A vibrant and powerful emotion, passion has always proved to be a driving force for transformative movements and activism. Think Greta Thunberg and global climate strikes leading to a commitment to environmental causes that transcend generational boundaries. Or, the 2020 elections in the United States stand as a testament to passionate civic engagement, with increased voter turnout reflecting a commitment to shaping the political landscape for the better.

Emotionally, passion brings forth feelings of excitement, joy and fulfillment. Psychologically, it propels individuals and societies to set and achieve meaningful goals, fostering resilience and personal growth. Behaviorally, passionate individuals actively engage in their chosen pursuits, investing time and effort to make a tangible impact.

In our exploration of passion, it is essential to acknowledge the potential pitfalls that can arise when enthusiasm becomes overwhelming. While passion is generally hailed as a positive force propelling individuals toward their goals, an unbridled and all-consuming fervor can lead to burnout and adverse effects on mental well-being. The dangers lie in the relentless pursuit of perfection, self-imposed pressures, and the disregard for personal boundaries. Interviews with professionals across various fields will shed light on their experiences with burnout, emphasizing the importance of maintaining a healthy balance between passion and self-care. It’s a cautionary tale that highlights the need for individuals to tread carefully along the line between unwavering dedication and the preservation of their mental and physical health.

Yet, amidst the fervor of passion, a not-so-silent undertow of apathy has permeated certain aspects of society. Characterized by a lack of interest and emotional detachment, apathy has manifested in various forms, contributing to a sense of disillusionment.

Apathy’s grip extends beyond personal disinterest; it permeates societal structures, contributing to a lack of engagement and fostering a pervasive sense of disconnect. By delving into the consequences of apathy in various contexts, from civic disengagement to its impact on community dynamics, we aim to uncover the ripple effects that extend far beyond individual experiences. As we navigate the delicate interplay between personal choices and societal implications, a nuanced understanding of the dangers of apathy emerges, urging us to consider the broader impact of our emotional states on the fabric of our communities.

Statistically, a rise in voter apathy in specific regions during recent elections signals a disconnect among individuals who feel disinterested or disillusioned with the political process. The mental health landscape has also seen an increase in feelings of apathy, particularly among younger generations, possibly linked to the multifaceted challenges posed by the global pandemic, sociopolitical uncertainties, and the climate emergency.

Emotionally, apathy leads to numbness or indifference, a void where passion once thrived. Psychologically, it can result from burnout, disillusionment, or a perception of helplessness, impacting mental health and overall life satisfaction. Behaviorally, apathetic individuals may withdraw from social interactions, avoiding responsibilities and displaying a general lack of initiative.

What we watch, read and listen to speaks volumes about how we feel. The passions that resonate within the late millennial and Gen Z often have dominant themes of dystopia, resilience and rebellion. Cinematic narratives and auditory landscapes encapsulate the existential anxieties and aspirational dimensions of an epoch defined by the uncertainties and anxieties of a generation that came into a world facing climate crises, economic challenges, and social unrest.

From post-apocalyptic worlds to narratives exploring the consequences of unchecked power, dystopian themes echo the concerns and fears embedded in our collective consciousness. Hauntology, as theorized by Jacques Derrida and later expanded upon by cultural critics, adds another layer, suggesting that our narratives are haunted by a sense of the future that has eluded us—a future that appears distant and uncertain.

From protagonists defying oppressive systems to stories of social justice warriors, the theme of rebellion aligns with the desire for change and a refusal to accept the status quo. Hauntology, in this context, suggests that these narratives are not just about the present or the past; they are haunted by a future that feels inaccessible, pushing us to question and challenge existing structures in the pursuit of an alternative future.

The phenomenon of countless reboots in entertainment further underscores the hauntological perspective. In an era marked by uncertainty, the recurrence of familiar narratives and characters may be interpreted as an attempt to grapple with the absence of a clear future. Reboots, in their repetition, reflect a cultural yearning for a more familiar and perhaps more certain past— one revisited in the absence of a defined future.

As we immerse ourselves in these cultural narratives, we navigate a landscape haunted by the specter of an uncertain tomorrow. Hauntology provides a framework for understanding the complexities of our cultural choices, suggesting that our entertainment serves as both a reflection of our present concerns and a spectral exploration of a future that seems to elude our grasp. In the darkness of the cinema and the glow of our screens, we confront not only the fears and desires of the present, but also the ghosts of a future yet to unfold.

