Poetry, Floatation Chambers, and the Nature of Water

The following essay was written while I was studying at The Cooper Union. It brings together issues raised during a talk with D. Graham Burnett, editor of Cabinet Magazine and a specialist in the History of Science and of the ocean in particular. I had also spent an hour in a Floatation tank earlier in the year.

Hiroshi Sugimoto, Tyrrenian Sea, Amalfi 1990

I.

“…nothing of himself

Remained, except some starker, barer self

In a starker, barer world, in which the sun

Was not the sun because it never shone”

Wallace Stevens, The Comedian as the Letter C, 1923

Water eludes our control. It is the antithesis of an object: it cannot be formed, only contained; it cannot be shaped, only channeled; it is transparent, it distorts; it cannot lie still, it evaporates. It is this resistance to design and technology that makes the sea a symbol of the subconscious and of the sublime. In The Comedian as the Letter C, the poet Wallace Stevens presents a complex reading of the sea/letter C through the sea voyages of Crispin, a bourgeois city-dweller in search of his ‘self’. Bounded by the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, America’s creation myths are dominated by conflicting perspectives of the ocean. One view is of the sea as an open field for humanity’s territorial expansion, embodied in Christopher Columbus’ discovery of America; the other is as an alien territory from which Nature fights mankind’s encroachment, embodied in Herman Melville’s cetacean antagonist Moby Dick.

According to D. Graham Burnett, the history of science is governed by the tension between how much we are able to control Nature and how much we are subject to Nature’s power.[1] Water’s liquid formlessness gives it the ability to simultaneously affect and be affected by its container. While we cannot determine the shape or form of the ocean, we seek to control the sea intellectually, and to categorize it like an object. The human mind projects its imagination onto the tabula rasa of the ocean, according to the observer’s individual perspective. The historian’s rational inclination is to impose cause-and-effect onto the unpredictable ocean, and the poet’s creative tendency is to bestow human attributes onto bodies of water. Stevens suggests that we live in the tension between the changes we undergo as the world acts upon us and the ideas of order that our imagination imposes upon the world. The imagination is the mechanism by which we unconsciously conceptualize the normal patterns of life, while reason is the way we consciously conceptualize these patterns. As Stevens says in his essay Imagination as Value, “The truth seems to be that we live in concepts of the imagination before the reason has established them.”[3]   In The Comedian as the Letter C, the exact symbolism of the C/sea is questioned: it exists as a watery body on which we project our own humanity, but like Nature itself, it does not reflect us; it is not a mirror and we cannot subject it to our control. Although humans cannot contend with the sheer scale of the ocean, we are able to conceptualize Nature into smaller manifestations, which we are then able to control.  In the poem, the ocean is first characterizing as an endless expanse, a “World without Imagination” within which the human is powerless. By the end of the poem, Crispin’s experiences have allowed him to come to terms with the idea of Nature. By seeing Nature in relation to agriculture rather than in relation to the ocean, Crispin is able to domesticate forces that he could not otherwise control:

“The world, a turnip once so readily plucked,

Sacked up and carried overseas, daubed out

Of its ancient purple, pruned to the fertile main,

And sown again by the stiffest realist'[2]

It is the search for the shifting meanings of the sea and the environment’s effects on our sensory perception that relate the real sea with the imaginary ‘C’. As Stevens notes, “the imagination loses its vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real. When it adheres to the unreal and intensifies what is unreal, while its first effect may be extraordinary, that effect is the maximum effect that it will ever have.”[4] Stevens seeks to transcend this aesthetics of illusion and superficial effects, just as his protagonist Crispin wants to escape the social norms of society and the middlebrow culture of the city. By constantly shifting the symbolism and interpretative meaning of the letter C / the sea, the entire poem becomes a meditation on his consciousness.

From his birth in 1879 until his death in 1955, Stevens witnessed the industrialization of America, its engagement in two increasingly mechanized World Wars and its disconnection from its own myths of creation.  In addition, during his working life as an insurance salesman in New York, he would have seen the emergence of the 20th century metropolis and the objectification of human labour. In this context, the multiplicity of metaphor, illusion and symbolism employed in the Comedian as the Letter C offers an alternative approach to the individual’s position in modern society. In the poem, water is the polar opposite of the human as functional automaton; water pervades the verses, forming a linguistic surrogate for Nature through which the boundaries of the imagination are explored.

