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[vishgt]

The advent of sameness

Have you seen this? You’ve got to check this out! It’s nice, isn’t it?

Are few of many phrases tossed abruptly into a void brewing across a table. This is commonly paired with the ‘much awaited’ unveiling of a smartphone, where members take turns to present their ‘Simba’ to the rest of the tribe. While we are familiar with the addictive and compulsive behaviours the medium has triggered in us, I believe they have serious implications on creativity and the individual.

A new order As artists and designers, we are well aware of how the Internet and smartphone have empowered us, providing a stage we’ve always longed for; to express, but also be heard. It has done well to offer creativity new and versatile canvases, a life beyond its existence in a gallery or theatre. This is particularly evident with the art world where the medium has successfully taken the art outside it, away from curators and gatekeepers. This, without doubt, has levelled the playing field, offering exposure and opportunities to those muted by an inherent pecking order.

Consequently, the Internet now houses the work of almost every artist, designer, photographer and filmmaker, with access to it all summoned in an instant, with simple gestures of our fingertips. What’s alarming however, is how we incessantly draw, in many cases rather subconsciously, from this giant cloud of inspiration.

Design blogs To cite a recurring scenario at design studios; the first thing we often do at the outset of a new project, is rush online. Enter design blogs Visual supernova Looping hyperlinks Conceptual blitzkrieg Hotchpotch solutions Meanwhile outside the 5K screen Rotting synapses Virgin sketch pads Exit imagination To a large extent our imagination does draw upon past experiences and many would argue it impossible to create without inspiration, but what we fail to acknowledge is how we are hindered by the very thing we hoped would ‘inspire’ us. Overwhelmed by the plethora of design solutions before us, our minds piece together a repurposed solution that might not be appropriate or relevant to our challenge. Before we know it, we’re contributing to a growing pile of sameness, creating more of what people like and less that challenges their perceptions.

Off the shelf Aware of this shift, business are thriving off our ‘off-the-shelf’ approach to design. Stocking creativity in their invisible warehouses, they employ algorithms to analyse our craft, aiming to eventually automate it. Besides commonly used stock photography websites, above are a few examples of platforms that stock creativity. Sophisticated programs like Google’s Autodraw (part of their AI experiments program) take it a step further and instantly recognise doodles, coughing up perfectly crafted graphics in return.

Experiments in AI Growing demands of the industry, coupled with unrealistic timelines, do leave the modern day, T-shaped, multi-faceted designer, depleted of creative juices. While it might only seem sustainable to mechanise the process to some extent, to whatextent is a question we want to be asking ourselves in the times to come. A question that leads to defining our role in the creative process, before we allow other businesses to do that.

Moving forward This of course leads us to the question we all fear asking. Could art, design and other creative outcomes be treated as any other product after all? Could every component of it be studied and understood scientifically over parameters such as time and place. Modern day data analytics would suggest we are not far from this. Moving forward, there is no reason AI couldn’t influence businesses at a more intrinsic level. An off-the-shelf strategy to a successful and profitable investment. A simple decision tree approach could coerce investors to adapt strategies that have been tried, tested and supported by limitless data. A formulated approach that promotes efficiency and restrains creativity. As the pile of sameness grows, it becomes increasingly impossible for the average and, at times, discerning consumer to make a distinction. Is the pile fuelling the growth of the collective and the demise of individuality? Is it perhaps the role of the creative mind, to carve new channels, to not give in, or is resistance futile?

Originally published as an Ochre thought piece.

[vishgt]

121016 | A relentless melt

A moment is captured. Perhaps even stolen, like many of the aboriginal tribes in the past believed. While the concept seemed a little obscure at first, I begin to see a glimmer of truth as I sift through some footage on my computer.

 My fingers gently send the carousel sprinting through hundreds of images; glimpses that shape shift vigourously to form a morphing animation. Rummaging through my loot, an hour later, I lay before me an assortment of gems; ruthlessly stripped off its mantle by an insentient marauder. Like the alluring essay that this text accompanies, my cherry picked necklace evokes within me, a strange melancholy. With my eyes fixed vacantly on something quite immaculate, one of Susan Sontag's reservations appears in a new light. 