In his book, Inventing the Future, Nick Srnicek meditates on the notion that advancements in technology, particularly automation and artificial intelligence, have the potential to liberate humanity from the drudgery of work. Giving more time and headspace to focus on enacting change in society.

 “Apathy is a symptom of a society that lacks a clear vision of the future. To combat apathy, we must articulate and work towards a transformative vision that captures the collective imagination.”

Srnicek urges us to confront the root cause of collective disengagement. It is an assertion that resonates deeply in an era marked by uncertainty, where societal currents often flow without a discernible destination. He proposes to break free from the inertia of established norms and envision a future where cultural, political and social institutions no longer perpetuate the malaise of disengagement. The status quo is not a fixed reality, but a malleable construct that demands scrutiny and reconstruction. Apathy is not an inherent trait, but a response to systems that fail to inspire or provide a compelling vision of the future.

Challenging the status quo implies a willingness to question deeply ingrained assumptions about how we organize and govern our societies. It prompts a reconsideration of cultural narratives, political structures, and social norms that may contribute to the prevailing sense of disillusionment.

To heed Srnicek’s call to action, we must embark on a journey of articulation and transformation. The onus lies not only on individuals, but on society as a whole to collectively imagine and articulate a vision of the future that transcends the status quo. In doing so, we confront the disquieting reality that the prevailing structures and systems may not be conducive to fostering a sense of purpose or shared destiny. This realization propels us into uncharted territory, demanding a deliberate and conscientious effort to redefine societal values, aspirations and trajectories.

After years of hoping for real change, many have become disenchanted with politics. It seems more about preserving the status quo than addressing the real issues affecting everyday people. The promise of transformative policies often gives way to a sense of stagnation, leaving citizens feeling unheard and disconnected from the political processes that shape their destinies.

The disillusionment with politics stems from a perceived lack of genuine commitment to addressing real, tangible issues. Instead of witnessing bold initiatives to tackle societal challenges, individuals often observe political maneuvers that prioritize partisan interests or short-term gains. This disillusionment is exacerbated by a growing sense of disconnection between the political elite and the concerns of ordinary citizens.

The prevailing sentiment echoes a desire for authentic representation and meaningful change, a yearning for politics to be a vehicle for societal progress rather than a mechanism for self-preservation. The result is a disheartened electorate, questioning the efficacy and authenticity of political systems that seem detached from the struggles and aspirations of those they are meant to serve.

In the evolving landscapes of work, society and culture, it becomes evident that our emotional responses are intertwined with the uncertainties of our time. While passion propels us towards meaningful goals, we must remember that which our passion is being directed towards and by whom. Dedication to meaningless jobs is only an act of self-preservation when one is frank about the unbelievably dire lack of credible alternatives.

We are the first generation to come into the world in a moment of global omnicrisis. Social, climate, economic — you name it, it’s fucked. The inability to own a home, find a job that one is passionate about coupled with the projection of unattainable lifestyles on social media and increasingly intense political environments across the board. Is it any wonder that the birth rate in the developed world is plummeting?

Though absolutely understandable, apathy poses a risk to societal engagement and well-being. It manifests in various forms, from political disinterest to personal withdrawal, creating a pervasive sense of disconnect that is self-reinforcing and genuinely worrying. The cultural choices we make, from entertainment preferences to the narratives we consume, are not mere reflections of our present, but haunted explorations of a worrying future.

As the writer, activist and holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel famously wrote:

“The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.”

Passion is existential while apathy is manufactured.

As a sentimental person guilty of dabbling in at least two of those revivals, I bear no judgement. Dystopia is in abundance right now and five, ten or twenty years ago feels pretty desirable. But to cite an overused Lenin quote about decades where nothing happens and weeks where decades happen, it’s fascinating how minimal imagination there’s been within fashion regarding an aesthetic that is purely now. Something reflective of the present chaos and dysfunction without retreating to the comforts of nostalgia. At its most cynical, it speaks of our inability to reconcile with the present and future.