II.

“Water, water, every where,

Nor any drop to drink.”

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,  1798

While Wallace’s poetry was an attempt to give linguistic form to the new scales and patterns that followed the arrival of modernity, his death in 1954 coincided with the emergence of America as the leading global superpower following the end of World War II. The victory of Capitalist socio-economic governance and the rise of consumer culture during the “baby-boomer” generations gave birth to twin views of the self: on the one hand, the analytical self-awareness derived from Freud’s theories of consciousness, and other the other hand, the commercial production of objects of desire to exploit the subconsciousness and spiritual drives of the consumer.[5] Through the growth of advertising and mass media in the 1950s and 1960s, the public made aware of how to express their innermost ‘self’ through consumer objects and of technology’s role in helping them do so.

It is at this junction between technological progress and psychological desire where the Sensory Isolation Tank first appeared. This architectural machine is a lightless, soundproof tank inside which subjects float in salt water at skin temperature. These were first used by John C. Lilly, a medical practitioner training in psychoanalysis at the US National Institute of Mental Health in 1954 to test the effects of sensory deprivation. In neurophysiology, researchers had been questioning what processes the brain undertakes when idle, as well as the origin of consciousness. It was argued that if all stimuli are cut off to the brain then the brain would go to sleep. An alternate hypothesis was that the energy that drives the mind is internal and does not depend on the outside environment.. Lilly decided to test this hypothesis and created an environment which totally isolated an individual from external stimulation. Using the Sensory Isolation tank as an experimental device, he studied the origin of consciousness and its relation to the brain.

The human body has three perceptual pathways to situate itself in space: the optical system for vision, the vestibular system for balance, and the haptic system for touch. Through subconscious and conscious feedback loops, we learn from young to train our bodies to filter and process incoming sensory data so that we can navigate our environment, and control it to some extent. Within our everyday experience of Architecture, our understanding of the environment is based on underlying scales and patterns that operate in design. On land, we are able to establish our geographic location through a combination of vertical orientation (gravity revealed through the plumb-line), and the ground plane (which we navigate through the horizon and compass).While historical styles of building differ in their treatment of material and proportion, they are nonetheless based upon a matrix of scalar relationships synthesized through systems of perception.[6]

Lilly’s experiments in sensory deprivation led to the experimental proof that depriving a single one of our senses lead to a corresponding increase in the sensitivity of the others. For example, sight deprivation leads to an increased sensitivity to touch. The act of floating in salt water replaces the localized pressure we experience when standing, sitting, and lying down, into a whole-body haptic experience. The elimination of external light, sound, and localized touch gave users (or test-subjects)  the opportunity to be self-conscious about their internal mental processes that could not be halted.[7] Within this environment, it was observed that the free-association similar to that which was painstakingly constructed within Wallace Stevens’ poetry took the place within the subjects’ conscious awareness. Despite a total lack of outside stimulation, subjects reported hallucinations and imagined visual symbols floating through their visual field. This is differentiated from the trance-like dreamstate of Freud’s patients because the subjects were alone, fully conscious, but sensorially deprived. Within this seemingly empty matrix, the mind and body sensorium remained fully active, engaged in  unbounded spatial experiences closer to Crispin’s voyages than the physical enclosure of a tank would suggest.

Hiroshi Sugimoto, Bay of Sagamii, Atami, 1997

III.

“Humanity starts within one’s own structure. One is not one’s whole structure. One is only an inhabitant of that structure.”

John Lilly, Simulations of God, 1975

In the Floatation Tank, the ocean is domesticated. Just like the ship on the sea, the machine operates on the simplest possible physical principle – the difference in buoyancy between a body of salt water and a body filled with water. Within the boundary of the tank, the salt water is an extension of the human body – a prosthetic characterized not by its mechanical functionality, but by its psychological effects. Here, the vessel contains the sea, and the elimination of weather and the chaotic aspects of natural environments inverts the relationshipbetween the human and Nature that Wallace Stevens imagined. This ‘Prosthetic Sea’ is Nature scaled to the human body, a miniature ocean with all of its power removed and converted to a machine for imagination.

