Essays – Numéro Berlin

#ZUKUNFT: “THE FUTURE BECOMES YOU” – WORDS BY LIAM CAGNEY

Anna Klusmeier — Wed, 22 Jan 2025 09:00:49 +0000

If, like me, you’re a techno head—wedded to dark dancefloors, addicted to sonorous strangeness—chances are, you’ve heard of the book Future Shock. Published in 1970, penned by husband-and-wife duo Alvin and Heidi Toffler (herein, when I say “Toffler,” I mean both authors) and selling millions of copies, Future Shock is a book that Detroit techno’s founding group Cybotron read and which supposedly fired their artistic imaginations. “Alvin Toffler’s book is a kind of bible to Detroit’s new musical revolutionaries,” noted John McCready in 1988 in the NME (indulging in hyperbole).

The term techno was already bouncing around the global musical grid by the early 1980s. But the term’s appearance in Toffler’s follow-up book, The Third Wave, chimed with and validated the emerging electronic music genre: “The techno rebels are, whether they recognize it or not, agents of the third wave,” wrote Toffler. “They will not vanish but multiply in the years ahead. For they are as much a part of the advance to a new stage of civilization as our missions to Venus, our amazing computers, our biological discoveries, or our explorations of the oceanic depths.” A seductive idea, but decades later, how does it fare? In this jaded age of ours, while our planet burns and the dancefloor distracts, what can Future Shock still tell us?
Future visions always reflect the person doing the prediction. For the tweedy English gentleman Arthur C. Clarke, the future is about humanity’s imperial encounters in outer space. For the drug-addled vagabond Philip K. Dick, the future means inane advertisements being beamed directly into your brain and not knowing whether or not you’re actually real. For the Queer Black outsider Octavia Butler, the future involves the mutant biological blending of humans and aliens. These are science fiction authors, but between science fiction and futurist analysis, there’s a fine line, with speculation in common.
Toffler was of the privileged class of WASPs, well educated and with a background in business and journalism. Future Shock reads like the jottings of a lofty MD, the type of sensible doctor who golfs on the weekends at the country club, the trusty gent to whom concerned postwar American parents turned when their little son Billy began exhibiting worrying signs of unsavouy homosexual urges, and who would sagely prescribe Billy a thorough course of electroshock therapy. “The basic thrust of this book is diagnosis,” Toffler writes, guiding Americans through the worrying world of tomorrow.

Toffler as guide describes built-in obsolescence, modular architecture, consumerist fads, style tribes, unorthodox families. Toffler describes how we will live under the sea, weather manipulation on a global scale, “research into communication between man and dolphin,” generating new species of bacteria, synthetic body parts, cloning, choosing your embryo’s sex and personality, cyborgs. The future is a disconcerting concatenation of phenomena arising, more or less, from the revolutions in communications technology, which Toffler diagnoses and prognosticates upon.
A notable feature of Future Shock is its air of seductive exoticism. “We who explore the future are like those ancient mapmakers,” Toffler writes proudly, savoring “new realities, filled with danger and promise, created by the accelerative thrust.” The future is a strange country full of unsettling customs. As such, Future Shock is at times an escape from a mundane present into a world of romantic fantasy, of teleportation, telepathy, cloning, eternal life, bodily augmentation: futurist analysis as a branch of supernatural literature.

Future Shock is also prescient. It accurately foresees the so-called experience economy (“One important class of experiential products will be based on simulated environments that offer the customer a taste of adventure, danger, sexual titillation or other pleasure without risk to his real life or reputation”—escape rooms, Meta and so on), remarking correctly that it “is clearly foreshadowed in the participatory techniques now being pioneered in the arts” (such as hippie happenings). In art, Future Shock observes a shift away from the classical arts towards immersive multisensory experiences: “Artists also have begun to create whole ‘environments’—works of art into which the audience may actually walk, and inside which things happen… The artists who produce these are really ‘experiential engineers.’” Which is basically the 2020s techno club.

Much of Future Shock is a lengthy footnote to the 1960s cultural revolution. “There are rich men who playact poverty, computer programmers who turn on with LSD. There are anarchists who, beneath their dirty denim shirts, are outrageous conformists, and conformists who, beneath their button-down collars, are outrageous anarchists. There are married priests and atheist ministers and Jewish Zen Buddhists… There are Playboy Clubs and homosexual movie theaters… amphetamines and tranquilizers… anger, affluence, and oblivion. Much oblivion.” The future is like a weird alien virus infecting the public body, mutating all the cells of human society, rendering alien and dysmorphic the human self as hitherto known.

