Category Archives: Reading Hypertext: A Series

Units of Meaning

Is Courbet’s The Stone Breakers a unit of meaning?

No is my answer. It is a potential universe of possibilities though. It is a whole within a greater assemblage, as is Bill Kluba’s Two Tables.

On the poet and the poet’s language, Shelley writes:

Their language is vitally metaphorical; that is, it marks the before unapprehended relations of things and perpetuates their apprehension, until the words which represent them, become, through time, signs for portions or classes of thoughts instead of pictures of integral thoughts; and then if no new poets should arise to create afresh the associations which have been thus disorganized, language will be dead to all the nobler purposes of human intercourse.

One reading of this passage suggest that we cannot end the conversation with Kluba and Courbet and Timmons or Weishaus’ The Way North or François Coulon’s The Reprover. Although well known, it is worth remarking that the significance of Shelley’s observation has to do with the “unapprehended relations of things” and the human need to persist in the search. In Ornans, we learn that Courbet found significance in the power of the moment “in between,” as Eliot and Joyce would build on later, and that Arnold found power in the act of striking out the center, envisioning a world where every human act has the force of relation. Courbet did not paint a funeral. Arnold did not write “lust.” But these are not works of “negation.” They are additive, bringing to light the “unremarked” and “unapprehended,” the dark matter of human experience.

Kafka’s The Trial never grows stale. The Kafkan, however, as a descriptive modifier, has become a cliche. The Borgesian suffers similar potential for emptiness, while the fictions live on with every encounter. And what political commentator hasn’t used Yeats to describe the current state of affairs? In my view, Victory Garden must not “prove” anything. There is something implicit in the voice and feel of interactive fiction, something impressive in its often powerful imagery and relationships, something impressive in its infinite possibility of forms, and, finally, something in its ideas that can be expressed in no other form, something that will “create afresh the associations.”

It’s time to close this first section of the series on reading hypertext. Some structure and language has been found, I believe. An idea that might act as a guide: hypertext as a confluence of a universe of human experience in space and time.

Time to get back to reading.

Reading Hypertext: Reading Art Part 2

In this next Gallery Talk, John Timmons and I sit in the office and talk Courbet, realism, and reading process. It really gave us a chance to continue on some of the idea we roundabouted on the Saint Francis piece.

In terms of the “Confluence” thesis, much of this is laying down ground work for much of the ideas that I had been pursuing in other essays on lingering, slowing down in the act of reading, and considering what constitutes the subject of the confluence: images, actions, events, choices (which are kinds of actions). One of the conclusions that I’ve come to over the past month is that in the context of reading hypertext, the range of objects one can consider is vast: deep and generous readings of hypertext will depend not just on the scope of reader experience but also on historical relationships. The reader must relate, which ties in Susan Gibb’s notion of the relation between mind and hypertext.


Reading Hypertext: Reading Art

The next Gallery Talk sessions took place over the course of last week, with John Timmons stepping into the office to cover Bonaventura Berlinghieri’s Byzantine altar piece on Saint Francis and Gustave Courbet’s work. We read, we talk, and follow where ever things lead.

The first vidcast covers certain reading issues and relationships. “What do we do with this stuff and what happens when we read it?” is an operative question. The podcast that follows sets up the next vidcast (coming soon) on Courbet and is a slice of the final leg of the conversation, so it jumps into he middle of something. In it we step through certain issues that come up with “newness” and subject matter.

Reading Hypertext: Bill Kluba on Two Tables and Hypertext

At Tunxis we typically fall into interesting conversations in the halls. We often regret not having the recorder ready. And so we’ve begun to walk around with devices. We have an idea for a series called Gallery Talks.

The first talk is a fairly elaborate video/podcast of a conversation I had with William Kluba, Professor of Art at Tunxis Community College, where we pick up on the Confluence thesis, concentrating on his painting Two Tables and Mary-Kim Arnold’s hypertext, Lust. The movie is quite large so there may be some lag before it starts.

