånd, eller i det minste bestemt seg for overskriften. Måten du som forsker kan oppdage dette er å være oppmerksom på spørsmål som gjentas. Når en journalist gjentar et spørsmål du allerede har svart på for å få et annet eller et mer unyansert svar avslører det ofte hovedvinklingen på saken. Da journalisten ringte meg opp for andre gang burde jeg sikkert ha reagert. Kanskje jeg skulle sagt at dette hadde jeg allerede svart på, eller jeg kunne kanskje trukket meg fra hele intervjuet (kan man det når man allerede har begynt å svare tro?) eller jeg kunne sagt at jeg ville ringe ham opp igjen om en liten stund og da hadde jeg fått tid til å tenke gjennom saken og kanskje kommet fram til noe like fornuftig som det Mimir Kristjánsson og Heidi Nordby Lunde seinere sa. Eller kanskje det lureste bare er å sukke og gå med på hva journalisten vil, jeg vet ikke.
En av de andre gangene jeg har opplevd dette var i forbindelse med snapchat-hackingen i fjor. Det var jo en viktig sak, og jeg var i grunnen fornøyd med det meste av NRK-journalistens framstilling, men hun spurte mange ganger “Er ikke dette et uttrykk for kvinnehat?” Jeg ville ikke brukt det begrepet, sa jeg, og forklarte hva jeg mente. Tredje gangen hun spurte om det ikke var kvinnehat ga jeg opp og sa, “joda, det er vel en form for kvinnehat.” Selvfølgelig ble det overskriften på saken: Professor om Snapchat-hacking: – Eit utrykk for kvinnehat.
3. Saken som lages som ny versjon av en annen journalists sak
Fredag ble jeg oppringt av en TV2-journalist som hadde sett at jeg hadde argumentert for at man ikke nødvendigvis ble deprimert av å se andres glade Facebookposter men at venners gode opplevelser kunne smitte over på deg. Eller rettere sagt: hun hadde ikke oppfattet meg slik, for det var ikke slik overskriftene i andre medier framstilte argumentet mitt. Jeg snakket med henne i et kvarter og syns jeg klarte å forklare meg ganske bra, men saken ble vinklet på en måte som virkelig ikke fremstiller min forskning riktig: “Forsker mener andres perfekte liv på Facebook gjør oss lykkelige.” (Oppdatering: journalisten og redaksjonssjefen i TV2 tok begge kontakt med meg etter jeg skrev denne bloggposten og spurte hvordan rette opp artikkelen. De lagde ny overskrift og ingress, og med det syns jeg framstillingen er helt i orden.)
Her var tabben min at jeg ikke hadde fulgt godt nok med på de tidligere sakene om dette. Jeg burde ha fulgt med på overskriftene og vinklingene: da ville jeg ha forstått hva journalisten ville. (På den annen side ville jeg da ha brukt enda mer tid på dette, og målet mitt var jo egentlig å effektivisere forskningsformidlingstiden min.)
Det begynte med et intervju i StudVest, som var godt skrevet men hvor overskriften var “spisset”, som en journalist sikkert vil si, og overskriften ga tydeligvis mersmak til andre journalister. Hvordan dette har skjedd ble ganske tydelig da jeg gjorde et søk på navnet mitt på Atekst:
Jeg leste Studvest-intervjuet, ble intervjuet av P4 men verken så eller hørte resultatene. Jeg ante ikke at Framtida hadde skrevet om det. Og selv om journalisten fra TV2 helt sikkert brukte ordene “perfekte liv” så hørte jeg det på en måte ikke fordi jeg jo tenkte på det jeg mente og ikke på det som journalisten så for seg. Hun hadde lest at jeg snakket om det perfekte liv. Kanskje hun, med sitt kontekst, oppfattet det som om jeg snakket om skrytebilder og “det perfekte liv”, mens det jeg faktisk sa (trodde jeg) var at jeg ikke snakket om skrytebilder og glansbildeliv men om at dine virkelige venner, mennesker du bryr deg om, skriver om noe som har gjort dem glade på Facebook eller på Instagram. Selvsagt blir vi gladere om de rundt oss er glade. Det har ingenting med perfekte liv og selvskryt å gjøre. Men selv om jeg trodde jeg forklarte det godt og trodde journalisten forsto meg godt så ble overskriften og vinklingen helt feil. Journalisten har til og med utelatt mitt poeng om at det ikke er alle som opplever det slik, og i stedet latt (dyktige og fine) Cecilie Staude uttrykke et slikt litt mer nyansert syn. Jeg ser at det fungerer bra fortellermessig å ha større kontraster mellom synene våre, men det er ikke riktig framstilling av hva jeg sa.
