Because he has a short memory man accumulates countless aide-mémoires. Confronted with these bulging repositories, man is assailed by a fear of being engulfed by this mass of words. To assure his liberty, he builds fortresses.
Alain Resnais' short documentary 'Toute la mémoire du monde' ('All the World's Memory', 1956) explores memory, the theme he would further pursue in films like 'Hiroshima mon amour' and 'L'Année dernière à Marienbad', in its most physical form: the library.
An homage to the National Library of France, which aims to collect everything printed in the world - the francophone world, that is - the film is also an essay on the record-keeping obsession of man, that "paper-crunching pseudo-insect".
But from a 21st century perspective, what is most impressive, and curiously nostalgic, is the sheer physicality of all this knowledge. The film shows the height of analog information culture, with over 100 km of shelf space, millions of index cards and a vast pneumatic messaging system.
From our perspective, too, man's "fear of being engulfed by this mass of words" is almost presciently ironic...
Criterion has the complete film online.
Bloem is not the only Dutch writer to have used the November weather of the Low Lands to set a somber, forlorn tone. Willem Elsschot's novella 'Will o' the Wisp' ('Het dwaallicht', 1946) starts:
A dreary November evening, with a soaking drizzle that drove even the bravest of us from the streets, and it was too far to trudge through that icy curtain of rain to the bar I always drank at.
'Will o' the Wisp' was the last published work of Flemish novelist Willem Elsschot, and it remains one of his most cherished stories.
Best known for his novels 'Soft Soap' ('Lijmen', 1924) and 'The Leg' ('Het Been', 1938) and the novella 'Cheese' ('Kaas'), Elsschot has a towering reputation in Dutch literature as one of the greatest stylists, whose work remains as sparklingly fresh and shrewdly ironic as when it first appeared. Only some of his work is available in English, and while a translation of 'Will o' the Wisp' exists (translated by Alex Brotherton and published as 'Three Novels', 1962, also including 'Soft Soap' and 'The Leg'), it is sadly out of print and virtually impossible to find. Perhaps at some point a publisher will dare a reissue, but in the mean time some extended quotes will give a taste of this little masterpiece...
Because 'Will o' the Wisp' is a timeless piece of literature. At a mere 50 pages, it forms the concentrated statement of the themes that run through all Elsschot's work, and that here take on a mythical, even mystical quality. Elsschot was a sharp but compassionate observer of man's yearnings - from his most lofty aspirations to his basest desires - and his inevitable disillusionments. Here, with deceptive simplicity, he shows human endeavors to amount to no more than chasing phantom lights in the distance.
The story's protagonist is Elsschot's Everyman, Laarmans, a sadder and wiser version of the gullible anti-hero we remember from 'Soft Soap', 'The Leg' and 'Cheese'. His presence in the November rain is sketched in just a few bitter strokes in the opening paragraph.
So it would be the first time in a long, long while, for the years fly quickly, that I would go straight home. My unexpected arrival would be taken for a step along the road to repentance, and I could hear my wife saying that the beginning is always difficult but better late than never. But first I'd have to get a paper to sit by the fire with, because if I didn't read my silence would cast a gloom over the rest of the family. I know well enough that there's nothing worse than having someone around who sits staring in front of him as if he was alone, and never tells a joke or slaps someone on the shoulder to cheer him up when things are tough, and never bothers to ask how you are getting on or whether you are happy.
This gloomy picture recalls Elsschot's poem 'The Marriage' ('Het huwelijk', 1910), one of the most quoted poems in the Dutch language. In grim, spiteful quatrains it exposes a marriage gone sour, with the husband raging against his own and his wife's aging - and ultimately against time itself - until he plots to murder her with a meat cleaver. It then offers the proverbial lines:
But he did not slay her, because laws stand between
dreams and deeds, as well as practical objections,
and also melancholy that no one can explain,
creeping up on you at night, as you go to bed.
But the poem doesn't end here, and in the context of 'Will o' the Wisp' the next and final quatrain is most relevant. It shows how the husband, his rage suppressed and eating inwardly, endures his lot from then on:
Thus the years went by. The children grew up
and saw that the man they called their father,
seated by the fire in brooding silence,
offered a godforsaken and fearful sight.
