Museum curators have made a surprise discovery in Vincent Van Gogh's Olive Trees: a grasshopper embedded in the paint. The experts from the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City discovered the insect - missing its abdomen and thorax - 128 years after it was painted.

Museum curators have made a surprise discovery in Vincent Van Gogh's Olive Trees: a grasshopper embedded in the paint. The experts from the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City discovered the insect - missing its abdomen and thorax - 128 years after it was painted.

Paintings by the masters da Vinci, Rembrandt, Goya, and Caravaggio are often accepted as absolute works. Today, we use mobile devices to capture these images, compressing them onto tiny screens, and remixing them into snapchats, selfies or light simulated paintings.

In 1873 the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, was given a number of Dutch landscape paintings by a benefactor called Richard Kerrich. Among these works of art was a beach scene painted by the artist Hendrick van Anthonissen early in the 17th century.

Publication used to mean preservation but it no longer does. Let me explain.

When a print book is published its metadata is literally attached to its content. The author and title, publisher and imprint, price, ISBN and barcode, as well as the size, the shape, the binding are clear, easily referenced at a glance. Part of the complicated process of digitizing books that the Hathi Trust, the Internet Archive, and Google, for example, faced was how to record and connect all of this information to a digital file. For scanned and even more seriously for born-digital e-books, as Digital Book World pointed out earlier this month (Brian O’Leary clearly agrees), the matter is more complex.

First of all, it’s not always readily obvious that the metadata is correct. But just as important, the connection of metadata to digital book content is more tenuous. Without a hard copy to refer back to, a piece of information that goes missing may not be retrievable. For this reason (and more), the Intern

Dry, dusty and shortly to be dead. Palaeographers are used to making sense of fragments of ancient manuscripts, but King's College London couldn't have been plainer when it announced recently that it was to close the UK's only chair of palaeography. From ­September, the current holder of the chair, Professor David Ganz, will be out of a job, and the subject will no longer exist as a separate academic discipline in British universities. Its survival will now depend entirely on the whim of classicists and medievalists studying in other fields.

The decision took everyone by ­surprise. "It was only recently that Rick Trainor [the principal of King's] was calling the humanities department [to which palaeography is attached] the jewel in the university's crown," says Dr Mary Beard, professor of ­classics at Cambridge University. "There had been a complete overhaul of ­minority disciplines in the mid-1990s, so there was consensus that everything had been pared down to the bare minimum."

by Daniel Rourke

In Part One of this article I wrote about the instability of the art-object. How its meaning moves, and inevitably cracks. In this follow-up I ponder text, the book, page and computer screen. Are they as stable as they appear? And how can we set them in motion?

Part Two

"There’s a way, it seems to me, that reality’s fractured right now, at least the reality that I live in. And the difficulty about... writing about that reality is that text is very linear and it’s very unified, and... I, anyway, am constantly on the lookout for ways to fracture the text that aren’t totally disorienting – I mean, you can take the lines and jumble them up and that’s nicely fractured, but nobody’s gonna read it."

David Foster Wallace, PBS Interview, 1997

17^th Century print technology was rubbish. Type could be badly set, ink could be over-applied, misapplied or just plain missed. Paper quality varied enormously according to local resources, the luck of the seasons or even the miserly want of the print maker out to fill his pockets. There are probably thousands of lost masterpieces that failed to make it through history simply because of the wandering daydreams of the printer's apprentice. But from error, from edit and mis-identification have come some of the clearest truths of the early print age. Truths bound not in the perfect grain or resolute words of the page, but in the abundance of poor materials, spelling mistakes and smudge. In research libraries across the globe experts live for the discovery of copy errors, comparing each rare edition side-by-side with its sisters and cousins in the vain hope that some random mutation has made it intact across the centuries.

Since the invention of writing, and its evolutionary successor the printing-press, text has commanded an authority that far exceeds any other medium. By reducing the flowing staccato rhythms of speech to typographically identical indelible marks we managed, over the course of little more than 2000 years, to standardise the reading consciousness. But in our rush to commodify the textual experience we lost touch with the very material that allowed illiteracy to become the exception, rather than the rule. We forgot that it is the very fallibility of text and book that make them such powerful thinking technologies.