 "All photographs are memento mori. To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s (or thing’s) mortality, vulnerability, and mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time’s relentless melt." 

[vishgt]

040316 | Stone Fruit

December 2015 Three hundred and ninety-two thousand tonnes of iron ore drift across the Atlantic ocean en route to Rotterdam, on a Sunday morning. The Valemax VLOC(very large ore carrier) is amongst the largest bulk carriers to have ever been built, exceeding the length of the Titanic by over a hundred metres. Aboard it, traversing the 362 meter long deck, jogging at a steady pace, is a marine engineer well past his retirement age. There is work experience and there is experience at sea.

The concept of a holiday does not exist on board a ship like this. However, being a Sunday, some of the crew indulge a little on the half day off. This usually gives Mr.Sharma the time to run a little extra. The daily five kilometres stretch to a ten, sometimes ten to twenty. It was a large ship after all.

Meanwhile back home, on the foothills of the Himalayas, Mrs.Sharma is running down a slope like a little girl who’s heard the bell of an ice cream cart. The fallen pine needles had to be gathered and cleared. They are known to cause the most damage in the event of a forest fire. Let her soft voice and childlike idiosyncrasies not fool you. She could move mountains. The seaman spent half his time at sea and the other half nurturing his lifelong passion; to live and work on a farm. They often say its the wife who ends a sailor’s extramarital affair with the sea. Here however a different synergy was at play.

Not once would she call, bearing unpleasant news.  She adopted his passion as her own, taking great pleasure labouring in some forsaken corner of the world, never once perceiving it a burden.

As much as he cherished his time there, setting out to sea every year was not some secret getaway from the mountains. The time he spent off the farm was as vital to its sustenance, if not more, than that spent on it. His idealistic views might have led him to believe that if he invested enough time and effort on the land, it would eventually bear the fruit of his labour. The land’s fertility however failed to supporting such views. Back in 1980, with no formal training or experience in agriculture, Mr.Sharma hadn’t the faintest clue when he bought into twenty five acres of rock laden wilderness that had no more than a two inches of top soil in some of its best fractions. Thirty five years later, despite being drenched in the blood and sweat of a family who had made it their home, the stone fruit orchards bear just enough to sustain themselves.

February 2016 I woke up engulfed in unnerving stillness. My fellow mate was fast asleep. We were attending a wedding in the mountains. The deodar panelled interiors of our cottage kept us warm. Paintings from different regions of China adorn the walls. Our host had painstakingly gathered the world in this remote crevice of wilderness.The silence is broken by a bird calling in the distance.I stepped out searching for a snow-capped mountain  everyone spoke of last night. I was disappointed to not find it in sight. Towering instead, appearing to be about 50 feet tall, stood an immaculate Chir pine tree(Pinus roxburghii) in absolute stillness. Remembering a course we thought was silly and pseudo-hippie back in university, I wanted to hug the tree. The act, however inconsequential, felt as though I was violating someone’s private space. Would I randomly hug a stranger in public? Most unlikely. For someone who often despises people needlessly meddling with plants or indulging in unwarranted petting of stray animals, the moment felt somewhat inappropriate.After letting the tree acknowledge the stranger, securing an unwritten warrant, Jack approached the beanstalk. CRUNCH. I paused in disbelief as the bark crumbled like wafer beneath my embrace. I had very fleetingly observed how dry the mountains were but little did I realise that it hadn’t seen rain in six months. 

The morning was spent ambling through the steep forest, collecting large claw-like female cones of the Chir pine. ‘You should varnish them’ yells a distant relative of the groom passing us in a hurry.

