[This interview was completed in the fall 2000 for the online+print
exhibition ON OFF at afsnitp.dk and in the printed magazine Hvedekorn,
both based in Copenhagen, Denmark (http://www.afsnitp.dk/onoff/). Issues
touched upon are: the role of programming in creation and appreciation
of net art, the market value of net art, the (art) history of
programming, the (non)physicality of the net, and the formal and
political dimensions of net art.]

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

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Andreas Broegger: You've recently spoken about your interest in giving
the code in your projects a double role, making it appear not only as
the somewhat impenetrable mass of code, but also giving it some sort of
conceptual meaning on another level. By way of illustration you
mentioned the film The Matrix where the programmers can actually "see"
the constructed worlds by looking at the seemingly impenetrable mass of
code on computer screens. A kind of iconic level in the code, perhaps?

Mark Napier: I read Neal Stephenson's book Snow Crash recently and
enjoyed the comparisons he makes between code (as a language that builds
a virtual world) and the languages of early religions (another form of
language that builds another sort of 'virtual' world). I'm thinking more
about code as a metaphor for the creation of the world, as in Shiva
which I will return to below.

Code is a language that can be used to create both structures and
surfaces (appearances): machines that work behind the scenes, and
interfaces that people see and interact with, and through which they can
direct the machinery. We live every day in a physical world that is
created by our language. When you cross the street you look out for
"cars". You encapsulate an entire range of experiences and memories into
a single word: "car". What you are "really" seeing is a structure of
metal, rubber, plastic and glass that moves very rapidly. But even those
words, "metal, rubber" etc. are terms that describe physical qualities
like hard, smooth, cold and inflexible, or soft, pliable, black. And
those physical qualities are really sensations that the words only point
to. We all agree on what "smooth" and "cold" mean. The words are not the
sensations, they are symbols that point to the sensations.

With a single word, "car" we can summarize an entire range of
experiences, attributes, capabilities, and dangers. We can ignore the
million hues of color reflecting off shiny surfaces, the light, glints
of glass, the many shapes of curves of shining metal, the sounds, the
movement, etc. If you see something for the first time you can get a
sense of this. A completely foreign object looks exotic, exciting,
intriguing. It holds our attention exactly because it cannot be
categorized. Once we see a few of them and label them then the exotic
beauty fades and we stop really seeing the object at all, it becomes
another thing that we can instantly assess, name, and ignore.

The symbolic structure of language allows us to navigate in a map of the
world rather than the world itself. We can't say what the world 'really'
is because we would have to use words to say what it is and then we're
back to the mapping and representing of things with symbols. To
experience the world 'as it is' requires a direct experience without
words. Nobody operates this way once they learn language, unless they
engage in meditation, or take the right combination of drugs, or perhaps
fall out of a building.

Language is a very powerful tool that allows us to create a map of our
physical experiences and then navigate in that map, and by so doing we
can communicate complex experiences and actions to others, even long
after we die, if we write them down. Most of the time we can't separate
the map from reality. It *is* reality as far as we can tell. But drop
acid a few times, read Aldous Huxley, spend some time with Zen
Buddhists, and you start to suspect that reality isn't reality. It's a
map of some other experience that is outside of language, that we can't
describe, exactly because it's outside of language.

The point of the above digression is that software is very similar to
this. It also allows us to create symbolic structures that create an
illusion of a 'reality', a constant, consistent environment in which we
navigate. What's fun about it is that they're sort of mirror images of
one another, reversed.. In physical reality, language maps a territory.
In the software "reality", code *creates* a territory. We make it up.

When I start writing code that will take actions, create aesthetic
qualities, respond to user actions, and run 'machines', that will all
add up to an artwork, I am compelled to ask myself "What do I call these
bits of code?". A program is divided into pieces called functions, and
functions can be combined with data into "objects". So an object may be
called "Box" and it may have a function called "drawSelf" that draws a
box on the screen, and it may have a piece of data in it called "opened"
which can hold the value "true" or "false". The function "drawSelf" will
look at the data "opened" and if "opened" is true, then draw a picture
of a box that is opened at the top, otherwise draw a box that looks
closed. So the data and the functions work together to create something
that behaves consistently, like an object in the "real" world, though
this object exists only in the virtual metaphorical environment of the
software system that the program is running in.