Placating us, taking seriously their self-appointed job to tell us what all this means, Toffler presents this explosion of the future as a surface symptom of a deep structural change, the transition from one technological age to another. For Toffler, humanity has been defined by three waves: The first wave was agrarian humanity; the second wave was industrial humanity; and the third wave—the future exploding so strangely around us—is superindustrial humanity. Others have called the latter post-Fordist or postindustrial society, an economy no longer based on manufacturing but on services, no longer based on things but on information, a globalized world networked by information technology.

“The inhabitants of the earth are divided not only by race, nation, religion or ideology, but also, in a sense, by their position in time,” Future Shock states. “Examining the present populations of the globe, we find a tiny group who still live, hunting and food-foraging, as men did millennia ago. Others, the vast majority of mankind, depend not on bear-hunting or berry-picking, but on agriculture.” In this view, all wars are effectively wars between different waves. Toffler describes the West as a system in a state of disequilibrium, waiting to settle again into a steady state. Adaptation will be key, informed by understanding.

Toffler is particularly focused on how modern society’s exhausting sense of endless transience affects our sense of self and of social connections. For Toffler, the twentieth century Western world’s explosion of consumer goods is one of the main indices for the third wave’s accelerated rate of change. We ourselves might measure the changing rate of change through the ubiquity of smartphones, the personal computers through which we mediate and zombify ourselves. Only ten years ago, not everyone had one, but now, it seems unimaginable that things were ever any different. The rapid change could not but leave some feeling existentially fraught, daunted by how suddenly our inner lives have been surrendered to surveillance capitalism.

Which brings in Toffler’s most famous concept, the titular future shock. “Future shock,” Toffler writes, is the “shattering stress and disorientation that we induce in individuals by subjecting them to too much change in too short a time.” The neologism is coined by analogy with culture shock, what happens to a Westerner when they fly to a far-flung place and throw themselves into a completely foreign culture, Delhi, say, to head-spinning effect. Psychologist Sven Lundstedt defined culture shock as a “form of personality maladjustment which is a reaction to a temporarily unsuccessful attempt to adjust to new surroundings and people.” Expanding on this, Toffler defines future shock as “what happens when the familiar psychological cues that help an individual to function in society are suddenly withdrawn and replaced by new ones that are strange or incomprehensible.’

For the future-shocked person, “the strange society may itself be changing only very slowly, yet for him it is all new. Signs, sounds and other psychological cues rush past him before he can grasp their meaning. The entire experience takes on a surrealistic air. Every word, every action is shot through with uncertainty. In this setting, fatigue arrives more quickly than usual.” Acceleration, change and adaptation are key concepts assumed by this framework. Through providing an explanation of what’s going on at a deep structural level, Future Shock helps Joe and Jane Middle America adapt and regain stability amidst the typhoon of transformation. “The problem is not, therefore, to suppress change, which cannot be done, but to manage it. If we opt for rapid change in certain sectors of life, we can consciously attempt to build stability zones elsewhere.” And, indeed, to capitalize on it: one of Toffler’s later books is called Revolutionary Wealth: How It Will Be Created and How It Will Change Our Lives.

As I close Future Shock’s covers, my main takeaway is a contrary view. I am not a past person forced to live in an environment of the future; I am a future person forced to live within the environment of the past. I have past shock. The tyranny of the everyday—of conventional national identity, sexuality identity, gender identity, personhood at all in the first place—is completely bewildering. It has shocked me my whole life. I do not want to absorb the future into the everyday and thus to tame it: I want to be drained of all pastness and absorbed into a futurity that can never be contained within any earthly roots.

Techno helps me to do that. Within the club’s darkness—through immersion in flickering lights and out-there sounds and rhythms like insect heartbeats—techno envelops you in silence. Then, techno whispers that yes, what you feel despite it all is real, that history is madness and selfhood a fantasy. If a techno set by, say, Jeff Mills provokes shock in us—shock at its relentless strangeness, through its insane electronic loops—it is a shock we should embrace, recognizing as it does our real self, our future self.

#ZUKUNFT: “THE FUTURE OF THE PAST: THE FATE OF SCREEN HERITAGE IN A DIGITAL WORLD” – WORDS BY HARRY PASEK

Anna Klusmeier — Tue, 21 Jan 2025 12:55:32 +0000

It is a warm evening in June, and I am sitting in the cinema. The auditorium is full, the audience is a lively and diverse mixture of cinema-goers both young and old, and there is a distinct murmur of excitement in the room. The reason is that we are at the opening night of a new film festival, the BFI Film on Film Festival, at BFI Southbank (British Film Institute) in London.