The late academic Mark Fisher condemned nostalgia’s hold on society through the theory of ‘hauntology’, arguing that neoliberalism and postmodernism has sterilized us into a loop of cultural rehash. He wrote of capitalism absorbing all forms of expression and resistance, to be reproduced in its vacuum. This results in an incapacity to imagine a future beyond the sci-fi cliches of last-century film, regardless of having reached a different future to what had been imagined back then. Ironically, the period that informed Fisher’s nihilistic doctrine, the mid-2000s, is one we’re salivating for now, in hindsight. Tragically taking his life in 2017, Fisher was ultimately spared of the culture doubling down on an era he perceived as devoid.

It’s a dark take, and as much a question for the culture as it was indicative of Fisher’s openly-discussed mental health struggles. But it rings true to how certain facets of futurism are channeled in the mainstream right now, along with the collateral damage of a pandemic that saw many cling to comforts of the past. Muted athleisure, for example, in its high to fast fashion pipeline, has reproduced the radical principles of minimalism into branded uniformity. Consumerism has infiltrated subversion and engulfed most underground sensibilities into trends. Gestures of activism, counterculture and class warfare have been commodified to a grim point of meaninglessness (think ‘the rainbow economy’, for example). The list of Fisher-ian factors distorting our past, present and future are endless and overwhelming.

In fashion, reference and brilliance are intertwined. Many great collections cite past eras to make paralleled statements of the times. A 2009 autumn/winter collection by Marc Jacobs for Louis Vuitton comes to mind, one that drew on ’80s excess as a response to the global financial crisis. It was cleverly duplicitous – on one hand, a celebration of transformative fashion to reignite morale in the industry, while linking a past period that was similarly a victim of its extravagance to recession. Compellingly, two of fashion’s most consistent innovators, Rick Owens and Rei Kawakubo, operate in a league of self-reference. Mostly through architecture, their designs advance on their own methodologies and are true benchmarks of modernity in fashion. When they indulge in nostalgia, it’s mainly from a considered philosophical viewpoint.

Therein lies the big question about what the nostalgia zeitgeist and the ideals underpinning it express about current times. Is there more to indie sleaze other than wishing it was ten plus years ago? Does there need to be? Does Y2K need to reconcile with the paradox of early 2000s glitz, then seen as vacant distraction? On an individual level, probably not, and that idealization speaks to the powerful psychology of nostalgia. It also parallels the way fashion trickles through the masses, cyclically removed from context. These days, social media sets the terms of fashion outside of reference. The first base of influencer contact has made it harder to be immersed by a designer’s artistic vision, thus diminishing the mystique.

 

The resolution of smartphone cameras is the true, unsentimental indicator of what our present looks like. A level of ambiguity is stripped away with each optimized update, particularly in recent years. Along with social media, this innovation has not only democratized photography, but also the way we navigate aesthetics. The lens has become an extension of ourselves, and our distaste for or embrace of it has become value-based. Paired with any in-vogue revival, it’s an interesting paradox of living in the past framed with the unavoidable clarity of the present. Like reshooting a classic film with today’s technology. The latest pivot to digital cameras popularized by TikTok and various celebrities’ socials say a lot about the culture’s either a) repudiation of today’s mega pixelation for something simpler and sentimental, or b) repurposing a past object to solely perpetuate the vacuum it’s resisting. Either way, the call is coming from inside the house.

 

Yes, nostalgia sells. Yes, it’s human nature. But you’d think we’re at a crossroad of either finding another corner of recent history to rehash, or making a bold leap forward. When there is an early-2020s revival in twenty years (or maybe four by the current metric) what will it look like? In the past, linked periods like the ’80s and ’50s or ’60s and ’90s had clear socio-political synergies that informed their aesthetic ties. As it currently stands, this little moment of time we inhabit may very well be remembered as a present everyone wished was past.

Omar Davis has already done a whole lot. Even the most cursory google of their best-known alias Moore Kismet reveals a host of times that they were the first, times they were the youngest — times when they were like, wait, what is happening here? “When did I get a Wikipedia page? What the hell did I do to get in this position?” At seventeen, Omar Davis is still finding that out.