Despite humanity’s efforts in science and engineering, our ability to attain control over our environment is illusory and results from the limited perspective that the human lifespan allows.  John Lilly’s Sensory Isolation tank is just one artefact produced by an uncanny synthesis between technology, psychology, the natural world and the individual. While society’s conflicts are complex and difficult to solve, the tank temporarily frees its subjects from conventional notions of space and structure, and thereby provides them with an alternate Matrix: one of sensory memory, from which to generate subjective interpretations of the world.  Perhaps the simplest and most profound function of this ‘Prosthetic Sea’ is to remind us that humanity emerged from the water, gradually, over millions of years. As such, it is only natural that we seek to return to the sea psychologically, even as we seek to control it physically. In these geological terms, we are all Ancient Mariners.[9]

[1.] Burnett, D. Graham. Lecture “The Inscrutable World: Art, Science, and the Sea”. Cooper Union 2012

[2.] Stevens, Wallace. “The Comedian as the Letter C”, Harmonium 1923

[3.] Stevens, Wallace. “The Necessary Angel: Essays on Reality and the Imagination”, Random House 1965

[4.] Stevens, Wallace. “The Necessary Angel: Essays on Reality and the Imagination”, Random House 1965

[5.] Packard, Vance. “The Hidden Persuaders”, Pocket Books 1957

[6.] Forster, Kurt. Lecture “Scale, Pattern, and Chance in Architecture”. Cooper Union 2012

[7.] Lilly, John C. & E.J. Gold. “Tanks for the Memories: Flotation Tank Talks”. Gateways Books & Tapes 2000

[8.] Lilly, John C., “Simulations of God”, Simon & Schuster 1975

[9.] Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” 1798

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Anything long divided, must unite; long united, must divide. (话说天下大势,分久必合,合久必分钟).

Romance of the Three KingdomsLuo Guanzhong

Hakuin – Enso (circle)

Architecture’s dream is to create a unity of place through the division of space. This is not only an area that we enter into with our bodies; it also is a subjective state that we enter into through our senses. The entry into this state can be defined physically – by an enclosure, a quality of surface, a sculptural form, or a relationship between interior and exterior; it can also be entered through a perceptual shift – a change in acoustics, the sensation of colour, a feeling of immersion, or an awareness of gravity. Unity occurs when there is no separation between self and surroundings; it is a place that can be experienced alone, but is best enjoyed with friends.

I. Perspective

As an undergraduate, I always looked forward to Dalibor Vesely‘s weekly lectures on Phenomenology, which took me years to understand. Essentially, it is the study of structures of consciousness as experienced from the first-person point of view. Technology and science create a divide between humanity and an increasingly distant natural world; in “Architecture in the Age of Divided Representation“, Dalibor claims that fragmentation is the defining characteristic of our times, and describes how the development of linear perspective in Renaissance Italy changed our relationship with the environment from being one of symbiotic unity to become one of objectivity and separation.

Now that a proliferation of media, cameras, images, and computer-based geometric worlds have industrialized the first-person perspective, he suggests that architecture has a major role to play in healing this disconnect. Through architecture, we can connect with the world immediately around us by transforming the abstract notion of space into the site-specific archetype of a place.

II. Collective

“I am large, I contain multitudes.”

Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

Walt Whitman suggests a complex the idea of the self – as a being who is both individual and group. However, the creative expression of the collective self is dangerous when it challenges the politics of control. After all, Freedom, not Unity, is the core value of the United States of America. The country values the idea of the individualistic self above the idea of the collective, and it is the conflict between these ideologies that stirs global uprisings from Tiananmen Square to Tahrir Square to Zuccotti Park.