As is always mentioned in reviews of this poem, it doesn't describe Elsschot's own marriage (he was only 28 when he wrote it) but that of an uncle. It does, however, offer the archetype for the middle-aged Laarmans in 'Will o' the Wisp', who has given up on life after his youthful adventures and has only been able to avoid the brooding silence by spending his evenings in his favorite bar.
This is the man we meet on that dreary November evening. The year is 1938, the place Antwerp, and Laarmans runs into three Afghan sailors who are looking for a local girl they met earlier. They possess a name and an address on a piece of cardboard, but they have lost their way in the maze of Antwerp's old city. It is this random occurrence which gives Laarmans his excuse for not going home but instead offering his services as a guide for the "three wandering pilgrims". His motivation seems to be a mix of mild fatherly concern and a sense of amorous adventure flaring up after he imagines himself in the shoes of these foreigners (who he thinks are Indians).
Suddenly I had a vision of myself trudging through the heart of Bombay, forlorn and weary. It is night, and a chilly mist soaks through my thin cotton jacket. I am going from one street to the other, through slums and past bazaars, searching for Fathma who sits waiting for me by the light of a red lamp in a house that is somewhere at the end of a trek along the thirty-seventh street on the right, the fifteenth on the left, the ninth on the right, the seventh on the left, and then a winding alley that I'll never find. I am holding in my hand a pathetic piece of cardboard that no one will look at in that crowd of thousands that streams past like a living Ganges without even giving me a glance. I started out bright-eyed and with a heart full of hope, and now I'm standing on the same corner for the third or fourth time. It is an endless, futile circle with no way out, and I know now that I'll never find Fathma, that I'll never hold her in my arms and press her close. By the first light of the new day she'll put out her lamp and throw herself on her couch sobbing because the faithless white man hasn't kept his promise.
And so begins the unlikely quest of three Oriental sailors and a middle-aged Laarmans, wandering through Antwerp in search of a girl named Maria van Dam. When the address on the sailors' piece of cardboard turns out to be false - all they find is a shop that sells birdcages, but no birds - their resolve wavers, but they continue their search. Elsschot consistently describes their wanderings in lofty Christian terms, with the sailors as "wandering pilgrims" and "three kings", "hearts afire with hope", but at the same time Laarmans is driven by the red light of his more lustful fantasies, reasoning with himself that "where there was room for three there was room for four".
For modern readers the way the three sailors are addressed ("'Look,' she said, 'three blackies'") can be uncomfortable. But despite the odd streak of orientalism, it is clear that Elsschot is satirizing the xenophobic provincialism of his countrymen, even in a world port like Antwerp. The story, we recall, takes place in 1938, on the eve of WWII, when racial tensions simmered all over Europe. At one point Laarmans sarcastically describes a local thug as "a fine specimen of the white-skinned Herrenvolk that we are," and it is against this hostile background that he offers to guide the three foreigners.
Elsschot himself later wrote about 'Will o' the Wisp' that his "aim with this little book has been to show how people from very different class, religion, race and color are able to mix in brotherly fashion and become friends."
Indeed, however unsuccessful their quest turns out to be, the way it unites Laarmans and the three Afghans in a temporary companionship is both comic and genuinely touching. One of the most humorous scenes occurs when, still searching for the mythical Maria van Dam, they visit a seedy bar called The Carlton. Laarmans drinking gin and the Afghans water, their conversation turns to politics and religion, and Laarmans attempts to explain Christianity to them. What follows is best quoted at length, starting from the three Muslems' bewilderment about the crucifixion of Christ:
'Why did he let it happen to him?' [Ali] asked, 'and how did anyone dare to do a thing like that?'
When I said that that was what he himself wanted, I saw they were too amazed to speak.
It was a riddle I couldn't answer for them. They were up against that same blank wall I'd been running into for fifty years without ever finding a door, and besides, I didn't see how I could make out much of a case for our man-god against the abstract oneness of their Allah. All I could do was to correct myself by pointing out that the man on the cross wasn't God in person but his son. That was like pouring oil on the fire. As soon as Ali had passed on this additional information, the three of them launched into an animated discussion. The one who was married had the most to say, and when he was finished Ali voiced the conclusion that there must have been a woman involved as well. I admitted that their deduction was quite correct.
'Were there any other sons or daughters?' he asked, perplexed.
'No,' I answered, 'just the one son.'
'Very strange,' he said, shaking his head. 'If he was just like a man he was the same as we are and so anyone who was brave enough could go up and touch the creator of the world.'