 

In Hindi, the word kismet means fate, or perhaps it’s luck, or maybe, it might even be destiny. It’s hard to be sure precisely in English, but whatever the case, they are big boots to fill, and yet Davis, at least, is clear on what it means to them. “I’ve never felt more secure being Moore Kismet. Moreso than I’ve ever felt with any other alias,” they say sincerely. “It’s essentially a manifestation of exactly what I want to do and what I want to accomplish in my life.” They’ve created under that alias for six years already, and it’s telling of their personal and artistic energy that they can grapple with topics writ large in the mind of every adolescent without ever making it about themself.

 

“I want everything to resonate with somebody. I want everything that I create to not only resonate with me, but to make people feel something other than the idea that this song is a banger. I want to write storytelling compositions that don’t compromise on listenability and still tell a good story. Music is telling stories that captivate people, that give them a deeper understanding.”

 

Where many songwriters prefer not to reveal their intentions, Moore Kismet wants to share. Like every other teenager on the planet, Omar Davis wants to be understood, but unlike so many other teenagers out there, people are actually listening. And why? Well, people are not just listening to Moore Kismet because they make bangers (and they definitely do), but because when they listen to Moore Kismet, it feels like being heard.

 

There’s an honesty to youth that is both refreshing and intimidating—refreshing in its ability to transcend those hard-learned, sharp-edged, and decidedly rigid norms of everyday life, and intimidating in its frank admission of vulnerability. Whether bruised and swollen or vibrant and joyous, Moore Kismet always offers something for others to lean into. Their ability to articulate so much experience so soon is admirable and, by the same measure, enviable. But, unfortunately, in the music industry, that honesty can be hard to come by. Omar has already been in the industry for five years, and that experience has come with its tough learnings. “A lot of people in the music industry are in the music industry for the wrong reason,” they mention knowingly. “No matter how much we touch on that, no matter how much you continue to speak about that, people acknowledge that it’s an issue in the moment, but they don’t do shit about it later. I know, for a lot of people, it’s difficult because people still view me as this little kid, and they still view me as this person who doesn’t know about adult things and therefore cannot help with navigating adult things.”

 

Admittedly, the feeling of being unseen is a familiar reprise from any young person, but for Omar Davis, and thus for Moore Kismet, the problem is doubled in scope. Young people are exposed to the issues of adulthood at an early age, and it would be hard to argue against the idea that anyone involved in the music industry from their pre-teens must have learned many a lesson, both hard and fast. Beyond that, though, what legitimate reason is there to think that a successful seventeen-year-old musician in an industry that has often ignored the music and experiences of people like Omar – that very thing that has made them so relatable – wouldn’t know what they’re doing? It’s worth remembering that Omar Davis is a young, Black non-binary artist that is thriving in an industry trademarked by a frankly kafkaesque opacity and barrier of entry.

 

Still, that number seventeen surrounds Moore Kismet. Until, at some unforeseen point, it is universally agreed that they are old enough to own those experiences without having to mention the number as if it were a qualifier for their artistic integrity. Moore Kismet is already wielding and molding those experiences into popular art with nimble precision. “I feel like I’m in a position with the things that I create and put out into the world where I can make a genuine shift in inspiring people.” Yet, their age is also legally bound to some of the more banal facts of life.

 

Davis is from Adelanto, California. A satellite city two hours outside of Los Angeles, give or take. Where there is neither much traffic nor density of experience at all. Definitely an issue for any young person, let alone an aspiring artist. “I never got a chance to perform at any local shows, in part because there was nothing up here and in part because I’m 17. At the time I was starting to blow up and get more notoriety and respect as a musician, especially as a trans musician, I didn’t have my driver’s license. So I couldn’t do shows, and I could not perform because I couldn’t drive myself anywhere, and I was too young to get into venues. The only way I would be able to get in any venue is if my mom or manager and a gigantic entourage of friends or close acquaintances were with me the entire night. And I’m pretty sure they were fucking sick and tired of babysitting me the whole night.”

 

In LA, proximity to stardom has a double effect. On the one hand, there’s the world of possibility on the edge of one’s stoop. On the other, there’s comfort in anonymity and the knowledge that whatever you do and whoever you are, you are not the only one. Davis walks this line with grace, humor and humility, while always maintaining a healthy appetite to have more. “My last show directly coincided with the day after my finals. So, I passed my finals, finished the first semester, and celebrated by performing in a stadium in front of a thousand people on the other side of the country. I’m like, fuck, who fucking does that? The way I used to celebrate getting good grades was I would go out with my family to fucking Baskin Robbins, get a quart of chocolate ice cream and then like, eat half of it and watch movies with my mom.”