— Men Jill, ber du ikke om sitatsjekk, spør nok du som leser nå.
Jo, i blant. Jeg gidder ikke alltid det. Du skjønner, du får bare se dine egne direkte sitat i en sitatsjekk. Jeg blir sjeldent direkte feilsitert i media. Men jeg blir svært ofte feil framstilt.
Overskriften, vinklingen, beskrivelsene og det som utelates er vel så viktige for forskningsformidlingen som de direkte sitatene. Og det er jo for forskningsformidlingen sin skyld vi skal snakke med journalister, ikke sant? Det er ikke for at avisene skal få flere lesere og dermed selge flere annonsekroner. Det er for å formidle forskning.
Så er det alltid riktig tidsbruk for en forsker å ta telefonen når en journalist ringer? I blant er det det. Men ikke alltid. Spørsmålet er hvordan ta vare på de gode journalistsamtalene og unngå de som er bortkastet tid. Kanskje det ikke er mulig.
Jeg må legge til at jeg ikke er ute etter å ta noen journalister. Jeg vet at journalister er under et enormt tidspress hvor de ofte skal skrive flere saker på en dag, og jeg vet også at journalisten ofte ikke har mye kontroll over hvordan saken tilslutt spisses før publisering. Dette er mer generelle problemer som jeg tror vi som blir intervjuet må være mer oppmerksomme på. Jeg må i alle fall det.
Har du flere tips, tar jeg gjerne i mot dem.
Last night at the conference dinner I was chatting with Peng Hwa Ang, and we started talking about young people nowadays. That’s a sure sign that I’m getting older, I suppose, but we weren’t complaining about their wildness, we were comparing notes on teens in Norway and Singapore and how the younger generation is more conformist than their parents’ generation in both countries. And of course, social media is often blamed for the woes of youth today.
“No, it’s because of the future deficit,” Peng Hwa said. I demanded an explanation: I had never heard the term.
“Well, think about it. You and I experienced the world changing when we were young. The end of the cold war, the Berlin wall, the internet.”
“Oh, yes, ” I nodded, instantly seeing where he was going. “Our students were born after the web was well established. They weren’t even teenagers yet when Facebook took over the world.”
Peng Hwa nodded.
“Do you mean that for a young person today, the world looks as though nothing ever changes?”
He nodded again. The term “future deficit” was a term a colleague of his had coined, he explained as we piled on to the shuttle bus back to the hotel.
At drinks a little later, I eagerly told Luciana Gattas about the future deficit.
“Oh, he’s talking about the broad present,” she said. Another term I’d never heard before.
“You know, Gumbrecht talks about that.”
Sure enough, Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht’s book, The Broad Present: Time and Contemporary Culture, was published in English last year. As Luciana continued to explain the rich basis for this idea in contemporary culture (she clearly reads a lot more critical theory than I do and she made me want to read it all) I remembered Tim Barker’s talk at Le sujet digital in Paris last year, and realized that these are ideas that are floating around in many discourses. We talked more over drinks, thinking of how we are clearly headed to mass annihilation and don’t really want to think about that future, and how youth in Southern Europe are facing record levels of unemployment and little chance of a stable future. And yet the future deficit Ang Peng mentioned goes even deeper than that. I googled Gumbrecht’s book, and read:
Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht notes an important shift in our relationship to history and the passage of time. Although we continue to use concepts inherited from a “historicist” viewpoint, a notion of time articulated in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the actual construction of time in which we live in today, which shapes our perceptions, experiences, and actions, is no longer historicist. Without fully realizing it, we now inhabit a new, unnamed space in which the “closed future” and “ever-available past” (a past we have not managed to leave behind) converge to produce an “ever-broadening present of simultaneities.”