Today text appears so stable that we almost don't notice it. We bathe in it, from moment to moment, on the spines of our books, the packaging of our breakfast cereals, the labels sewn fast into our clothes. We live it without a thought. In fact, we live it because it is thought, composing such a steady proportion of our lived experience that we fail to notice its constricting power over our imaginations. Of course we all speak, but even speech in the literate society has become stultified by the restrictions of the page, the paragraph and the sentence. Rarely does the speech of our leaders, of the world's most powerful politicians, exhibit anything more organic than a choice of when to pause for effect; when to express a comma, a colon or hyphen – each a technology of writing, rather than of free-thinking. Text is all-powerful, omnipotent and invisible. It infects how we think, speak and perceive the flow of time around us. Yet even as a way to break free from the constraints of text rises into view we baulk in pedantry and hark on about tradition. The unyielding space of the printed page has become the primary metaphor for those who fear where reading is heading: the Internet. But to truly understand the Internet's liberating power one must first look towards a great thinker who never read or wrote a word in his life.

Socrates decreed that writing would be the death of thought, becoming a crux to memory. He warned that text was 'inflexible', unable to answer back and that, as a consequence, writing would mark the end of a truly virtuous society in which public debate enhanced the thinking subject. His warnings obviously went unheeded, for were it not for the scribblings of his greatest pupil, Plato, his ideas would never have survived the long journey to your computer screen. Was Socrates short-sighted? Perhaps. But in our current time, of digital divides and books encoded in binary, Socrates' words seem remarkably prescient. Current debate surrounding the omnipotence of the Internet bears a striking resemblance to Socrates' concerns about writing. Just as Socrates proclaimed the authority of the spoken word, so today we hold stead-fast onto the shrivelled husk of a textuality that allows each of us to float aimlessly through literate culture.

In the decades proceeding Henry Clay Folger's death in 1930 his library became the prime resource for scholars of (arguably) the world's most famous playwright. Folger collected manuscripts. In particular he liked rare editions of Shakespeare's works, and he liked them so much he wanted to have them all. The First Folio is the earliest known print-run of Shakespeare's works, collated and published only seven years after his death. Folger's collection of nearly 40 First Folios became the laughing stock of the bibliophilic elite. Surely one copy of the Folio was enough for any research library, let alone a single collector such as Folger?

Folger's library enabled experts to consider First Folios side-by-side for the first time, garnering crucial information from the mistakes and mis-prints that were allowed to creep into the famous Folios by their 17^th Century printers. There were three different issues of the Folio, printed and bound by a handful of printers and their apprentices. From Folio to Folio edits are common, a missing Troilus and Cressida in one Folio leaves room for Timon, whereas in other, less 'complete' versions neither play make their way into print. Hidden within some ill-fated Folios can be found a crossed out ending to Romeo and Juliet on the reverse side of a print of Troilus that is missing its prologue. No Folio is the same as any other, meaning that the closest thing left to a 'perfect' collection of Shakespeare's works is the entire run of 400 Folios that still survive to this day, each noted for their individuality; each ready to expose their hidden mistakes to the careful eye of the scholar.

At the level of print, text has never been stable. And a good thing too, for if it were priceless knowledge about Shakespeare's plays would have been lost. The problem with the book and page today is that they have become frozen stiff, losing their dynamism as they spin off the production line. The value of Folger's Folios is not to be found in the meter of the language, or the subjects there imparted, but in the scratches, scuffs and tears scattered throughout like forgotten memories. Is it possible to inject some of this substance back into the mass-produced paperback? To allow authorship, once again, to become a collaboration between writer, page and the medium of transmission?

The internet is the obvious answer, but it is of course not that simple. For as long as we cling to the rigid structures of the printed page the internet will only act as a poor copy of the medium we so cherish. Academics, educators and politicians are quick to speak of the liberating potential of digital technology, but few of them make concessions for the web without first issuing a decree about the standards of reading to which we have become accustomed. In the last century perhaps the most important works of literature to have emerged were those that challenged the rigid flow of the printed narrative, asking us to question the inner realities we write and talk about. I am talking of works like Joyce's Ulysses, or Burroughs Naked Lunch, works that broke the book, even as they infected its forms with their liberating approaches to language and thought.