 

They’re clear to add that family has been a significant influence on their confidence, stability, and success – Davis’ Grandma picked them up from school right on the bell to get them to this interview on time. “I’ve been in Adelanto for the past 15 years. My mom moved away and separated from my dad when I was two years old. I think it was just for us to be in a more stable and comfortable environment where we both could grow to be a lot happier and a lot safer in the position we’re in now. I’ve been making music in this very room ever since I was six years old.”

 

Like any teenager, Moore Kismet’s music is imbued with all the experiential doubt of youth but also with the dyed-in-the-wool support of those around them. Vulnerability is a double-edged sword, and Omar Davis has felt the nick of each side. “The first time I came out to my mom as non-binary and at the time, bisexual – I now identify as pansexual – being transgender, but not outwardly changing my appearance but just identifying this way and understanding that I feel this way and that I lean this way. She sat down and listened.” Yet as with anyone else, parts of Davis’ family life are strained, especially towards their father. “I commented on something that E.J. Johnson was wearing on a photo that came up on his Facebook feed. It was these thigh-high boots and this fluffy cheetah print outfit and a Birkin bag. And I’m like, ‘Oh, they could have picked a better jacket, but the rest of the outfit is cute.’” And in return? “I got a fucking two-hour lecture about the perks of being straight.”

 

“It’s a very difficult experience that my mom and I have had to navigate the past few years. When he calls, I never get an opportunity to get a word in, but then literally, he texted me the other day to let me know that he watched my gay-ass music video with my ex-boyfriend and said that he liked it. In a more restrained and general sense, I know that relationship with him influences my music and what I create. I know that at some point, he’s going to end up seeing this and reading it and getting a deeper understanding of how exactly it is.”

 

Just as with age, there is no talking about Moore Kismet without talking about identity. To grapple with essential questions of oneself and come out on top without the tacit knowledge of respect and safety extended to many other people, inspires empathy. It’s a topic that Davis understands and engages with rare intuition, having seen both sides extended to them so distinctly. “Showing empathy to somebody to me means making a genuine effort to show somebody that you care and that you’re listening and that you’re understanding their situation.” That outlook is something that has extended into their own life. “I want to be as understanding as I can because I didn’t have the same experience as everybody else did. I had a wonderful mother and her incredible best friend. They understand me, how I am, what I create and do as a human being, and how that connects to my art.”

 

Of course, it’s important to note that while Moore Kismet can confidently inhabit this identity, it’s not Omar Davis’ job or responsibility to teach it to anyone. Naturally, they say they don’t mind explaining to anyone who is “genuinely interested and wants to make a better effort to be respectful and accommodating.” But more often than not, they simply don’t mention it. “I just tell people to use the proper pronouns and then go about my day. It’s a lot easier than trying to give them a fucking Encyclopedia Britannica definition of what non-binary is because that’s not even going to work because not everyone has the capacity to understand that. So I’m just like, yo, my pronouns are they/them. Hopefully, you can get down with that. If not, so be it. That’s your own issue.”

 

It’s tricky because there remains a sect of EDM that is heavily associated with a certain white cis male identity. Doubly problematic because most people are taught the value of role models from a young age. On that topic, Davis maintains a healthy distance. “I really don’t think that I am a role model in any way. I’m just doing what I’m doing to help myself and protect and express my emotions — the things that go on in my mind and the things that go on in my life.” Like a lot of what Davis says, it comes across as remarkably level-headed despite their often giddy tone and ever-smiling manner. The case against role models is that no one needs to be the voice for anyone but themselves. To heap the pressure of expectation on a young person is essentially to wait for them to buckle beneath that weight.

 

On the topic of EDM culture, Davis is careful not to get drawn too closely into any overly simplistic notions of what that might be. “I’ve tried my level best to distance myself from that. I’ve always had a deeper understanding of the fact that I could make something that reaches beyond this one singular label. I’ve gotten the opportunity to think about what that is and to start staying away from that part of my life that, yeah, I did grow up in, and think how much better it is for me that I’m not entirely involved in it anymore and that I’m slowly working my way out of being pigeonholed in this phase.”