From a spot that afforded us a good view of the farms, we noticed flashes of colour racing uphill from the valley. All the colourful dots pointed to one direction; an even brighter pink marquee. They were the farmers children of course.  An informal reception for the local farmers was being held that afternoon. Almost all the men arrived in sleeveless sweaters underneath loosely fitted tweed jackets. The women on the contrary accented the sombre lull with vibrant shades of green, pink, blue and yellow. Needless to say, the children could have been sprayed in neon.

One of the young women, who spoke english, offered to show us around the place; a little sight seeing for the tourists that we appeared to be. Debating whether to visit a local jam factory, a waterfall or the woman’s farm we arrived at our mode of transportation for the evening; a black monster 4x4 with a Delhi registration plate.

As we drive out of the farm, every man we pass, slackens a little to have a closer look at our driver. It has been a year since Arushi moved to Rajgarh but even till day the very thought of a woman driving in the mountains is a hard pill to swallow for the local folk. A little further down the path, a very different audience awaits us with great anticipation. Some of the little girls who had attended the reception spotted our car on their way back. The little cherubs, who were barely only a tad taller than the car tyre, wouldn’t utter a word.  Six heads titled up in unison. Their eyes did all the talking.   The door swung open and in came six little muffins coyly piling up on the seat beside mine. I happily picked up two and made room for the rest. We were ready to roll. I wasn’t sure if it was the ride that they longed for, considering how short-lived it was. Surely they must have ridden in cars before. A few seconds into the ride, their fascination became apparent; it was that of all the men we’d passed by minutes before. The difference, however, was that their gaze wasn’t tainted with any shade of resentment. In my head, they were subconsciously admiring a woman they could aspire up to be, little aware of the precarious path laying ahead of them.

Intrigued by our host, we didn’t care too much for sightseeing. Twenty minutes later, after a steady descent on second gear, down a tattered serpentine path along the edge of a mountain, we arrive at Arushi’s farm. A few cows belonging to the neighbouring farms had strayed afar and wandered into her driveway. The last thing she wanted was to have them pottering around her orchard. She leaves us briefly and runs down in search of help and but none is to be found. The steep inclines and terraces only allow for a certain extent of mechanisation on the hills. Most of the work she says, needs to be done by hand.

The men she relies on unfortunately belong to a generation that looks to the outside for opportunity. Enroling in the armed forces is one such avenue that drastically reduces their dependancy on the land. A couple with two children working in the city have no reason to pt up with the misery of farming anymore. Only a handful do it for the sheer passion of growing and making things. The rest jump ship as soon as the chance arises.

Our host offers to make us some tea. Having put the kettle on, she starts to gather some crackers, marmalade (from the jam factory we never visited) and some dried peaches grown on the very land we stood on. As she arranged these on a plate, one could see traces of the city girl who tried hard to find something she loved doing every day. She was here now, her hands all scraped and bruised, with an unruly dog and two cats for company.

[vishgt]

151115 | Musings of a Time Collector

Chapter 1: Prologue  There is this vivid memory of a younger self, standing on his toes, peering over a hot metal railing, scanning the slow-moving traffic underneath. The bass drone of our window AC perched inside the balcony drowned a rich and colourful soundscape that an eight year old would have otherwise been doused in. Engulfed in warm, comforting air expelled by the machine, I now recall that moment as my first memory of being “lost”. “Lost” to me, unlike its popular connotation, was a moment I felt thoroughly dissolved in, paying little attention to any subject or emotion. Everything I recall and bring to focus today, like Virginia Woolf once wrote, is an expansion of raw data collected at that moment – a product of being truly ‘out of focus’. “I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.” — Virginia Woolf

It is the present that we shrink with our conceptions that fails to expand in the future. This is perhaps why I recall, more vividly and intensely, a meaningless minute on a sultry balcony than, say, a much celebrated and documented birthday party.

Several summers later, I found myself in a similar sensorial nonchalance, bouncing on the back seat of a bus bolting down a tattered highway. Briefly reflecting upon my past as a whole, it was alarming how little of it I was able to recall as pure time. How little of it I had lived out of focus, untouched by my impressions and prejudices. The mind had selectively narrowed, expanded and distorted time into convenient editions of a raw and awkward past. Something about this threw me off my seat; way further than any pothole could have that afternoon.