At this point I felt I ought to make a sketch of God the Father, because this was the basic concept that might reconcile my three Afghans with the rest of it, but I hesitated between fully clothed or naked, fearsome or friendly, and with or without a flowing beard. Then I'd have to bring in the Holy Ghost as well, otherwise my summary outline of our theological premises might give them the idea of an ordinary mortal family still snugly settled somewhere or other here on earth. The introduction of this third personage would, I realized, only confuse them still more, and anyway my English couldn't cope with all these subtle nuances.
Christianity as a "blank wall" and Laarmans searching for a door with three kings from the East - it is one interpretation the quest in 'Will o' the Wisp' allows. After all, the girl they search for is named Mary (Maria). But Elsschot's subtle genius shows precisely in the way his novella is open to many different readings: a mystical journey of faith and doubt, a socialist fable about the universal brotherhood of men, or yet again a tale of the loss of youthful ardor and the resignation of approaching old age.
Towards the end, after Laarmans has said goodbye to the three Afghans and has tried one more address on his own, he is finally ready to give up. In his thoughts - an example of Elsschot's masterful use of erlebte Rede - fantasy slowly gives way to reality.
No, old satyr, enough is enough. Leave her in peace to enjoy her last cigarette and dream of her scarf and her pot of ginger. Keep going, and maybe the lechery that sent you off on this nocturnal wench-hunt won't be counted against you. Forget all about Bombay and Fathma and go home. Yes, back home with my paper, back to the family circle, back to the ties that bind and bore me, utterly and endlessly.
Apart from the opening paragraph, this is the only instance where Laarmans' bitterness surfaces, and again it recalls the godforsaken husband of 'The Marriage'. Yet 'Will o' the Wisp', Elsschot's literary testament, ends on a hopeful note: Laarmans was offered unexpected companionship, and perhaps some wisdom as well in bearing the futility of his nocturnal longing, so that in future he might offer a milder sight by the fire.
Elsschot supplied enough details that the wanderings of Laarmans and his three pilgrims can be traced through Antwerp. Some editions of 'Het Dwaallicht' include a city walk, while pilgrimages are also facilitated by quotations from the book immortalized in stone throughout the city.
Photos are of these quote-sculptures, though in keeping with the story's mystery I haven't been able to locate all of them. A map is available if you want to go questing for yourself - but be warned:
'She is like a reflection in the water and when you try to touch it there's nothing. Or like the lights in a swamp you run after but never catch up with. But you did your best, sir.'
('Will o' the Wisp' quotes from the translation by Brotherton. 'The Marriage' translation mine.)
In a long overdue overhaul of this website, but in time for its 10th anniversary later this year, I have implemented three changes:
- A responsive layout, meaning the site adapts gracefully to the plethora of different screen sizes out there, and in particular should improve readability on tablets and phones.
- A new font to replace boring old Verdana. Nobile is a no-frills webfont selected for pleasant long-reading.
- The start of a new portfolio section with a number of recent projects. More to be added in the future.
Traditional features like the monthly background image (now in its 86th month) are of course unchanged.
Any bugs or glitches? Let me know!
A challenging close of the IFFR on Saturday with a Grand Talk program that consisted of a screening of the 1927 USSR propaganda film 'The Fall of the Romanov Dynasty', German philosopher Peter Sloterdijk reading a chapter from his forthcoming book, and a discussion between Sloterdijk and Romanian director Andrei Ujica to connect these two trains of thought.
The following is from some notes scribbled in the dark, so rather sketchy...
Esfir Shub's 'The Fall of the Romanov Dynasty' - a silent film performed with live piano music - was made for the 10th anniversary of the Russian revolution. Looking back on the period 1913-1917, from the eve of WWI to the establishment of the socialist state, it is composed entirely of archive footage, pioneering a new subgenre of documentary filmmaking as well as opening an astonishing window on life in Russia and Western Europe a century ago.
The film's communist propaganda frame shows most explicitly in the title cards, which sarcastically comment on the old Russian order of landowners, priests and bourgeois capitalists - let alone the perfidious European order of speculators, industrialists and "capitalist plunderers fighting for markets", who all stand to gain from the approaching WWI. The titles also frequently employ ironic quotation marks, denouncing the "holy fathers" and "his majesty".