The second and third entries record a short snippet with Bill and then one of those office convos with John Timmons, called John on Blood and Motif.

Reading Hypertext: Hands

I laughed when the waitress tells Harley she needs her hand.

“God how I adore you,” Harley declared.

The waitress flushed and parked the pitcher with a deliberate slosh into Harley’s lap. “I need this,” she protested, extracting her hand.

See Victory Garden “Adoration.”

It is significant that we learn that the waitress is Veronica Runbird. She is a waitress. Then she becomes Veronica Runbird. She becomes what Harley “is not.”

Veronica Runbird appears elsewhere with Harley (at a different time and space in my reading). One reader might claim that “this is how Harley and Veronica meet.” Another reader will claim, “No, this is another time in the novel. Another present moment.”

Another angle on the human surface of hands and eroticism.

Veronica, Harley, Urquhart. Human surfaces.

Reading Hypertext: Method

This is a short clarifying post that extends my last essay Reading Hypertext: Developing Imperceptibility. In that essay I wrote:

In the modern world, science trumps theology because the scope of science is more massive and more tangible. Hubble’s deep field photographs inspire the sublime just as Bub feels what a Cathredral means not with his eyes but through more complex sensation. This is why science can be confused for theology. Science has tools for grasping the universe of the physical nature of the pot and a large part this universe is simply ungraspable. In my view, the methods of science and the methods of fiction (cannot painting be described as visual fiction?) are similar, but neither alone can build a complete and concrete pot.

The use of the term “trump” in its competitive sense is not a good use of the word in this context (revisions in the future will see some changes). The better approach is to leave religion out altogether and simply offer an observation about how fiction and science relate in terms of their methods: the method does not go to hypothesis/test, but to the scope of inquiry. The scope of fiction focuses on its development and illumination of character and point of view (See Fuentes, A Change of Skin, Moulthrop, Reagan Library, Iñárritu, Babel, and Deemer, Changing Key). In literary hypertext and variants of hypermedia, which can contain all known literary and visual genre–poetry, essay, drama, narrative, photography–the way we see, the way we observe, and the way we manipulate are extended via the link (but not only the link).

What will we learn from this extension? I don’t know where the confluence thesis (the multi-dimentionality of the human lifeworld) will lead (see links above). That’s the fun part.

On Literary Criticism

Dan Green writes:

I’d have to say that the discipline of literary study has become more than unmoored and confused. I’m afraid that “the overt hostility to aesthetic questions in certain quarters,” as Jonathan puts it, has become the mainstream attitude among academic literary critics. Some writers might still be valued because they can be used to shore up ideological positions, but “literature” as the record and register of literary art is held in contempt, at best the avocation of amateur readers (including bloggers), at worst a fancy instrument of oppression wielded by hyperliterate elites. If the only way works of literature can usefully be brought into the classroom or the pages of academic journals is to examine them for their “social constructions”, or to expressly belittle mere aesthetic questions, in my opinion, as I’ve said here before, the best thing for literature would be to remove it from academic curricula altogether. (links in original)

I agree too. This reminds me of a radio program I just heard with Marcus Miller talking about jazz and playing the bass. He was just wonderful. He talked about jazz, his experience with Miles Davis, and life the way I wished people would get back to talking about literary art (and literary hypertext and hypermedia).

Let’s make it fresh and alive in the spirit of Marcus Miller. Not kill it.

Reading Hypertext: Developing Imperceptibility

I wrote this in my second essay on Lust, Reading the Link II:

Pablo Picasso illuminated the object by examining an object’s numerous surfaces, making the object strange, disorienting, beautiful in its strangeness and multi-surfaced orientation. In doing so, he presented the object in an almost imperceptible light. For Picasso, the object is not just one object, the viewer not just one viewer. If the object is not just one object but many objects in time and space, then the object becomes imperceptible, imperceptible because of our limited perspective. And the viewer follows, removed ever more from the knowledge of the nature of things. Simplicity to complexity. More precisely, the multifaceted object has a life beyond our experience and the more we learn the more complex life becomes. In this sense, the object has a separate life in the eyes of a second and a third person, simultaneously with the first. (italics for emphasis)

. . . An action or series of actions may be known in their chronological position, say in a plot or causal chain, but in Lust one act or event becomes a confluence of a universe of actions. . . . The hypertext, therefore, resonates with new ways of expressing, capturing, and examining (holding up to the light) the complicated nature of human action.