 

Getting typecast as one thing or another is at the forefront of the minds of artists of every kind, and it’s difficult not to feel that for Moore Kismet, the issue is even more immediate. Everyone has an opinion on who they are, school kid, prodigy, disruptor, or unintentional icon. They are just focusing on themselves, their music, and the people around them. But remember that just as they are lauded, fetishized even, for being a young person in an exceptional situation. Remember that young person is ultimately just a regular teenager. Asking themselves the same questions of agency, identity, family and future. And Omar Davis is no different.

Conceptually, her work rapidly flits between various discursive poles – between New Age spiritualism and semiotics, mysticism and empirical science as well as Jungian psychology and government conspiracies (both real and imagined). Take, for example, Hartmann’s solo show FOGBANK held in early 2020 at NYC’s Gern en Regalia. Although the gallery has since relocated, it should be noted that at the time, Gern en Regalia was situated in the back of Aeon Books, a shop that – among other things – possesses a wide array of spiritual, mystical and religious textual esoterica (which makes it particularly apt, considering Hartmann’s interests). The basis of the work in FOGBANK takes declassified CIA documents as its point of departure – specifically, the Stargate Project, a U.S. military initiative to determine whether it was possible to develop psychic abilities in individuals for the purposes of military reconnaissance and surveillance. The project, which ran between the mid 70s and late 90s, focused on the idea of “remote viewing,” a hypothetical ability of the viewer to “see” a place/object/thing that they have no direct access to. What this marked was a curious attempt by the state to explore longstanding mystic practices – if we are to read remote viewing as a form of astral projection, then its history extends back to ancient Egypt – with scientific methodology and data gathering. In a sense, this project echoes Hartmann’s interests in material-as-alchemy. That is, the lines are often blurred, through both formal resemblance and mutual conceptual influence. Although the project was ultimately a failure, one could say that this attempt at long range, remote viewing was, in fact, eventually realized, to great success. Wiretaps, keylogging, drones and other advanced forms of surveillance technology have made this desire to see that-which-cannot-be-seen a reality.

Hartmann’s resin sculptures frame and contain images pulled from the Stargate Project’s declassified documents, as if the works were some kind of cosmic channeling device. The images largely focus on xeroxed pictures of sites selected for attempts at psychic imaging along with captions identifying the object of interest – some are suspended in resin, while others are semi-crudely taped to the wall. Most of these images contain text pertaining to the object meant for a test subject’s remote viewing – one reads “TERRAIN AT BASE OF VOLCANO USED AS VIEWING TARGET” while another describes Argentina’s tallest mountain, Aconcagua.

When I spoke with Hartmann for the first time, I noted that I felt like they had a cosmic quality in that they seem to gesture towards something vast, and universal. For some, her work may be unsettling, gesturing towards PSYOPS, conspiracy and secretive histories. What is ultimately at play here is a nuanced mix of critical semiotics and Jungian archetypes, lending itself to an art-based expansion of consciousness. The images utilized in FOGBANK are typical of those used in her practice and speaks to the contentious nature of signs. For those of you unfamiliar with the notion of the Jungian archetype, at its most basic, it is the concept that humanity’s collective unconsciousness has an innate understanding of certain archetypes (such as the jester, the maiden, the wise old man, etc.) that appear again and again in our collective history. Hartmann’s practice is aimed at a destabilization of these commonly held figures through reappropriation and clever redeployment of these images. Take, for example, the image of the Argentine mountain in FOGBANK – what typically operates as a signifier of the sublime qualities of nature becomes something threatening when put into dialogue with state surveillance projects.

Returning to the UFO, the history of these objects has a number of parallels to Hartmann’s practice. Firstly, the meaning it signifies is contested – what was once considered fringe and pseudoscientific (and yet a commonly recognized figure) has now been legitimized by their recognition by the US state, thus transforming their reception. Secondly, the UFO is a symbol of that which lies just before the unknowable – be it the metaphoric mushroom cap above the rhizomatic knot of state secrets, or an unfathomable alien technology. It is perhaps this brushing up against the unknowable which stokes both fear and awe. To paraphrase philosopher François Laruelle, all thought and philosophy descends from a radically foreclosed One. The One can never be imaged or grasped in its totality, and yet it determines all thinking. Philosophy thus becomes a hallucinatory attempt at representing The One/The Real via transcendence, and yet it can only ever dialogue with a mere fragment of its infinitely determinable form. For me, what is at stake in Hartmann’s practice (and by a strange extension, UFO discourse) is not the symbolic load of psychic espionage or extraterrestrial life, but rather the impossibility of grasping reality in its whole.