The festival does what it says on the tin: Every single film screening across a long weekend is being shown on physical film rather than being digitally projected (as is now the norm in almost every cinema in the world). We are waiting to see a print of the classic 1945 melodrama noir, Mildred Pierce, cause for excitement in itself, but this screening is special because we are to view the great film on an original release nitrate print.

Nitrate film is extremely flammable and explosive, to the extent that it can cause catastrophic, lethal damage if mishandled. In May 1897, the Paris Bazaar disaster was caused by a nitrate fire, claiming 126 lives. This terrible event came early in cinema’s history (the first moving images were captured by the Lumière brothers in 1895), and led to a rush of regulation and legislation, as well as technical innovation. By 1948, a non-flammable alternative, acetate safety film, began to supplant its predecessor. This screening of Mildred Pierce is the first screening of a nitrate film print in the UK for a decade, and BFI Southbank is the only venue in the country that can legally screen these increasingly rare and potentially dangerous artefacts.

Robin Baker, the Head Curator of the BFI National Archive and the festival’s lead programmer, steps onto the stage to introduce the new festival and the not-so-new film. As he does so, he looks a little perturbed. Diplomatically, he explains that during testing, the skilled team of projectionists noticed an issue with the projector which meant that safety couldn’t be absolutely guaranteed. There will be no nitrate screening this evening. Handily, however, the BFI has created a brand new 35mm acetate print of the film which can be shown instead. Understandably disappointed, the audience lets the news wash over them. Once the lights go down and the projector whirrs into action, nobody seems to mind.

The moving image is by some distance the most pervasive cultural form in the world. In the smartphone and streaming age, it is everywhere, instantly, all the time. We are exposed to it whether we like it or not. Given the perception of instant access to the entire wealth of human culture, what is a festival like Film on Film trying to achieve? More importantly, why did thousands of people come to view battered old prints of forgotten films on a warm weekend in early summer in London?

In a sense, the answer is simple. Because it is possible to view an awful lot of content wherever and whenever we want, it’s easy to believe that we have access to everything. In truth, we absolutely do not. Though streaming platforms sell us infinite choice, in reality, only a proportionally small handful of the history of cinema is available to view digitally. Most films only exist on celluloid. If you cannot project them on film, you can’t see them at all. The issue goes deeper still: Approximately 80% of all films made before the year 1930 are currently completely lost, unavailable to view in any format. Your average Netflix subscriber may not mourn the loss of the last viewable print of a 1923 German Expressionist oddity, but that’s not to say that it isn’t a valuable historical document, or indeed an important aesthetic statement that deserves preservation.

Almost all of the films shown at the festival came from the extensive collection of the BFI National Archive, one of a number of globally significant film archives, alongside others such as the Cinémathèque Française and the UCLA Film & Television Archive, who preserve, curate and restore screen heritage. Without these organizations, our access to the work of even famous filmmakers would be cast into doubt. In 2012, a project by the BFI National Archive restored Alfred Hitchcock’s first nine silent feature films, none of which were viewable prior to this work.

People want to see films that they can’t see anywhere else, but they also want to experience a film print projected, with an audience, because that is how the filmmaker intended the work to be seen. BFI Film on Film Festival showed a lot of underappreciated classics, but on its closing night, it also screened an original release print of Jaws, complete with the original mono soundtrack. Despite being a film that can absolutely be seen at the click of a button, the screening sold out fast, perhaps because people wanted to experience the film as it had been seen upon release. Through the print they were shown, that audience was linked to the audiences who saw the very same print in the summer of 1978: a continuity of experience through time, transmuted through acetate and light and thrown into the ether.

If a film was made before the turn of the millennium, chances are that the filmmaker shot it on film, and expected the work to be exhibited in cinemas on film prints. A digital rendering is not better or worse than celluloid, but it is crucially different. On film, the focus may be slightly softer, the grain of the image may be more apparent. Over time and with repeated use, slight movements in the frame or imperfections may become visible. Anecdotally, when DCPs (Digital Cinema Packages) began to replace film prints in cinemas, some projectionists thought that there was something wrong with the digital images they were seeing: The sharpness of the image and smoothed movement had rendered the old magic of cinema eerie and uncanny.

There is now a whole generation of film viewers who may never have the opportunity to see a film physically projected. It’s no wonder that demand for this experience is high. While the global casualization of film watching habits continues, it is important for organizations with a platform to advocate for the value of the cinematic experience. Currently, only one other film festival in the world screens exclusively on film: The Nitrate Picture Show, held at the Eastman Museum in Rochester, New York.