Sloterdijk commented on the film saying that if you would take out the title cards, the impression that remains is one of moving masses - endless, agitated, marching masses of people without individuality. "The effect is unheimisch, as if whoever still considers himself an individual is betraying the collective."
This observation provides the link between the film and the chapter from his new book, announced by his publisher as 'Modernity's Enfants Terribles' ('Die schrecklichen Kinder der Neuzeit'). Also dealing with the fate of the last czar, Nicholas II, and his family, it explores the events of WWI, both in Europe and Russia, and the start of what he terms a "century of disinhibitions".
After the "total degradation of individuality" of WWI, 'civil life' would never be the same again. In a variation on Heidegger's concept of "being-unto-death", Sloterdijk talks of "being-unto-a-mass-grave" - a new existential state in post-war Europe that at the time was signalled by Spanish philosopher Ortega y Gasset in 'The Revolt of the Masses' (1930). This state of perpetual agitation made demobilization impossible in many parts of Europe, including Germany, and led the masses to abandon what Mussolini called "the horror of comfortable life" for a march forever forward - and ultimately into WWII.
The same agitated, revolutionized masses were what Lenin found when he returned to Russia after the February revolution of 1917. Thoroughly steeped in the history of the French revolutions of 1789 and 1793, he realized that the only way forward for a revolutionized people was more revolution, in an iterative process to prevent at all costs a return to normality - a principle later perfected by Stalin and Mao.
In 1917 Russia this meant first, the October revolution and after that, all-out class warfare. This included the establishment of the infamous Cheka - which created an "informalization of executions" by uniting in one organization prosecution, judge, jury and execution - as well as the gulags and persecution of former royals. In this context the fate of the czar's family is telling: while Lenin first planned to stage an edifying show trial, he later abandoned this idea in favor of having the family summarily executed in a Yekaterinburg cellar.
For Sloterdijk this event also symbolized a wider break with the past, a cutting off of historical continuity, in line with Lenin's maxim that the revolution doesn't need historians. The archetype of the new, modern man that emerged during this time is the bastard, that is, the child that doesn't inherit from the previous generation. It is the one who is free from the weight of history, and the most motivated to climb the social ladder - the self-made man who embodies the century of disinhibitions.
It will be interesting to see how Sloterdijk develops this archetype in his book and who, exactly, are 'Modernity's Enfants Terribles' - especially in light of his observation that today we are again seeing a rising hatred of individuality and liberalism.
Did Vivian Qu, writer and director of 'Trap Street' ('Shui Yinjie', 2014) ever read Kafka's 'The Castle'? It would have been interesting to ask her, but she wasn't present at today's screening at IFFR. For the premise of her chilling paranoia thriller - a young surveyor gets caught up in sinister state machinations without ever finding out exactly why - fits the archetype of 'The Castle' perfectly.
Except, of course, that this is modern-day China, and the all-powerful state with its vast, shady bureaucracy and obsession with secrets is only one part of the nightmare. The other part is China's cutthroat, free-for-all capitalism that leaves all players, from consumers to small and large businesses alike, constantly vulnerable to being swindled, spied upon, ripped of or forced out business when the right palms have not been greased.
And then there is a classic femme fatale, whose motives remain inscrutable throughout...
Starting out lightheartedly, 'Trap Street' builds up slowly before ensnaring its protagonist. A trap street refers to the practice of adding a fictitious street to a map as a way of copyright control, but in this case the reverse is also true: the young surveyor, working for a map company, discovers a dead-end street that is not on the city map and resists being surveyed - it is "rejected by the system".
In this dark, tree-lined lane he meets a young woman who apparently works there, at a mysterious office called Lab 203, and he starts hanging around the street long enough to attract not only her attention, but unwanted government attention as well. Revealing more would spoil the plot, so suffice to say that when the trap snaps shut, it is to utterly crush the young surveyor as well as his budding relationship with the beauty from the officially non-existent Forest Lane.
Modern China, 'Trap Street' concludes coldly, is no place for trust. But like in 'The Castle', its sense of broken hope and mistrust goes beyond modern bureacracy, surveillance and greed to encompass a more existential theme of man's struggle for his place in an ultimately incomprehensible world.
As a side note, seeing 'Trap Street' on the same day as Kelly Reichardt's new film 'Night Moves', it appears that the serious paranoia thriller is back from a long absence. Not since Alan Pakula's 1970s 'paranoia trilogy' have we seen such pervasive fear of society as seen from the perspective of outsiders - either forcefully ejected as in 'Trap Street' or on a chosen path of radicalism as in 'Night Moves'.