I want to probe the idea of imperceptibility a little more (and later clarify a few other conclusions) because my aim is not to write an essay that confuses but makes the idea of the confluence of a universe of actions in space and time a fairly plain and perceptible idea. An important issue with my thinking comes here: “imperceptible because of our limited perspective” and the stand-alone term “imperceptible.” No, this isn’t right: it’s too circular. Yes, our perspective is limited. We can, indeed, see the curve of a pot and feel its grainy texture. We can trip over it on our way out to the car, grope for it in a room infested with black widow spiders. But we cannot observe all sides of the pot or experience all its nature simultaneously. We cannot perceive its atomic structure with our own eyes or sense other actions and events relative to it. For example:

The woman who owns a small business near the terra cotta factory is driven from the road by the very truck who brought that clay pot to market. The innocent pot sits on your porch, while another family in Mexico lives with the tragedy. The pot is silent.

The pot from a different perspective is a manifestation of its physical reality, the weak force, for example. This is what we might call the problem of the Aleph as examined by Borges in his story, The Aleph. This is what I mean by imperceptible: imperceptible in its totality, imperceptible as a totality. I’ll rewrite the idea this way then: the object’s multi-dimensional value is hidden from us.

Astronomers make hypotheses about exoplanets by indirect observation. This is the way we determine the nature of the pot (and the nature of human action). We don’t think of the pot as a collection of behaviors or as a manifestation of physical forces.

“Look at that manifestation of electromagnetism,” you might say to Jane.

She asks, “Which one?”

“The one that manifests as a clay pot, whose live connects in important ways to a family in Mexico.”

In addition, we tend to simplify actions or events in the same way by reducing them to a finite chain or misattributing their complexity to simple circles of decision. (The complex and bizarre world of decisions that led to the US invasion of Iraq should be leading news programing everyday not repetitious arguments known even from the start to have been false. This news or analysis has been blotted out). I would assume that people tend to take the clay pot at face value, especially if they’re interested in adding to the character of their gardens: the beauty of the the garden “hides” the tragedy of the Mexican family. Why then the fascination with interesting still life painting or poems about place and objects or travel or food literature? What interests me about about Picasso’s work is not that he discovers the obvious. No, he discovers the beauty and value of the object or figure cast as a confluence of a universe of surfaces in place and time. The artist holds up the object’s hidden values.

In fiction and in real life, events tend to be connected to human decision making. In Crime and Punishment Raskolnikov’s murders are linked to his decisions. We should be able to connect the brutal murders of Alyona Ivonavna and her sister to a clear chain of cause and effect. ButFemmedebout.jpgDostoyevski doesn’t let us off the hook so easily. We know that the murders happen. We know that Raskolnikov has a fever. But we also learn that chance is a “force” in the novel, as in the hay market, “where, moreover, he had no reason to go” (62), and where all his plans come together and the course of events becomes “irrevocable.”

Crime and Punishment holds the idea of borders up for scrutiny. After the murders have been committed, Raskolnikov visits a friend, Razumihin. Razumihin offers Raskolnikov something seemingly simple: a chance to make money (a chance that might have been offered before the murders become reality). The reader urges Raskolnikov to take the offered work, just as they urged him to accept the hope offered in a letter from his mother. The reader also realizes the significance of Raskolnikov’s decision not to visit Razumihin earlier: how could Raskolnikov have known?). He refuses Razumihin’s offer, is whipped, given money, then tosses that money into a river. The money, a tangible object, is not what he throws into the river, however. The money’s physical value is just one of its numerous surfaces, much as the knife does in Lust. The money also has other, more abstract meanings: hope, opportunity, kindness, and nourishment, all tossed away by Raskolnikov into the river because these things only had meaning for him in a past life, a life before his murders. The world and he in it has been made “strange and grotesque”:

It struck him as strange and grotesque, that he should have stopped at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him . . . so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him now–all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories, his old impressions, and that picture and himself and all, all. . . .