Obviously I called this thing "Box" in the example above, since that's
what it looks like and behaves like. But what do I call an object that
is part of an artwork? I see art as a metaphor for life. Life is a
creative act. It exists to re-create itself in infinitely varied forms.
It's like a dance. Life dances because that's what life does. If it
stops the dance, it's no longer life, it's dead. There's no reason for
it. And that's like art, when it's really good, there's no reason to do
it. I make art because it's alive and I'm alive when I'm making it. Art
is a creative act for no reason. That's why I thought of Shiva when I
started looking at naming the objects that would operate an artwork.
Shiva is a Hindu god that embodies both the destructive and creative
forces of the universe. Shiva is portrayed dancing; in a particular
sculpture Shiva dances within a circle of fire. At the core of the code
that I'm writing is an object that communicates with all the other
objects, that animates them, triggers their behaviors, activates and
deactivates them. This object reminds me of Shiva in that it animates
the universe of objects that I create within the code. Each of the
objects creates a different kind of color effect, and this central
object is like Shiva, dancing in a circle of fire.

This is all pretty metaphorical and nebulous considering that code is
also very "nuts and bolts", like riveting together a thousand pieces of
metal to build a bridge. Coding can be completely tedious and
frustrating when you're dealing with the nitty gritty details. But I
suppose that both of these qualities are part of our reality too: the
mundane details and the spiritual. If I didn't see the potential for
these beautiful structures in code I would never have the patience to be
a programmer.

AB: Speaking of nuts and bolts and beautiful structures in programming,
I am wondering if these dimensions might not be interesting to look at
from a historical point of view? Do you think there have already been
episodes in the history of programming which parallel the much discussed
developments in the history of art in the previous century, such as e.g.
the introduction of the readymade, the death(s) and revival(s) of
painting?

MN: Yes, though I think the words "death" and "revival" may be too
strong to describe trends in the short history of programming.
Structured programming, and Object oriented programming are two trends
that I've seen in my career. "Client-server" is another form of
programming that evolved considerably over the history of software
development. Still these trends are more about practical needs than the
passionate philosophical debates of the arts.

AB: Let's talk about your project for the printed magazine Hvedekorn.
For instance, I am curious to know where the blurred backgrounds in the
images in Hvedekorn come from? And to know more about your interesting
ideas about virtual and real packaging…

MN: I took a screenshot of some windows, then used the Photoshop
"sharpen" filter several times on that image. Sharpening many times
produces a ripple effect – the filter sharpens the already sharpened
edges. I expanded those ripples about 10 times to get that blurry
rippled quality.

The cover of the magazine is a screenshot from RIOT, blending Yahoo, The
Weather Channel, and The White House homepage. The 14 pages in the
magazine, the 7 full size spreads, feature a lot of fragments such as
images and instructions lifted from product packaging. I've been
collecting bits of the generic instructions and labeling that appear on
boxes and bottles in the supermarket: "Open here", "Tuck flap into
slot", "Store in cool dry place". Once I started working in the virtual
world I began to notice these instructions that appear on literally
every piece of packaging (at least in the US). I find them to be
peculiar to the physical world – they make no sense in a virtual
environment.

The 'window' is the ubiquitous packaging of the computer world: windows
deliver information in manageable chunks. Like the pages of a magazine,
another form of packaging and delivery. So I wanted to put together
pieces of windows with scanned fragments of packaging, and place these
on the page in such a way that the page becomes a kind of "package"
referring to the packages of window and physical products.

What intrigues me is the contrast between virtual and real. Virtual
"space" makes the old space obsolete in certain respects. I don't mean
that we're all going to abandon our bodies or live in a science-fiction
world tomorrow.. But we do have new options for moving goods, services,
and experiences (like art) that used to be confined solely to the
physical world. It's easier to do a lot of these things online now. For
instance I can meet and socialize with people online, and not just talk
to them (i.e. telephone), I can see their web site, see things they've
created, share experiences with them online. I almost never meet people
in my own apartment any more – most of my social life happens online.
And that puts my apartment in a new context. I don't need it the way I
used to. Same goes for my office, and my studio. Both are wrapped up in
my computer and potatoland.org.

These thoughts led me to scan my apartment in "Negative Space", a
project I started in 1996. And that's why I notice these little
instructions all over the physical world ("Tear here", "Fold tab into
slot", "Open other end", "Shake well"). They are completely tied to that
environment, and make no sense in a virtual world. In fact these actions
are impossible in a virtual world, a space without solid objects, where
we find nothing we can shake, fold, or tear.

I put a "Shake well" label on the opening page of Potatoland a while
back. That non-sequitur appeals to me because it points to the
differences between the virtual and physical. We are shifting a very
fundamental aspect of our world, whether we realize it or not. We can
"interact" with the virtual world, but we can't really *touch* anything
there.

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Continue to <a href="/object.rhiz?2463">Part 3</a>