The resulting modern symptoms, however, are similar: 1) get rid of your sim card, 2) avoid cameras as much as possible, and 3) trust no one.
Update: Director Vivian Qu was kind enough to answer my question via email. Here is what she said:
The answer is yes and no. Or maybe I should put it this way: I think Kafka is an expert on Chinese society :)
In fact, almost all the inspiration for this film comes from reality -- the little things that we see and hear around us in today's China. When you piece them together, they seem unmistakably Kafkaesque. The society may seem changed in dramatic ways, but the inner-workings which is what interests me in making this film, has not changed much.
Modern Iranian cinema, always prominently present at the International Film Festival Rotterdam, is known for its poetic, metaphorical storytelling, beloved by Western audiences but often born of sheer necessity: to circumvent the censors. Social and political themes cannot be broached directly, but they can be cloaked in subtle fables, usually taking place indoors or inside cars as these provide relatively inconspicuous locations to shoot.
'Manuscripts Don't Burn' ('Dast-neveshtehaa nemisoozand', 2013) furiously breaks with this tradition and confronts the Iranian censorship and repression head-on. A pitch-dark political thriller about the authorities' ruthless efforts to cover up an earlier attempt to assassinate a group of intellectuals, the film follows two writers who attempt to hide a manuscript exposing this government plot, as well as the members of the secret police who are sent after them.
The scenes of the two henchmen and their slithery boss interrogating the writers create harrowing moments, but more oppressive is the film's general atmosphere of mundane, routine terror. The writers know they are doomed, and though they put up a fight, even making plans to illegally publish the manuscript, it feels like they might well be the last ones standing. And the secret police members, driving around with their victim in the trunk of their car, well, for them it's just another job. One of them can't pay the bills for his sick child in hospital, and while he has moments of doubt - is his child being punished for his sins? - his colleague reassures him, in what sounds like a trite formula, that they are complying with shari'a law.
Director Mohammad Rasoulof, who was banned from filming by the authorities in 2011, made the film in secret and has since had his passport confiscated. From Tehran he sent a director's statement read before the screening, warning the audience that this would not be an enjoyable film, made about a particularly dark period of his life - referring to the so-called Chain Murders in Iran that it was based on.
Indeed, the film seems to offer little hope of change in Iran, except perhaps for its title, which quotes Bulgakov's famous Stalin-era novel 'The Master and Margarita' and its conviction that ideas can never be supressed entirely.
That, and the fact that 'Manuscripts Don't Burn' was made at all and shown, at least, internationally.
The film also provides a grim background to another film shown at IFFR, the Swiss documentary 'L'escale' ('Stop-Over', 2014), an intimate portrait of a group of illegal Iranian immigrants stuck in Athens. This film restricts itself to the daily life of waiting and hoping of these young men and doesn't pry into their motives or backgrounds - as their landlord, another Iranian immigrant remarks, it's a rule of his 'hostel': "Here we don't ask questions. The past is the past."
So we are left guessing about their reasons for leaving their country - perhaps fleeing persecution, perhaps purely economic. But as we witness a few of these men, supplied with stolen passports whose photographs resemble them somewhat (in one case rather ludicrously), make the risky jump further into Europe, you'd like to think one of them was carrying a manuscript...
Each day we live is a glass room
Until we break it with the thrusting
Of the spirit and pass through
The splintered walls to the green pastures
Where the birds and buds are breaking
Into fabulous song and hue
By the still waters.
Each day is a glass room unless
We break it: but how rare's the day
We have the power to raise the dead
And walk on air to the green pastures!
For the clouded glass, or clay,
Is blind with usage, though the Lord
Walk the still waters.
- Mervyn Peake
Besides his nonsense poems, like 'O'er Seas That Have No Beaches', Peake also wrote a lot of serious poetry. His 'Collected Poems', which only came out in 2008, is a treasure trove for fans of his work.
Written in 1946, soon after WWII, this poem uses imagery from Psalm 23 but repositions it for modern, war-weary, skeptic man. The green pastures and still waters are still there, they're just so much harder to reach...