Perhaps, if we believe in this idea, young people today truly cannot imagine that the world changes. To them, perhaps, the world has always been the same. The internet and social media have always been there. The constant threat of terrorism has always been there. Climate change has always been there. There has always been fighting in the Middle East. How could you imagine change if nothing has changed in your life time?
When I was 18 the Berlin wall fell. Some of my classmates immediately got on trains and busses to participate in the protests. There are still protests, but does anything much change? The Occupy movement, the Umbrella movement: did anything change? Can anything ever change?
At Transmediale in January I was saddened by the one-sided dystopianism with little space given to those who are trying to hack the system and change it. Perhaps this is a sign of the times. If there is no future, why try to improve it?
What do you think? I may be too rooted in the past to really know.
If you bought a home computer in the 1980s, chances are you learnt a little bit of BASIC programming. The command line interface meant that the difference between starting to play a game and writing a short program was not as big as today, and most of the Commodore 64 User’s Manual was dedicated to explaining how to program your own game or program in BASIC. So for the last few years, our first year Computing Technology: History, Theory and Practice students have had a two hour workshop where they learn to program in BASIC. Here are my notes from the first time I taught this workshop, and the post you’re reading right now gives you some updated ideas. Continue Reading →
I dag har Universitetet i Bergen invitert alle avgangselever i videregående skole til en åpen dag på universitetet. Fagmiljøene har laget smakebit-forelesninger og aktiviteter, og det har vi selvfølgelig gjort her på Digital kultur også. Continue Reading →
I’m in Berlin at the digital arts festival Transmediale for the first time, and of course I’m excited about the topic: CAPTURE ALL. An entire digital arts festival about the datafication of the world, which invited artists to “outsmart and outplay the logic of CAPTURE ALL and that organise more intimate modes of post-digital life, work and play.” Chapters 4 and 5 in my book Seeing Ourselves Through Technology (published open access by Palgrave, or buy in print or download for free from online bookstores) are all about the automated collection and curation of personal data and the quantified self, so of course I had to come and see the art and hear the discussions here.
Thursday night was the opening ceremony and I sat in a huge packed auditorium with hundreds of others.
Artistic director of the festival, Kristoffer Gansing, gave a talk about the conference theme, Capture All, which given all the marxist and other critical analyses of the datafied world recently sounded very familiar, and very dystopic. A couple of my tweets:
I did enjoy the way that the opening wove together brief performances with more theoretical talks. Erica Scourti elegantly performed a piece of autocorrect poetry, letting her iPhone suggest words for her and reading them, faster and faster. I only captured a second of video of this, but maybe it’s enough to get the idea.
I had a bit of a Facebook discussion with Ben Grosser (who made the Facebook Demetricator, an excellent intervention into the capture all logics of current social media, but who sadly isn’t here) about how Scourti’s performance worked. Obviously the autocorrect learns from the user – my autocorrect now regularly suggests words like “fakultetsstyremøte” and “ELMCIP”, which I am guessing most of you don’t get. So assuming Scourti used her own iPhone, the autocorrect poem would be customized to her. One of the phrases that popped up was something like “for more info about my work, see my website”, which is certainly the sort of text an artist is more likely to have typed in than many other users. Ben suggested she might have primed her iPhone by pasting in certain words again and again to make a certain theme more likely to appear. I did notice that “love” seemed to pop up a lot, but perhaps she simply tends to write “love, Erica” at the end of emails or something. The final sentence was certainly scripted (she must have pasted it in?) and sometimes, particularly towards the end, she didn’t read exactly what the autocorrect wrote. It was a fascinating performance.
Erica Scourti also has a rather fascinating video work in the conference exhibition, Body Scan, a sort of distracted narrative told by a computer using Google that I might have to write more about later.