Like the new breed of art-objects I mentioned in Part One of this article, text is now moving towards a revolution in its status as 'thing'. In order to think beyond text, one must first begin to understand its distinctive character as both subject and object. A good place to start is with the art-object, the best examples of which encapsulate ideas that far transcend the lowly substance of the materials they are composed of. To ponder Duchamp's Mechanical Bride is to move beyond the foil and dust sandwiched between glass panes. Simply put, art-objects are objects that we mistake for subjects – and long may it be this way. This capacity to treat the material as a vehicle for a subject has long been missing from text and the book. When we reach out with our minds, beyond the divides of eye, page and text, we often forget the object-ness of the book, preferring instead to wallow in subjects that we consider the linguistic meaning of the text alone imparts to us.

Scattered throughout this article you will find examples of books which attempt to transcend their 'book-ness' by breaching the gaps between art and text. Some of these works would not have been produced in a pre-internet society. It is not that the internet is a form that text should aspire to, but perhaps that in living and thinking through a net-based society writers/artists have become able to consider the book-object in new and innovative ways. As soon as we could write down our speech, to inscribe it in stone or bind it onto the page, were became capable of speaking and thinking from the outside, like Gods looking down on their creation. Social networks, digital archives, computer screens, user generated interfaces, blogs, RSS feeds and tweets have, in similar fashion, allowed us to spin text out of order, to wrap thought around itself and let it bloom in fractal musings. New technologies have shown us that society is not rigid, that audio and video can be dismantled, distributed and dispersed on the winds of the world wide web. Books are about to start speaking back to us in ways that would have made Socrates and Shakespeare giddy to perceive.

We should encourage books to crack wide open, and let the internet wash between their pages. We should rejoice as the forms of text and print come crashing down around us. Let's rebuild our textual culture from the thinking subject up.

by Daniel Rourke

In 2005, Michael Shanks, the Omar and Althea Hoskins Professor of Classical Archaeology at Stanford University and director of the Archaeology Center’s Metamedia Lab, and three colleagues started The Presence Project to explore issues of presence and documentation across the arts and sciences. Artist Lynn Hershman Leeson, whose work has been shown at more than 200 major institutions and is part of the permanent collection at New York’s Museum of Modern Art, joined soon after and, together with Shanks and others in the Stanford Humanities Lab, created Life to the Second Power, an online encounter with her archive. As they see the project through to its completion in 2010, Shanks and Hershman Leeson plan to further explore memory, identity, and place. Seed invited them to advance the conversation.

Read the interview at Seed Magazine

Part One

by Daniel Rourke

"The spacetime of the lightcones and the fermions and scalar are connected to the chocolate grinder. The chocolate grinder receives octonionic structure from the water wheel."

- Tony Smith, Valdosta Museum Website

In 1927 Marcel Duchamp's The Large Glass was broken in transit. The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even, Duchamp's title for the piece, depicts a mechanical Bride in its upper section and nine abstract Bachelors in its lower. Duchamp took oil, lead, varnish and dust and sandwiched them between panes of glass. The Bachelors encounter their Bride in the presence of a large, gorgeous, chocolate grinder whose drums revolve in motions which seem to reach up, across the divide, to touch the ethereal Bride in her domain.

In 1936 Duchamp 'fixed' the broken Bride by repairing, rather than replacing, the shattered panes of glass. He claimed to like it better that way.

Today progenies of Duchamp invest time, thought and often a great many dollars in their own artworks. The successful ones amongst them package those artworks up in foam, plaster and cellophane to be moved, shipped and re-exhibited in multiple gallery spaces again and again. Without dwelling on the commodification of the artwork I want to build my own scheme for understanding these movements. I want to rest a little and draw the lines of desire that artworks traverse; the paths they take that human intent had nothing to do with; the archives they carry within themselves. For every map there are points we must plot, spaces and places in real space and time that require isolation and signification. We grab a GPS device and codify the crossroads where St. Martin's Place meets Trafalgar Square, marking carefully the precise angle via which Madonna on the Rocks will be fed through the clamouring crowds into the The National Gallery's mouth. Artworks live in motion, just as readily as they live in the gallery. In the dark recess of transit they sketch a hidden, secret life away from the viewing eye, becoming not 'art', but 'object' – traversing the gap between these concepts as they travel.