The new year's bonfire in Scheveningen, a roaring inferno that made the surrounding fireworks seem puny and pointless - like carrying water to the sea. This is the bonfire on the north beach, in annual community-dividing competition with the one on the south beach.
The papal palace in Avignon, the Palais des Papes, in winter is a rather bleak and draughty place, with only glimpses of its onetime splendor. The curious mix of fortress, palace and church testifies to the wordly power of the Avignon Papacy, while the vast empty halls today tell of its demise. But in the 14th century, from 1309 to 1378 to be precise, this was the administrative centre of a great temporal realm, in an uneasy power balance with the French and other monarchies but not above collecting papal taxes from all corners of Europe.
Next door, the other palace, the Musée du Petit Palais, houses an impressive collection of primitive art from southern Europe, with paintings - with one or two exceptions all religious - ranging from the iconic and naive to the graphic and ghoulish.
An inspiring book for those who like to do their reading on paper, Alessandro Ludovico's 'Post-Digital Print' (2012) offers much-needed nuance in the 'print is dead' debate by presenting 'The Mutation of Publishing since 1894'.
The hype surrounding electronic reading devices has been relentless over the past years, driven by the self-amplifying logic of hype about technology, where the technology itself facilitates its rapid spread through the network, which in turn is seen as proof of its own inevitability, to the point where printed magazines and newspapers feel obliged to report on their own obsolescence.
But despite all this, as Nicholas Carr has been documenting on his blog, the sales of ebooks show clear signs of stagnation. Apparently print is proving more tenacious than many techno-believers would have thought - and this tenacity, our centuries old and cherished habit of reading on paper, is exactly what Ludovico sets out to put into context.
After all, books still offer "the very best 'interface' ever designed".
Ludovico is founder and editor of Neural, which has long been an independent source for digital culture and media arts. Clearly no Luddite, Ludovico shows how the death of print has been announced many times before, in fact with the introduction of every new medium since the second half of the 19th century. Starting with the invention of the telegraph and then the telephone, Ludovico traces seven historical moments when print looked poised to disappear, supplanted by exciting new electric and electronic media.
In each case, however, print didn't disappear. Even today, what he calls "one of the most unfortunate and embarrassing prophecies of the information age" has simply not materialized (or rather, dematerialized). Instead, as in each previous instance and in the same way as has happened to other media (music, film, tv), print has evolved and been transformed by the new media, forced to rediscover its own unique qualities.
From this perspective, what is happening today can be seen as another crisis/opportunity for printed media to redefine their role in a post-digital landscape.
The traditional role of print is unmistakeably being threatened by the new digital world; but it is also, paradoxically, being revitalised. Both media share a certain number of characteristics, and yet they are fundamentally different - and they also fulfil different needs (for example, digital is built for speed, while print ensures stability).
These different characteristics are summarized in a fascinating appendix, which lists "100 differences and similarities between paper and pixel". By that point, the book has already given many examples of the continual revitalization of print through the years, first in a history of avant-garde publishing and then in a survey of contemporary projects and publications that explore the new post-digital role of print.
Looking to the future, Ludovico envisions hybrid publications that take advantage of the strengths of both paper and web - marrying paper's physicality, permanence and superior user experience with the digital realm's updateability, searchability and, most of all, its networked nature. Discussing such networked publications, which one day will likely be an uncategorizable hybrid of print and e-publication, Ludovico concludes that:
...as it currently stands, [post-digital print] still lacks one crucial aspect (besides production and sharing): it does not include mechanisms able to initiate social or media processes which could potentially bring the printed content to another level - what I would call the 'processual' level. In the past, print activism (using pamphlets, avant-garde magazines, Punk zines, etc) was deployed for spreading new ideas meant to induce new creative, technological and - by implication - social and political processes. The future of post-digital print may also involve new processes, such as remote printing, networked real-time distribution, and on-demand customisation of printed materials - all processes with (as of yet) unexplored social and political potential.
Naturally, 'Post-Digital Print' is available in print and in digital form (free pdf).
The book did leave me with one question: where is the companion website? Why does Ludovico not practice more of the networked publication he preaches? (Or would Neural be the answer?) The great wealth of publications, artworks and web projects he discusses in the book are linked (sort of) from the endnotes in the pdf version of the book, but surely this is not the ideal interface for further exploration.
So to make these somewhat more accessible, below the fold is an overview of web-based / web-present art projects discussed in the book...
Continue reading the full post »