The turn of the 21st century has many parallels with the beginnings of the 20th: technological progress and political turbulence have greatly altered how we view the world. We are now witnessing the precarious condition of the world’s mechanisms  – the nation-state, the global economy, the family, our education, the natural environment, and our future. While it is tempting to retreat into the dream-state of escapism, architecture must contribute to the reality of the world outside. By allocating public space and safe zones of protest through installations within the fabric of the city, architecture can unite rather than divide.

III. Synthesizer
Kurt Schwitters – Merzbau

Dalibor interpreted Cubism and montage as attempts to express the chaos of their times by combining multiple fragments through collage composition. When we asked him how many separate elements the ideal montage had, he answered, “… each should be made of two and a half parts – two that you can see, and the other half inside your mind“.  If we can combine the sculptural, social, and subjective states of Architecture, it would augment our waking life with a zone of suspended disbelief – a place to unify the world around us.

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Expression is the best counterpoint to purely rational thinking. Somewhere between the Dionysian and Apollonian attitudes lie the world's patterns of chaos and order.

Algorithms and advertising have taken the place of Oracles, Fortune Tellers, and Leaders. Our trust in technology and media has helped precipitate global turbulence.

How to proceed?

Make it up as we go along.

--

Last night I made some of my own Rorschach tests and animated them.

I see a guardian spirit, an aeroplane in flight, a queen with fireworks, an animal totem. I feel protection, presence, joy, animal kinship. What do you see?

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- I -

Guardian (hovering)

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- II -

Aeroplane (flying)

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- III -

Queen (fireworks)

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- IV -

Animal Totem (kinship)

- -

-=-

We learn at school that the morning sunlight took eight minutes to arrive. Each ray of light from the sun acts as an exiled messenger who indicates whether the star is on or off. When the sun dies, it will take eight minutes for its last message to reach the Earth.

As Stephen Hawking states in A Brief History of Time, ‘the death of the sun does not affect us immediately because we are not in its future light cone‘. Since the fastest way we can perceive distant events is through light, its direction and speed of travel limits how quickly we can experience an event. Mapped through time, the event forms a conical horizon around itself whose width is determined by the speed of light rays; if the observer is within its boundary, we can perceive the event; if outside, there is no way we can know of it.  In other words, our universe is structured so that we are always looking at the past.

-=-

Throughout history, light had been the signal that bridges past, present, and future, and brings about the beginning and end of time. According to ancient Hebrew belief, life takes a linear path, beginning with the Genesis Creation myth where God said, “Let there be light!”. In the Judeo-Christian worldview, the eschaton – the end of time – was crucial in establishing the belief that linear time  justified a particular system of ethics and law.

In the Myth of the Eternal Return, the mythologist and religious historian Mircea Eliade describes a worldview where the universe is cyclical and is destined to repeat itself in a self-similar form for an infinite number of times across time and space. This worldview was inherent in Indian (and later Egyptian) philosophy, and was later taken up by followers of Pythagoras as well as the Stoics. The cyclical view of time was more in keeping with pre-historical, agrarian communities in which seasons and daily cycles had more significance than the progress of civilization and history.

The linear view of time has dominated modern thought, obsessed with an apocalyptic ending to human history. However, some contemporary astrophysicsts, following Einstein, have analyzed the behaviour of light and the nature of space-time with varying degrees of success. Their models of the finite and infinite universe are very similar to the linear and cyclical views of time and history.

-=-

(left) An event is visible through time, like a pebble thrown into a bond creates outward waves /// (right) An event in the present can only be perceived in a certain region of space-time.

-=-

Knowing that our time in the sun is limited, sometimes we try to capture time and light with images. Albrecht Durer’s etching, “Melancholia I” associates light with order and darkness with chaos.  The composition places the products of the imagination – geometry, mathematics, tools, and architecture – within the timeframe of an hourglass running out.

In this picture, the imagination succeeds in creating a mental zone that overrides both astrophysics and religion – it holds together past, present and future with rays of perpetual sunlight – messengers of time etched in metal.

-=-

-=-

Atomic Bomb Test - Bikini Atoll 1946. The small black figures just outside the cloud are decommissioned World War II Battleships from the US Navy.