Following this, when I first encountered Hartmann’s work, my mind immediately thought of Buddhist mandalas, a form of cosmic map in which the relationships between deities, subjects and the devotee become clarified. Formally, both Hartmann’s practice and the mandala bear many similarities – figures and images are bound together through shapes, lines and symmetry, drawing links between normally distant objects. In Buddhist practice, mandalas collapse the physical and the metaphysical into a singular point, with the goal of aiding the practitioner towards the realization that their reality is not transcendent but a partial hallucination of true reality, which is an ungraspable emptiness or void, known as śūnyatā. If we are to take Hartmann’s interest in Jungian archetypes to heart, her sculptures are a consciousness-raising, mandala-like device, pointing us towards the void or collective unconsciousness through forms teetering on the precipice of unintelligibility. This sense of indeterminacy is anything but lazy. In terms of semiotics, her work always plays with the crystallization of meaning and narrative, before immediately withdrawing before a fully realized attempt at rendering totality. It is not only that Hartmann’s visual language floats in between various planes of legibility, but her objects as a whole. Gilbert Simondon argues in his essay On the Mode of Existence of Technical Objects that technicity is marked by repeated acts of splitting. That is, religious technics, scientific technics, ethics etc. depart from a mode of “primitive magical unity” in which all these technical categories were one and the same. Simultaneously, according to Simondon, during this primal period, humanity, too, was one and the same as the universe, rather than ontologically laying outside of it. The role of art thus becomes a way of thinking cross categorically, of briefly restoring this unity. In his terms: “…the work of art, in fact, grants us the equivalent of magical thought, since it recovers—on the basis of a given situation, and according to an analogical structural and qualitative relation—a universalizing continuity with respect to other situations and to other possible realities.” I situate Hartmann’s work firmly within this dialogue – a fluctuating dynamic between mysticism and science, a conversation between the unknowable totality and the signs that gesture towards it. But really, are these tensions so unimaginable? Are the resins, polymers and encaustics used by the artist not the wet dream of medieval alchemists? Are drones, wiretaps, and CCTV not the goals of the Stardust Project made manifest? In a strange way, Hartmann’s sculptures act as technologies of sight, brief points of contact that pierce the veil between the mundane world and that which lies beyond.

 

Nina Hartmann (b.1990) is a multimedia artist, and an MFA candidate in Yale’s Painting/Printmaking program for Spring 2023. She received her BFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in 2013. Her works operate at the nexus between sculpture and painting, and conceptually map the spaces connecting mysticism, alternative histories, and critical thought. Her work has been featured at Downs & Ross (NYC), Silke Lindner Gallery (NYC), V1 Gallery (Copenhagen), Harkawik Gallery (LA) and more.

Unsurprisingly, the internet went wild after her glorious ugly cry. Besides various memes comparing Kim’s crying performances over the seasons, many people speculated about why her crying face looked so damn weird. The answer, in short: Botox and filler, combined with a few subtle surgeries.

 

And, indeed, Kim Kardashian’s face is the definition of what author Jia Tolentino called the “Instagram Face” in a 2019 essay for The New Yorker: a cyborgian beauty grimace with a slim, chiseled straight nose, sculpted cheekbones, oversized lips, perfectly arched eyebrows, and lashes as long and thick as the bristles of a hand broom. Tolentino dubbed this face that makes women look like sexy tiger cubs the “Instagram Face” because it performed particularly well on the small thumbnail size of social media platforms and had therefore been mimicked thousands of times.

 

The desire to be prettier, smoother, younger comes as no surprise, given that studies continue to show that people who fulfill the common beauty standards experience an advantage in pretty much all areas of life – when looking for a partner, a job, or even at court, where they apparently get milder sentences. Cosmetic surgeries have reached the mainstream and also the opposite sex – in America, male cosmetic procedures have increased by 28% since 2000. You probably know somebody who has had something done (or they probably have even if you don’t know it), if not someone who would like to if they had the money. We see Instagram Face in real life with its long lashes, protruding cheekbones and plump lips everywhere – at the gym, in a restaurant, on the subway. What do these people see when they look in the mirror? A dream come true? An indicator of their social success? A performance of their will?