I wondered if the universe maintained a record of its happenings, unadulterated by the very elements that constituted it? A CCTV that recorded all of time, the way religion speaks of a book in which all is written. Where might one find access to such a book?  A memory bank that preserved every moment of time as it was. Realising such spurious speculation was to lead me nowhere; I took matters into my own hands. At that very moment I pulled out my camera, a 3.2-megapixel digital artefact and started laying the foundation for a peculiar library.

The concept of collecting, quantifying and storing time was peculiar at first. My first thoughts were towards building something as versatile as the music library on an iPod, scrolling on its click wheel; effortlessly flipping between different time periods in an instant. The efforts to document were crude and desperate at first. It didn’t matter. The aim was to collect time as information; data that would stay consistent whenever recalled.

PRAXIS

Unaccustomed to the camera’s presence, the lens upfront wasn’t a pleasant sight to most I encountered. Like a puppet in the hands of a ventriloquist, the artefact cultivated a persona of its own. A silent spectator passively liaising with a community uncertain of a newcomer’s behaviour. Taking advantage of this, I concealed the device whenever possible, holding it at waist height or stationing it close by; the purpose being to add an extra pair of eyes from a third perspective. My hand in the process evolved into some form of bionic hybrid that grew unaware of this plastic projection.

While many didn’t mind, a few found it absurd. This unease was coupled with frequent efforts to smash the camera to smithereens.  Moments where the device was welcome, such as ‘memorable events’ were easier to document while thrusting the lens in avenues not perceived before such as a locker room or personal confrontation received severe backlash.

Meanwhile behind the lens, conscious of my words and actions, I was beginning to grow stiff and uncomfortable. In an effort to reduce this resistance and document moments candidly, I briefly used hidden microphones that were turned on throughout the day, with the hope that I might grow unconscious of their presence with time. To the contrary, for reasons not too hard to understand, this hidden accessory drove me paranoid.

Apart from recorded data, one of the few triggers that did prove useful in recollecting a moment was music. Over the period of a week I would only listen to one music album or distinct playlist and switch to something absolutely different once the week was over, essentially using those songs as a subconscious bookmark for that time period. So in the future, much like Marcel Proust’s tea soaked madeleine, a song would in a very abstract and involuntary way, remind me of the week it was played in. Unanticipated details, people and activities rushed to the mind with surprising accuracy.

REMORSE

By virtue of being inanimate, food on my plate was one of the few subjects that presented little resistance to the camera. Every meal was offered to the hovering lens; which ritualistically devoured the meal in one chiming fraction of a second. An activity I never anticipated years later to trend on social media.

After the first month or so, merely looking at pictures of food had little impact on my capacity to recall flavour. Like research and experience suggested, it was a mélange of taste and smell that constructed the complete flavour of food. Both of which were hard to retain or code as data. Taking the phrase rather literally, I even attempted to freeze a few food samples. Most of which to my dismay grew stale and had very few traces of their aroma when re-heated.

Although seemingly effortless, these daily encounters with food were perhaps the hardest to get past. During the first year, overcome by an unusual remorse and feeling of helplessness, I was unable to eat the meal laid out before me. I caught deep whiffs of the aroma, admired it like a painting, took several photographs and left it alone.

REPRIEVE

Over the span of three years (Feb 2008 – 11), with an arsenal of five digital cameras (three compact and two SLR), six lenses, two phones, one microphone, nineteen memory cards, I had collected a few terabytes of raw footage, archived meticulously by time and subject, in several hard drives.

Despite being an emotional trip from the beginning, as the volumes grew, there were a few attempts to transform the stash into a meaningful and accessible body of work. One such noteworthy attempt was to build a virtual 3D environment with access to any piece of time that I was part of, the way a character in a game would explore and unlock levels. The idea was to not only map the recorded data linearly but also with other inherent data it carried; such as people and location. The data intensive project could unfortunately not be completed due to the evident shortcomings of a primitive internet.