Albert Einstein arrived in America on October 17 1933, an exile from the Nazi regime that had just risen to power. The scientist was 54 years old and spent a lot of his time at the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton becoming a public figure, investigating subatomic physics, and opposing the military aspects of the nuclear age he helped to create.

His work provided a catalyst for the transmutation of matter into energy – a new form of power that had as much social and cultural impact as the development of steam engines and electricity had during the 19th century. The originality of his thinking stems from his focus on the relative over the absolute, on the infinite over the particular, and on the power of the imagination over the physical. His very human approach to science made him profoundly disturbed with the development of atomic weapons, and the negative side of technology. Images of early nuclear tests in the Bikini Atoll during the 1940s evoke the two-faced nature of energy: like the Hindu god Shiva, their ability to create is inseparable from their ability to destroy.

In 1757, Edmund Burke published his Philosophical Enquiry Into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, in which he names awe-inspiring works of nature as vessels for the sublime: “whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain and danger, what is any sort terrible… is a source of the sublime.” Kant develops this idea further, situating the sublime in one’s response to the object, rather than in the object itself. This instinctive terror of Nature’s power is in turn crystallized in one’s realization of the individual’s own power. For Kant, the question of human agency comes to the fore, though it is still secondary to the grandeur of the natural.

Large Hadron Collider. A section of one of the magnetic sections in the 17-mile acceleration route.

A century after Einstein’s  E = mc² , the theory of mass-energy equivalence, developments in atomic physics have been realized most dramatically in the Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland. The most commonly cited photograph of the LHC is not from the reaction chamber itself (which is dark, monochrome, and inert), but rather a view looking down one of the magnetic particle detector sections. This perspective offers a better impression of the machinery needed to accelerate particles close to the speed of light. The dramatic shift in scale between the 17-mile long acceleration chamber and the subatomic particles creates a “technological sublime”, where an experiment at the scale of a landform recreates conditions analogous to those at the beginning of time.

This shift in the idea of the sublime is part of a continuous progression from nature to artifice, and also has defined spatial characteristics. Whereas the idea of nature in the Sublime was expansive and pervasive, the atomic tests in the Bikini Atoll were highly visible, external and extensive, and the Hadron particle accelerator operates in an invisible, internalized, and intensive space. Whatever the dimensions of the technology, the popular fear of a black hole appearing in Switzerland and swallowing the earth as a result of experiments at the LHC demonstrate our persistent fear of the unknown.

Heavy Ion Collision


Yesterday China launched Tiangong-1 (Heavenly Palace-1), its first step towards a manned orbital space station. I remembered reading that the last Space Shuttle mission, STS-135, finished earlier this year, signalling an end to America’s utopian dream of colonizing space.

As I read more about the history of these inhabitable satellites, they started to attain personalities independent from the astro/cosmonauts who passed through their airlocks. The life of satellites began to take on similar narrative arcs – beginning with a dramatic countdown to a launch sequence filled with nationalist pride, followed by a productive scientific research phase, and then a long period in exile as space debris. They would eventually spiral back down to Earth, burn up in the atmosphere, and finally disappear into the sea.


This fact that these skeletal, modular, fully functional structures possessed an animistic fate triggered a realization that the Japanese Metabolists’ dream of growing and degenerating architecture had actually been realized in the context of zero gravity. The prototypes for metabolic buildings proposed by Tange, Kikutake, Isozaki, and Kurokawa never physically grew further than their original boundaries. The completed buildings were frozen in their final construction stage as they had to be occupied, and the dream of architecture-as-organism remained as a series of beautifully executed models.

Kiyunori Kikutake, Floating City Project, 1971

International Space Station, 2009

Unlike the space shuttle with its streamlined aerodynamic shape for atmospheric flight, the morphology of the space station is not constrained by gravity. In the vacuum, a different set of stylistic considerations govern space station design: surface area-to-volume ratios, weight, and structural integrity in the vacuum become key. The unfolding, layering, and collapse of form becomes a practical constraint for deployable elements such as solar panel arrays that pack down into minimal storage volumes.