The star of the night was Peter Sunde, recently out of prison after he was sentenced for the Pirate Bay. He did not present an optimistic view of our world. I met him in Bergen before his time in prison and remember him as forceful and still very much willing to fight. Last night he said he had given up.
His talk was riveting, full of tweetable one-liners (and I tweeted several) but with no hope. A sample:
We’re on our way to a broadcast democracy where we have little say anymore.
Fighting the system from within is like trying to fight capitalism by trying to capture all the money.
We don’t need robots, we are robots.
We tried, but it’s over. Capitalism won. We’re happy with our espresso machines.
He finished by saying that like in Wargames, the only way to win the game is to not play. I loved Wargames, but if ‘re going to talk about Wargames, let’s do it properly. The movie is about a kid who unwittingly starts playing a game with a computer he dials up on his modem, but realizes that the game is not a game but very real: he and the computer are starting a nuclear war. Finally the kid convinces the computer to play tic-tac-toe against itself and after hundreds of runs through the game the computer Ai realizes that the only possible outcome is a tie. Thus it is convinced that nuclear war, likewise, is a game where “the only winning move is not to play.”
But we can’t not play technology today, at least not as a society. Individuals can extract themselves, refuse to be on Facebook, resign from the Wikipedia in disgust at the ways in which editors team up and use entries as weapons, but ultimately if we refuse to participate in technology and social media we can’t participate in contemporary public debate, democracy, employment, commerce etc. An absolute digital detox is all but impossible today. We need to build alternatives. Bruce Sterling describes us as not living in digital captalism, as Transmediale’s artistic director said in his introductory talk and as many recent marxist analyses have argued, but in digital feudalism, where we live in spaces owned by our feudal lords (Google, Facebook, Amazon, etc) and are both completely dependent on them and actually feel fealty to them. I think Sterling is right in that these technologies have become part of the air we breathe.
I hope to see far more interventions in the datafied world we live in at the rest of Transmediale. Too much of the program so far has been one-sided criticism of datafication and social media that is so simplistic that it makes things worse. Chanting a list of all the things we track is cool. But once that’s done, is it really helpful to basically just do that again and again?
You can’t not play this game. We need to hack the game, to find other ways of playing the game, to make our own game. Maybe you need to make the computer play against itself.
I’m traveling home from a wonderful two day workshop in Aarhus, organized by surveillance scholar and philosopher Anders Albrechtslund. It was wonderful: a smallish group of scholars all researching what self-tracking means spending hours each day just talking about it. We had three hour sessions allotted to just two presentations, so a very heavy focus on discussion and sharing ideas. Add to that wonderful food, a beautiful setting at the brand new Moesgaard Museum and a tour of the stunning AROS art museum after dinner and you have a very happy group of academics. Self-tracking is the focus of chapter five in my book Seeing Ourselves Through Technology and this quantified self-representation is one of the things I really want to continue working on, so I was thrilled to be invited to this workshop. This somewhat long blog post includes some notes and examples from the workshop about activity trackers, family tracking and more.
Anders Albrechtslund convened the workshop and has written several key papers in surveillance studies, as well as co-editing the anthology Internet and Surveillance, for which they received over a hundred proposals!! This is certainly a growing field. In his presentation, he made a convincing argument for the need to see intimate self-tracking as surveillance, because this will allow us to better understand the power relationships involved. Anders is also interested in ethics and privacy and in the enactment of selfhood through self-tracking. He proposed the concept of the oligopticon, which rather the god-like view of the panopticon gives us very specific, grounded views of that which we track. Someone (probably Chris Till, who was the first discussant) brought up Deleuze’s idea of the dividual at this point (as someone usually does these days at discussions like this). The dividual or the divided individual is the basic unit of society in this view. Corporations don’t really care who you really are as an individual, they just want to know about certain aspects, certain data sets: they want to know you as a dividual.
Anders talked about the transition from a surveillance society to a surveillance culture, which is not so much about something that is forced upon us from above (although that also happens) but just as much about our everyday practices. We actively participate in this surveillance culture, for instance by willingly sharing our data in social media or by using GPS tracking on our kids. Intimate surveillance is about control but also about care. We want to look after our kids and keep our families safe. How then does this inform our ways of thinking about norms?
