There is a somewhat recent TED talk we’ve come across and been intrigued by recently. The talk by Evan Grant is on cymatics: the visualization of sound waves, or modal phenomena. This is something that could be used by artists and engineers to create amazingly unified image-music performances.

Update: see comments section for a link to the art, machinery and people involved with the CymaScope

I had the pleasure last week of attending a lecture by scholar Michael Ward. He was talking about his new book Planet Narnia: The Seven Heavens in the Imagination of C. S. Lewis (Oxford University Press, 2008). I haven’t read it yet, but have it sitting on my desk next to me, ready to go. The gist of the book is that the Lewis’ Narnia series is, in fact, organized around the classical/medieval cosmological model of the heavens – with the planets, sun and moon all exerting their own, peculiar “influence” over the content of each book, and the rest of the symbolism involved therein. That description may be, to you, one drawn out reason for a yawn, but I find it quite intriguing – particularly since no one has figured this out before, though it was there in plain sight. Dr. Ward spoke of Lewis’ method as “transferred classicism”: taking classical figures, symbolism, and, in this case astrological and cosmological models in order to tell a story about something quite different (a Christ-like salvation history in another world).

I’ve spent quite a bit of my own time and thought considering Lewis’ obsession with medieval cosmology – partly as it comes out in his Ransom Trilogy and partly in his scholarly writings on medieval and Renaissance literature (especially The Discarded Image). The interesting point Lewis continually brings out, both as a scholar and a fiction writer, is that, while not “accurate”, the medieval model of the universe was at least imaginatively engaging. Unlike the boundless void which comes to mind when we hear “space”, Lewis claims the medieval model was, clearly, a real place – vast, yet also comprehensible and meaningful. More contemporary theories of cosmology also tend to place emphasis on inter-connectedness and beauty, but the modernist damage is mostly done. Among other things, our human imagination (at least in places dominated by technological priority and scientism) is hopelessly alone and disconnected in a sea of empty space. That may be “deep” existentially speaking, but it doesn’t ultimately take you anywhere (unless you love slogging through H. P. Lovecraft novels – which some friends of mine do, to be honest).

One way or another, I think one key inspiration from Lewis’ work is that it is possible (and beneficial) to develop stories in such a way that their thematic structure supports their imaginative accessibility while remaining mostly invisible (indeed, invisible to scholars for decades). This, I believe, is different than pulling off a good illusion.

As for the Cube, I find all sorts of connections here. For one, the point that our imaginations reflect the universe in which we believe we live. This can be illusory or over-literal – to the point that we miss deeper meanings in scientific learning. One purpose of the original visions for the Cube was as a place where people’s view of the universe became expanded – but not toward the expanse of nothingness. Rather, to become more real, full, visibly beautiful, enjoyable, and thoroughly livable. That may sound entirely abstract, but the idea is rather in the opposite direction: to expound upon the mystery of the universe in a meaningful way rather than a “shock and awe” trip to the edge of a black hole (which doesn’t sound too bad as a visual story – just not the whole story).

Something that is core to what we’re doing with Artistic Energies is to engage in the conversation concerning the direction of humanity, broadly speaking, in relation to technology. To be frank, we’re very critical of the transhumanistic prophecy of the singularity. It’s not that we’re Luddites, per se (we’re working on immersive film technologies, for goodness sake), it’s just that any vision of the future that presumes to be total and inevitable fails the test of human creativity. It seems that, rather than the impersonal positivistic interpretations of scientific advancement, we ought to be acknowledging the personal, communal, imaginative interpretations (a la Thomas Kuhn’s Structures of Scientific Revolutions). In other words, we pursue in practice what we have discovered already in our imaginations.

Our vision of the future, based in our imaginations’ strength and breadth, will be the guide to our actions. Something that art and beauty do for us (in particular instances, not as abstract, free-floating concepts) is to enable us to recognize our errors about beauty and justice (Elaine Scarry), expand our consciousness in healthy ways (Harold Bloom – The Art of Reading Poetry), and serve as continually generative, life-giving, paradigm-challenging sources of renewal (Scott Cairns, and a bit of Bloom and Scarry too). In other words, beauty is one of the ways in which we re-evaluate what we’ve thought to be true. What if, for lack of “tough beauty”, our systems and our goals as human beings go completely unchallenged? This sounds like death to me, not life.

My recent conversations on this topic reminded me, for some reason, of Goethe’s Farbenkreis (see image above) – his alternative to Newton’s spectral theory of color. Our scientific instruments are, obviously and rightly, calibrated to deal with the spectrum of radiation. Goethe’s model, on the other hand, is “calibrated” to deal with the artistic phenomenon of pigment mixing – such that violet is included in the circle, rather than located on the extreme ends of the Newtonian spectrum. Which one is right? As scientists figuring out the chemical composition of stars, the Newtonian model (leaving aside the wave-particle duality issue); but as painters, designers, and so on, the Goethean model.