For the space station in the hostile vacuum of outer space, modular growth becomes a necessity rather than a theoretical concept. Due to restrictions on launching heavy rockets from earth, structures were designed to be upgraded with additional scientific or habitation modules as needed. The entire typology of the space station thus becomes pure metabolist architecture – a technological utopia whose growth and eventual obsolescence allows it to regenerate in future iterations with knowledge gained during its own existence.

Looking back at some early Metabolist projects, I wonder if Kikutake ever dreamt of launching his earthbound architecture into orbit.

Kiyunori Kikutake – Expo Tower, Osaka, 1972

UPDATE: Viktor Timofeev sent me a link to

featuring Laika, Sputnik, and other stars of the Soviet Space Programme.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Towers have an archetypal force rooted in the expression of militarized political power. Their use as centers of repression and surveillance has a long history – watchtowers, the castle keep, the hilltop fortress. They are often the prison for innocents – Rapunzel, the Princes in the Tower of London, and the inhabitants of the World Trade Center’s Twin Towers.

The flattening of the world by centuries of globalization and communication has changed the experience of architecture into a largely remote activity, and has changed the form of architecture itself. However, as physical artefacts of mythic proportions, towers have retained their expressive essence. Although buildings now embody relatively transparent intentions, they often harbour politicized intentions that are best revealed though extreme circumstances.

On the 10th anniversary of 9/11, is it possible to reflect on the inevitable counterpart of ideology – unattainable ambitions that result in incomplete, inaccessible, or destroyed acts of architecture. Is it possible that the Tower has changed from being the site of exile, to being an exiled object itself?

The fall of the Twin Towers immortalized them as cultural and political icons, existing from that moment on as symbols of the pre-terrorist, Arcadian Age of (Economic) Freedom, and as a post-terrorism rationale for the War on Terror. Their destruction provided the Republican Government with irrefutable justification for their wars, and gave White House speechwriters the three essential elements of Aristotle’s rhetoric: logos / argument: a plea for striking back against the enemy; pathos / feeling: never forget the fallen; ethos / beliefs: let us fight for freedom.

With the visible contrast between high-rise and ground zero in the case of the World Trade Center, the poetics of the narrative served as the perfect basis for America’s military-industrial complex to self-mythologize again. In this case, the Twin Towers were exiled to memory as we are prevented from ever entering their interior again.

On the same day, across the globe in North Korea, the Ryugyong hotel has been exiled from occupants for seven years. It is the victim not of terrorism, but of a diametrically opposed worldview – one based on suppression, the cult of the dictator, and urban propaganda.

At the centre of Pyongyang, this 105-floor hotel has been in a state of perpetual construction since 1987. Its categorization as a hotel is questionable, as it has never had any rooms, let alone occupants. The project was intended to be a showpiece project for foreign journalists to marvel at the economic miracle of North Korea. The work was halted for a decade after the fall of the Soviet Union and the lack of economic support from the country’s largest supporter.  The intention of the designers was for the hotel to stand as the largest structure in the world, an ambitious endeavor for a nation that revels in the cult culture of Kim Jong-Il despite widespread energy and agricultural crises.

Official data surrounding its properties have been shrouded in bureaucratic mist. A United Nations task force has deemed Ryugyong Hotel’s structure unfit for human habitation, with an international group of engineers declaring that the elevator cores do not run vertically upwards.

In 2011, somehow, both sites in Pyongyang and New York City have become the stuff of speculators’ dreams: the WTC site now a Silverstein properties exclusive deal, and the Ryugyong has been clad as part of an ‘aid package’ by an Egyptian telecommunications company eager to implement a 3G mobile phone network in the country. The deal is that in exchange for capital investment in North Korea’s infrastructure, the Egyptian company will undertake the cladding of the concrete shell, adding a layer of purely reflective glass to give it an air of dignity, appropriately enough like dressing a corpse for the afterlife.

Although both these buildings started from opposite sides of the world upon different principles, both have become exiled from the sphere of functional architecture to attain virtual immortality. If all goes well, Ryugyong will hopefully become a hermetically sealed pyramid – a perfect example of concrete Communism – pure façade and zero transparency.