One blog I’ll be following is Chris Till’s This is not a sociology blog. In addition to his many insightful comments throughout the workshop, Chris gave a really interesting presentation laying out an in-progress marxist analysis of corporations’ use of fitness trackers for their employees. Chris argued that employers aren’t simply wanting their employees to get fitter, and thereby able to create more value in a traditional sense (work harder and be more productive), employees self-tracking creates direct value for employers – and the corporations providing the activity trackers to the employers through the data that is produced. Because trackers standardize the activity done by runners in a way not previously possible, that activity can be compared to other activity, and thus is can be exchanged and produces value. So our workouts become labour in a marxist sense.
Tamar Sharon is another scholar to watch. She is in the STS group (STS=science, technology and society studies) at Maastricht University and has a grant to explore the quantified self movement and other self-tracking. In discussing Chris’s presentation, she pointed out that it’s not really the employers (like BP giving health insurance discounts to employees who get enough steps) that exploit the workout labour of the employees, it’s the corporations another level up that actually get and use the data. So it’s a case of Fitbit or Google exploiting the smaller corporations.
Of course, once you bring Marx into play you start discussing capitalism, and I remembered Bruce Sterling’s wonderful rant about the internet of things. He argues that it’s not capitalism, it’s feudalism.
Politically speaking, the relationship of the reader to the Internet of Things is not democratic. It’s not even capitalistic. It’s a new thing. It’s digital-feudalism. People in the Internet of Things are like the woolly livestock of a feudal demesne, grazing under the watchful eye of barons in their hilltop Cloud Castles. (location 58)
We are completely dependent on our feudal lords (the biggest in the US are Facebook, Amazon, Google, Microsoft and Apple) and like serfs of old we actually respect and admire them. We feel fealty to them. And if we don’t serve them, we cannot exist (or can only exist with great difficulty) in today’s society. As Chris cited a tweet by Angela Wilson Ursery, perhaps it’s Quantified Serf, not Quantified Self.
The others didn’t agree with (my rendition of) Sterling about digital feudalism, and I’m not enough of a scholar of capitalism or feudalism to really know, but it’s an interesting comparison. I’m not sure what it does to the marxist interpretations.
Tamar Sharon is in the early phases of a study of the quantified self movement and self-tracking, and has set up a fabulous table showing what she sees as three key values in self-tracking and how each value has a positive side but also a fear attached to it.
“The problem with Marxist approaches,” she said as we were discussing Chris’s presentation, “is that it’s always about false consciousness and exploitation, which can stop you from seeing agency and from moving on to questions of ethos and ethics.” I have to admit I love the marxist approaches that are popping up all over the place in discussions of digital labour. I think we need to think about who benefits and how our leisure and online activities are converted to value for others, but I also think Tamar is right in that this is not the only way we need to think about digital activities like self-tracking. In a way this is the old cultural studies debate about television viewers not being completely controlled by television but having agency, for instance creating fan fiction.
I’ve gone from loving self-tracking to being more and more skeptical of it, but I do still see the pleasures of self-tracking. And you know, we were in a room full of surveillance scholars who are apt to be a bit suspicious of tracking, so I particularly appreciated Tamar’s work to figure out the pleasures that self-tracking can bring, and what it is that the quantified selfers she has interviewed and observed like about self-tracking. Here she is explaining some of the non-reductionist things data can do:
Although Tamar is in the early phases of her research and has only recently started her interviews and observations, she has a really solid theoretical framework worked out and I look forwards to hearing more of her results.
Stine Liv Johansen spoke about tracking children. Her research is about children’s use of media for play, and so she was thinking about possible ways of thinking about self-tracking in this respect. Tracking babies and children is something I wrote about in chapter five of my book, as well as on the blog, and I was very happy to get even more examples of kid-tracking apps. For instance Kuddle.com, an imagesharing site for kids where parents are notified and have to approve each image a child wants to share, or Tableaux, a system used in a lot of Danish preschools and after school care centers where parents have a smart phone app connected to the school’s systems so parents always know exactly where their kids are (in the gym, on an excursion, at lunch) and when they slept if they still nap at school. Stine emphasized that some of these devices actually give kids greater freedom. For instance, in a Danish city where all school kids got iPads, kids would FaceTime their mum themselves to ask whether they could go home with another kid, and wouldn’t have to ask the teachers and get permission to use the landline phone.