 

While the Instagram Face may mirror what society considers to be the female beauty norm, it does not come across particularly simpatico. Research has proven that humans must be able to see themselves in their counterpart in order to feel the empathy that is crucial for societal solidarity. A perfectly symmetrical face with a glow to die for may look pretty, but it doesn’t really touch us. Human facial expressions are highly developed compared to most other mammals, and they can be pretty nuanced. They have developed in combination with our social intelligence over the course of evolution. Understanding the underlying emotions behind facial gestures requires empathy. It is therefore crucial for small children to learn to interpret others’ facial expressions because it teaches them, for example, that if they pull somebody’s hair, it hurts the person just like it would hurt them. In 2012, U.S. host Kelly Ripa caused a stir when she explained in an interview that she knew it was time for the next Botox injection whenever her children asked why she was so upset.

 

If there’s no frowning to indicate one’s mood, children will have a hard time assessing social situations. Studies have shown that ‘frozen’ facial expressions after cosmetic procedures can even impair relationships and friendships.

 

Adding to this is another effect: A face injected into immobility like Kim Kardashian’s does not only look weird in case of a rare emotional breakdown, it also gives others a hard time believing the person in question can really experience deep feelings. As a user in one of the Reddit forums dedicated to KUWTK asked: “When you have that much filler on your face and in your lips, can you feel like when someone kisses your cheek? Or can you feel on your lips kissing someone else?”

 

Indeed, it seems like cosmetic surgeries not only affect the perception of emotional veracity by those looking at them, but also the experience of emotions by the persons themselves. Apparently, their own emotional experiences seem to be impaired and they may have more difficulty reading others’ faces. The Facial Feedback Hypothesis explains why: Our facial expression signals to our brain what mood we are in, and the brain then regulates, for example, the release of happiness hormones. That’s why smiling makes you feel good, and you can trick yourself into feeling better by smiling even when you’re not happy.

 

By extension in the opposite direction, suppressing negative facial expressions can yield positive effects. Studies have found that persons displaying fewer negative expressions like anger after a surgery actually felt better – because their brains don’t read the anger as such, which affects their behavior, and their environment consequently also reacts more positively towards them.

Treating clinically depressive patients with Botox showed no less astonishing effects: Two months after injecting their glabellar frown lines, all patients were free of symptoms. Back in 1872, Charles Darwin described a typical facial expression of depressed people as characterized by their eyebrows being drawn together above the nose in his work The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals and suggested that this was correlated with their suffering. Just as smiling can enhance people’s feelings of happiness, this facial expression, he thought, could contribute to people’s unhappiness. However, the Botox effect on depressive patients unfortunately only lasted as long as the effect of the neurotoxin itself: After three to four months, their condition started to worsen again considerably.

 

The pandemic experience has put a spotlight on issues of mental care and mental health as isolation and anxiety have taken a toll on our social and emotional wellbeing. Many consumers started to ask themselves if fashion and beauty are really worth all the effort if there is limited physical presentation and interaction. Plus, the body positivity movement has thankfully added new and more diverse beauty ideals to our social media channels, contributing to a shift to broader awareness and appreciation, which is in turn forcing the fashion and beauty industries to change their marketing. In 2021, US pharma company Allegan launched a marketing campaign to advertise Botox treatments with a series of commercials designed as short documentaries. These commercials told stories of suffering and emphasized the therapeutical over cosmetic effects of Botox injections with the tagline “Still you” stamped on the protagonists’ smoothened out foreheads.

 

At the latest, the pandemic has woken us to the reality that we face huge global and local challenges that cannot be solved without empathy and solidarity. We need to realize that we have more in common than what separates us – we need to come together, not move apart. Robust communication comprises at least 70 percent nonverbal communication if not more, making facial expressions evolutionarily connected to our emotions essential to understanding ourselves and one another. Being able to read and experience one’s own and others’ emotions is crucial for human coexistence. In 2021, Kim Kardashian not only said goodbye to Kanye, but also to some of her butt implants. Might this be a harbinger of a slight shift in the beauty industry? We can only hope that 2022 will turn the other cheek on Instagram Face and bring feeling back.