Towards the latter half of the process however, I was beginning to sense loss, an incomprehensible form of it. Not quite aware of the cause, there was an acute discomfort when I looked through the viewfinder. My senses had perhaps involuntarily shut down. In spite of participating actively (with great difficulty), I was being dragged through every task and experience like a body hanging limp.  Aware of the physical backup, I believe my brain had started shelving memories carelessly, if not shut down the whole memory itself.

Then one evening, as abruptly as I had begun the journey, I stopped. The alarm had been set off. For the first time in three years, I stepped out without an electronic appendage. Running alongside the edges of a lake, my feet striking the cool damp earth, I realised I hadn’t any shoes on and more importantly; I had broken free of the shackles, rather theatrically.  

Months later, I made feeble attempts to take a step back and understand this journey, the mechanism of mind and memory, forcing my behaviours and experiences to match researched archetypes. I was only left with bits and pieces of a futile post-mortem that hoped to justify the several hard drives gathering dust at home. Having seldom browsed through this footage up until recently, some believe I may have in reality ‘lived’ very little of those three years and perhaps actually now have the opportunity to re-live them, not once again, but for the first time.

Originally published in the Carton magazine, November 2015

[vishgt]

12032012 | Brand and science fiction

How hard is it to envision the future, to look thirty years ahead in time? It has never been easy for the human mind to imagine something new, something that is not just an extension of an existing idea. For example, we can't imagine an absolutely new colour, for the simple reason that it is beyond our senses, in dimensions we may never find access to, Over time we have learnt to use various tools to provide the same matter with new meaning or dimension, tools and concepts like juxtaposition, contextualization, deconstruction. But lately I've started to feel a conceptual saturation when I look at the world around me and feel this process of selective regurgitation is not going to be enough to come up with great ideas. If we accept the fact that we cannot create something that is beyond the realm of our senses, what we can do is push the boundaries of our imagination. That is where we turn to science fiction. It isn't the strange and invented technology that draws us to a great science fiction novel, rather, it is the world the author builds around the paradigm of change. Science fiction depicts a different reality, where changes have influenced lifestyle, culture and everyday activities. So what do we brand consultants have in common with sci-fi writers? We both strive to influence ways of thinking by introducing an element of change to a system. We constantly look at what brands need to do to stand out in the future, to be a 'one and only' instead of a one of many and encourage business leaders to think ahead to invent what's next. After all, branding is the process of attaching an idea to an organization, service, or object. A writer uses language and imagery to build a world for their audience, while we in branding create worlds and associations through storytelling, design, anthropology, semiotics, and other communications. So here's a fun thought for brand designers and strategists: It would be wonderful if we engaged in writing science fiction as an exercise to push our creative fibre and have fun with our thoughts. What I believe is essential though, is that we dedicate time to think about what doesn't exist and start mapping it out. This process of mapping would give us a landscape of ideas and scenarios which allow us to see what brands could do in the future and how they might need to adapt to the times. The question that then remains - how different would these landscapes of the future be from the future itself?

First published on the Wolff Olins blog, March 2012.

[vishgt]

Prologue

There is this vivid memory of a younger self, standing on his toes, peering over a hot metal railing, scanning the slow-moving traffic underneath. The bass drone of our window AC perched inside the balcony drowned a rich and colourful soundscape that an eight year old would have otherwise been doused in. Engulfed in warm, comforting air expelled by the machine, I now recall that moment as my first memory of being “lost”.

[vishgt]

Untitled

[vishgt]

We are in the epoch of simultaneity: we are in the epoch of juxtaposition, the epoch of the near and far, of the side-by-side, of the dispersed. We are at a moment. I believe, when our experience of the world is less that of a long life developing through time than that of a network that connects points and intersects with its own skein.

Foucault