In this, the chance meeting of the hay market cannot be forgotten and his decision not to visit Razumihin. Why is Raskolnikov standing on a bridge confronting a new world and a new Raskolnikov? This question isn’t a simple one. To say because he feels guilt is a small slice of the reality of the pot and to reduce Dostoyevki to this simple surface would be to follow in the same error committed by the modern news broadcast that blots out the image of the swastika for the viewer: in a way, to take Picasso’s painting of the femme and redraw it back to its conventional form. Raskolnikov has stepped into the Picasso painting; he’s stepped into the world of Mary-Kim Arnold’s Lust: two works that hold the confluence of a universe of surfaces and human actions up and expose them in their “strange and grotesque” complexity.

In the modern world, science trumps theology because the scope of science is more massive and more tangible. Hubble’s deep field photographs inspire the sublime just as Bub feels what a Cathredral means not with his eyes but through more complex sensation. This is why science can be confused for theology. Science has tools for grasping the universe of the physical nature of the pot and a large part this universe is simply ungraspable. In my view, the methods of science and the methods of fiction (cannot painting be described as visual fiction?) are similar, but neither alone can build a complete and concrete pot.

In Lust, solace is impossible, because solace isn’t the point. Lust, therefore, cannot assign itself to conventional telling, chronology, causality, or the mandates of realism, just as Picasso could not reveal the object by repeating the work of Sargent, because what is revealed is not “healing” but the complexity of human action as a multiplicity of surfaces and forces. There are, or should be, numerous possibilities for revealings in Lust. In my one reading, I found simply one of these possibilities, one possible way of finding a connective thread in the complexity of human action held up to the light: where two people wish together and their inner life is made tangible.

He remembers wishing he had stayed. He walks out of the room, she does not follow this night.

He tries to speak to the child. He tries to remember how it happened. He tries to remember her face, her flesh. He remembers the tearing. He remembers the blood. He remembers the child.

She had fallen to her knees. He walks out of the room that night. She follows him. This night, she follows him home. She cries like a child.

In the second paragraph of the space titled He Wishing, we have successive and simple noun verb constructions, simple syntactical units that repeat verbs in threes: “tries” is repeated three time followed by Lust.jpginfinitives in classic remembering mode. Then “remembers” is repeated three times. The first sentence is “in the moment” with the child. The next two are reflective, not part of the time and space of the first sentence. The first three sentences, in addition, reveal actions that failed.

The following and final three sentences, those governed by the present tense verb “remembers,” all point to concrete but discrete objects. In these six sentences, we have a sweep of three separate moments and three different ways of manifesting one extended situation, for we know that the act of remembering is an action that occurs in the present. The next paragraph follows a similar pattern, sweeping across the dynamic panorama of human experience, an examination of human experience as a confluence of a universe in space and time.

Lust may be a difficult text because it asks the reader to examine the multi-surfaced nature of human action just as Picasso asked the viewer to experience interpolated shapes, or my friend, William Kluba, the dynamic and color/surface rich universe of the table top in space and time.


William Kluba’s Two Tables

More on Forgetting

I saw an amazing image on the news tonight. There was a story on a building where swastikas had been painted on its walls. A blotter had been used in the video to “erase” the symbol from the field of view. What was the digital blotter supposed to be hiding? Something, apparently, too horrible to show. Something the news can no longer stand to reveal.

This blotter is a metaphor for a subtle discovery, the kind that slowly creeps up on you and you realize not that something has changed but that change happened long ago.

Not just memory as an external impulse, but forgetting also.

The news says, “You must not see this.” Another rule of imminent forgetting: offense cannot be tolerated.