Following a few links I found even more devices on our horizon. I already knew about the Tinitell video, which shows how tracking children can be (presented as or actually?) a way to give kids more freedom.
I found the Paxie bands via a link from the menstrual tracker @clue after seeing a tweet to @clue from another workshop participant, Marie Louise Juul, who is about to start a PhD on intimate self-tracking of things like menstruation and sex. The Paxie bands have a similar argument, but go even further. They not only track the location of your child, but constantly measure their temperature and heart rate. My kids get fevers once or twice a year, and I suppose at those moments it’d be quite useful to have the temperature measurements, but wow, having it constant is quite extreme. Apparently the child can’t remove the band herself, as it takes two adult hands to get it off.
Anders Albrechtslund showed us the ad for the new Withings Home, which has exactly the same emphasis on parents who are away from their kids but connected through surveillance technology:
There were other excellent presentations too, for instance by Federica Lucivera, who spoke about heath tracking, and Tjerk Timan, who spoke about the internet of things and how we should study the code behind trackers and not just the people using them, and there were lots of discussions throughout I can’t possibly do justice too. I’m left with lots of ideas, scribbled notes and a pile of links, and a strong motivation to do more work in this area! Thank you to Anders, Kasper and everyone else for a wonderful few days.
The visual turn on the internet has been evident for a few years now. Our cameras are computers, always in our pockets, always connected to the internet. We share photos in conversation, in seduction, for a laugh, to make a political point, to show the world who we are, where we are, what we like or to share information. Facebook and other networks prioritise images in our news feeds, blog posts now (unlike a decade ago) look strange without an image near the top, and we create visualisations of our research or arguments so that people will share them. The shareable image is the soundbite of bygone media days.
It makes perfect sense, then, that a digital poet like Jhave (pronouced jah-vey) would choose to write as though he were photographing.
David Jhave Johnston is a well established writer of electronic literature known for his beautifully multimodal works. He combines images, sounds, movements and words into literary works that are more than literature. Originally from Canada, he lives in Hong Kong and his Tumblr, jhaveHK, was full of photographs of his surroundings before he made a vow to abstain from photographs a few days ago:
It’s interesting, don’t you think, that this manifesto, this statement disavowing images, is itself shared as an image? So many of our images on the internet today contain text. This statement requires the image format only to preserve the layout (strict, formal, simple, with a neutral font and no use of bold or italics) and to include a signature, the mark of the human hand contrasting the typed words.
Perhaps the statement is already imagined hanging on the wall of an exhibition in a year’s time, as other artists’ statements have hung on gallery walls.
“Every time I feel like taking a photo, I shall describe the photo in writing as if I had taken it”, Jhave writes. The dominance of the photograph already has us thinking in photographs, framing the world around us in our imagination even when we don’t take the photo with our cameras, noticing symmetries and contrasts in our visual surroundings that we might not have seen without the knowledge of the camera deep in our culture. Susan Sontag put it thus on the first page of On Photography in 1973:
In teaching us a new visual code, photographs alter and enlarge our notions of what is worth looking at and what we have a right to observe. They are a grammar and, even more importantly, an ethics of seeing.
I find it easy to see Jahve’s written photographs in my mind, as street photos, photos of the everyday, art photos.
Jhave’s written photographs are timestamped and geocoded in the manner of a digital photograph, though not mechanically: Jhave writes in the location of each: “5F stairwell CMC, HK” and Tumblr adds the time stamp when Jhave posts the text.