As a new generation of cinephiles looks to engage with the history of the medium, perhaps the Film on Film Festival will be the beginning of a broader movement towards an analogue experience of cinema. The festival’s organizers have pointed to the vinyl revival of the last decade as another example of largely young people searching for something authentic, tangible and physical amid the onslaught of digital consumption. The nuanced aesthetic differences between listening to a record and, say, streaming it on Spotify are mirrored in the even richer, audiovisual experience of celluloid film.

Engaging with the materiality of film also raises the question of preservation. As the amount of ‘born digital’ content swells daily, most of it held within a variety of proprietorial fiefdoms, the challenge of how to effectively catalogue and preserve digital moving image materials becomes ever greater. Organizations such as the Internet Archive continue to fight the good fight in preserving digital heritage and advocating for a free and open internet, but while it may have success in doing the former, the dream of open access has largely died.

Many people implicitly believe that preserving digital materials is both easier and safer than preserving physical film or paper collections, for instance, but this is not the case. If Netflix or YouTube were to disappear tomorrow, none of the content they hold would have its safety guaranteed, and could disappear much more easily than an ageing film canister. To begin the hard and ongoing work of countering these risks, the BFI National Archive has struck a deal with major streaming platforms including Netflix and Amazon to preserve key British material from their collections. The agreement ensures that whatever the long-term fate of the companies, these materials will be safe for future generations to interpret. This is the first such deal of its kind globally, but other organizations will be looking to follow suit. As the amount of potentially at-risk content increases, the issue becomes ever more pressing.

Back at the festival, the sometimes precarious balance between preservation and access was thrown into sharp relief by a couple of screenings. One of these was Charlie Shackleton’s The Afterlight. Only one print of this film exists, and it tours cinemas along with its director. Every film print has a finite lifespan, a limited number of times that it can be screened, and by only creating one print of his film, Shackleton plays with our formal expectations of cinema, which, along with still photography, was the first art form to develop with the expectation of indefinite reproduction. By enforcing scarcity, seeing a screening of The Afterlight is to be reminded of the ephemerality of experience, and to leave with a newfound appreciation for the act of watching. It forces the question of how our viewing might differ if we knew we could never see the images again.

To emphasize this point, the screening of 1968’s The Swimmer was determined to be the last time this particular cinematic release print of the film could be publicly exhibited. The print has now returned to the BFI National Archive for safekeeping, but its quality has deteriorated to the point that running the reels through a projector for an audience would carry too high a risk of permanent damage. A cult adaptation of the 1964 short story by John Cheever, starring Burt Lancaster, the festival audience watched the film in the knowledge that no one else would be able to see this particular print ever again.

Both of these screenings point to the increased contextual pleasure, and complexity of emotion, that can be gained from appreciating both the form and content of a physically projected film. The festival celebrated the films themselves and the stories being told. It also served as a timely reminder of the importance of the artefact of the print, and what a specific print (and its story) can bring to the experience of film viewing.

For the disappointed opening night crowd who were denied their nitrate fix, the last day of the festival brought happier news, when the planned nitrate screening of the 1941 Technicolor curio Blood and Sand, starring one Rita Hayworth, went ahead as planned, with no injuries reported. The festival had brought like-minded film lovers together to experience something unique, in many cases, for the first time. One of the most striking observations from across the weekend was the strong and continued presence of younger people, turning out in great numbers to see physical film. Streaming platforms aren’t going anywhere, but neither is the desire to get together and engage with art. The enthusiasm for a communal, analogue experience gives hope for the future of the cinematic experience more broadly: an experience whose obituary has been prematurely written by every generation since its birth.

#PASSION: BETWEEN PASSION AND APATHY

Anna Klusmeier — Mon, 04 Nov 2024 09:29:15 +0000

According to a survey conducted by the Pew Research Center, in 2020, only 21% of Americans trust the government to do what is right most of the time. That’s a pretty damning statistic. In light of that, for most people, there is a choice – to engage or dissociate entirely. Of course, there’s always fulfillment in the world of work. Gallup research showed that employees who are passionate about their work are a whopping 2.5 times more likely to be engaged. It’s times like this that we all remember the classic high-school yearbook prompt: most likely to be economically engaged.

The issue here is that most people’s jobs are trash. In Bullshit Jobs: A Theory, David Graeber says that many individuals find themselves in roles that lack purpose or meaning. In an era of economic precarity, job insecurity, and the inability to own a home, late millennials and Gen Z grapple with jobs that provide little fulfillment or stability. Social and cultural apathy, influenced by social media, the pandemic, and political intensity, has fostered disconnection, anti-social behavior, and a declining birth rate.

In a world shaped by unprecedented challenges and dynamic changes, the emotional responses of individuals have evolved into a complex interplay between passion and apathy. These two contrasting forces have become defining features of our time, shaping how people engage with the world around them.