Hans Kristian Rustad is currently working on the influence of the camera on literature, including digital literature, and I have heard others speak about the ways in which the technology of the camera affects our ways of thinking about and representing the world, visually of course, but also in other modalities. One of Hans Kristian’s recent articles is about the Norwegian poet Hanne Bramness’s 2010 book Uten film i kameraet (translated to English in 2013 with the title Without Film in the Camera) where photographs, some by famous photographers, some by amateurs, are described in words.
I love that Jhave’s #1YearNoCam is not just about how we see the world as photographs but also about a sort of asceticism in refraining from taking photographs. The title clearly follows on from last week’s #1WkNoTech project (a netprov led by Mark Marino and Rob Wittig where participants pretended to abstain from technology for a week while tweeting about it to support each other) and can similarly be read as a sort of critique of the idea of digital detox. I’ll be following the project over the next year – and I’ll probably find myself writing these little snapshots of my world in my mind, as well. Maybe I’ll imagine some written photographs I haven’t actually seen, as well.
I was excited to receive my Narrative Clip this spring. It’s the first consumer lifelogging camera: you clip it to your clothes and it silently takes a photo every 30 seconds. Then you connect it to your computer. It uploads photos to the Narrative server, processes them, and a while later I can view the photos in my Narrative iPhone app.
“Remember every moment,” the website urges. This device, the website promises, will become your memory. It will capture the moments that are really important to you:
Capture the moment as it happens, without interference. Complement your staged photos of majestic scenery with the intensity of the small moments that matter the most.
The assumption that technology can do a better job at capturing human experience than humans can (“without interference”) is a classic example of the dataism I wrote about in my book, and that I talk about in my TEDxBergen talk, “What Can’t We Measure in a Quantified World?” Still, the idea of capturing everyday moments we might not have thought to photograph is intriguing. I was interested to see what my days looked like seen from the perspective of this little camera.
Unfortunately, the Narrative Clip fails utterly at capturing the small moments that matter the most. It doesn’t actually document my life at all. Like all technology, it sees what it sees, not what I see.
Here’s a timelapse video of the 77 photos taken on a Tuesday in Chicago this spring between 15:47 and 17:29. 166 photos were taken in total: these are the photos that the Narrative software thought were the most interesting. The time-lapse video is pretty close to the way you can scan through the still images in the app on your phone.
As the camera was snapping these photos, I was walking with my six-year-old daughter from her school to her ballet class. She was hungry and there were no parks or benches on the way, so we sat down on a low fence that happened to face a wall covered with advertisements. You’ll notice that these are the only faces in the camera, and the algorithms have decided that they must therefore be the most important photographs, using the ads as the cover image for the sequence. Jessie decided she would like to wear the camera during her ballet class, and we thought perhaps the images would be more exciting – all those mirrors and beautiful dancers, you know? But as you see, the camera really didn’t capture anything very memorable about the ballet class either.
It turns out to be really hard to get the Narrative Clip to capture any images of my children, because the clip is worn at chest height and my children only reach up to my waist. So I tried fastening the clip to my jeans pocket instead. Not much better.
According to the website, the software selects the most significant photos using a “momentification” algorithm.
“Momentification” is the process where all your photos are uploaded to the company’s cloud servers, analyzed, sorted and sent back to you with the system’s best guess as to what the most important photos are. Based on my experiences, human faces, even on billboards or on stranger’s faces at the table next to you at a café, are given high priority, which makes sense. Photos that are similar to each other tend to be left out of the time-lapse views of your “moments” so that you get more variety instead of a hundred photos of the same wall.
In my case, the momentification highlighted things that were not important to me, like the advertisement on the wall. Just as importantly, the camera itself did not capture the things that are important to me, like my children. The camera’s fixed position on my chest or jeans pocket gives it a very limited view. Perhaps Google Glass would do a better job, as its camera would move with your head. But even if a camera could perfectly capture what my eyes see, would that really capture my experience satisfactorily?
I wrote more about the Narrative Clip in chapter four of my book Seeing Ourselves Through Technology: How We Use Blogs, Selfies and Wearable Devices to See and Shape Ourselves, comparing it to other forms of life logging. You can buy the book in print or download it for free.
And if you’ve used the Narrative Clip, I’d love to hear how you experienced it.