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.

#MINIMALISMUS: A FUTURE WITHOUT NOSTALGIA?

Anna Klusmeier — Mon, 29 May 2023 10:36:59 +0000

Our culture’s nostalgia paradigm is a hot mess right now. Trend-wise, there’s the conceptualized ‘indie sleaze’ revival, celebrating the rogue glory of the late 2000s and early 2010s. Even digital cameras are getting rebooted in an effort to shake up the grid. Meanwhile, the Depop-ification of Y2K has cemented its staying power and virtually emptied thrift stores. Goth and fetish-y Tumblr trends from five years ago that barely left the cycle are already being reintroduced on the runways. The main pop girls continue to revisit late twentieth century tropes in pursuit of maximalism (often rewardingly), while commercial radio still pushes millennial-Europop remakes.

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.

#MINIMALISMUS: HOW LOW CAN YOU GO?

Anna Klusmeier — Fri, 26 May 2023 09:28:47 +0000

Brad Pitt’s new cosmetics line “Le Domaine” comprises only three products: a cleansing fluid, a serum and a cream. Besides the screw caps of two of the subtly designed flacons being turned out of wood and looking almost hand-carved, this skincare program seems downright minimalist – in keeping with a legendary slogan in German advertising history (for a glycerin soap called CD): “I only let water and CD touch my skin.”
But are we really dealing with minimalism here? A term that, in a way, is perceived as positive, is derived from the asceticism of religious extremists in Christian culture, the nuns and monks who, as brides and brothers of Jesus Christ, chastised themselves in nunneries and monasteries, not necessarily living on bread and water, but almost.
The death of Jesus on the cross – the Son of God, after all – is one thing; the divorce from Angelina Jolie may have been perceived as similarly drastic. In any case, it probably takes an external event that is at least subjectively perceived as epoch-making to usher in a frugal episode. For example, a few weeks after 9/11, German fashion designer Wolfgang Joop published an essay in the highest-circulation news magazine in his home country, Der Spiegel, under the title “Glamor Was Yesterday.” Therein, Joop, then 56, issued an almost Calvinistic appeal: “Away with the pomp, with the ostentation and everything that is gratuitous: Clear it out, throw it away, so that only what is really important remains.” He continued: “In 2001, freedom begins with liberation from all that was accumulated over the years of shopping sprees.”
Well, one might ask in light of historical events, a war against Iraq that went fatally wrong, a resulting, equally fatal civil war in Syria including the meanwhile known effects from Libya, from North Africa and Afghanistan to Ukraine: Was Wolfgang Joop on the payroll of the Taliban, Al-Qaeda or ISIS?
But there is no room for humor here; in minimalism, even humor is not permitted, it is gratuitous, an extravagance of life that has no place at all in its most stringent form.
One should not forget that Wolfgang Joop may be many things, but first and foremost he is a designer. This clearly affects his thinking. Even a sublime concept like remorse or apology can be shaped into a fashion by a designer – as one saw with Demna’s mud-show battle for Balenciaga (no foot in mouth intended!), when the “brutal war of aggression against Ukraine” was still of worldwide, deeply felt interest; in the meantime, it’s his own neck on the line.
Perhaps all these stylized attempts to proclaim a minimalism are intended to have less of a moderating effect than was thought and are, in fact, intended to distract from something else entirely. Something that could almost brutally discourage consumption. A minimalism that doesn’t even have to be propagated, but that everyone feels. In themselves. The minimalism of life itself.
“The Bare Necessities” is a wonderful song written by Terry Gilkyson in 1967, in the thick of the United States’ war against Vietnam, and best known from the Jungle Book. Most of us, however, thankfully do not have to learn about the bare necessities on the battlefield of a war, but much later in the course of our biography. That is, when we are old – older than the police allow, at least (or your long-term care insurance) – and when all the things we once considered worth living for are long gone, like money, sex, friends. Nothing is left. Even food no longer tastes good. And one should keep quiet about the rest. A nun-like or monk-like existence, in any case.
Then you have really reached the optimum of a minimalist lifestyle – or should we rather call it essentialist?
The other day, I read an interview with a woman who was 101 years and four months old. She stated: “I have outgrown time. I feel like a worm, digging in the dirt and not knowing what to do.”
When asked what she wished for, she had a very minimalist (or essential) wish: “I would like to walk through the forest again.”
By the way, in the German dub of the Jungle Book, “The Bare Necessities” is called something completely different: “Probier’s Mal mit Gemütlichkeit.”

#EMPATHIE: MOORE KISMET

Anna Klusmeier — Thu, 04 May 2023 12:47:42 +0000

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.