The Bride now rests out her Autumn years in the Philadelphia Museum of Art, waiting for gravity to release her chocolate grinder once again from its sandwich of (un)shattered glass.

Through Plato's writing we know that Socrates maintained a deep mistrust of the art as object, distinguishing three realms through which art must move before it was realised. In Book X of The Republic Socrates develops the metaphor of the three beds. The ideal bed, made by God, the carpenter's bed, a mere imitation of God's idea, and the artist's bed, again made in imitation, but this time of the carpenter's creation. The art-object is twice removed from 'truth'. It is a model of a model; a mimetically charged, displaced falsehood. Like a black-hole emitting virtual particles in space, the realm we long to peer upon is always hidden, allowing only those particles escaping from the object to catch our gaze.

Ever since Socrates we've aimed to stretch, like Adam on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, across an invisible divide into the realm of the absolute. Like Duchamp's Bachelors, ever removed from their beloved Bride, it is the network, the movement of the Earthly chocolate-grinder, that throttles our attention. We believe in an 'other' place, attempting to represent it in our paintings, our sculptures, novels and poems but we will never reach it - transfixed as we are on the material realm around us. Should we instead forget the Bride, and concentrate on the cracks beneath-which the chocolate-grinder forever whirls? Forget the 'ideal' bed and ponder on the imperfections the carpenter ensures in his work, as the hammer and nails meet in a blur?

* I will not talk here of the other exhibits in Altermodern – and elsewhere – that took me on similar discursive journeys. I will instead lend you a series of hyper-links, a network of possibilities, for you to travel.

A new breed of artist believes so. They make art that realises a network of possibilities, rather than a final imperfect solution. Artist's such as Walead Beshty, whose Installation of FedEx Sculptures echoes, in its shattered cubes, the 1927 incident when Duchamp's Bride was disfigured.

Beshty's FedEx Sculptures are a series of shatter-proof glass cubes broken in transit. What makes these boxes different from mere badly wrapped art-objects is the intent behind their destruction. The boxes are shipped by FedEx, rather than professional art-object shippers, from Beshty's studio to each new gallery. Their constant destruction sketches their character as meaningful objects. Each crack a palimpsest of movement, of random intent gathered in transit - between exhibitions. The boxes were exhibited as part of Tate Britain's Triennial, Altermodern, * earlier this year, where I had the opportunity to see them. Peering through the cracked panes, into the voids contained within each cube, I felt like a cartographer tracing lines made by movement and time to the source of an endless ocean.

Like the shattered panes of Duchamp's masterpiece, or the unique voids contained within Walead Beshty's FedEx Sculptures, time and movement have oft been deceived by our perceptions of art. For every artwork, whether considered whole or disfigured, is riddled with tell-tale cracks.

Throughout his second voyage to the Pacific (1772-75) Captain James Cook was accompanied by William Hodges, an ambitious artist whose landscape paintings would serve as a living archive of the expedition. Hodges was amongst the first people from Europe to see the Rapanui monuments of Easter Island, to sail The Cape of Good Hope or shake hands with the Maori of New Zealand. Hodges’ keen memory for light and atmosphere were responsible for much of the romanticism an enthused Europe would languish on Captain Cook’s expeditions.

Some of Hodges’ more unusual paintings were recently x-rayed in the lead up to an exhibition of his work at London’s National Maritime Museum. As well as revealing a wealth of archival information about the artist’s processes, x-ray images of his View in Pickersgill Harbour, Dusky Bay exposed something far more spectacular. There, beneath the painted surface of the luminous rainforest canopy were two giant, white formations stretching up and out of a black swathe of ocean. Hodges, for reasons we will never fully understand, had chosen to paint over the first ever visual record of the Antarctic. The icebergs, having hidden for over 300 years under layers of oil paint, were freed by the roving, radiographic eye of the x-ray machine. The canvas usurped by its own regolithic layer; the history of the event ebbing over an invisible event-horizon like separated virtual particles.

Understanding that the archive is not contained solely in the document does not come naturally. To fully sketch the mimesis of art-objects we must devise better ways to peer beneath their surface. As I write this I am aware of what I am trying to say, and what I am actually saying. There is a gap between, a significant chasm that this text will never bridge. The art-object carries with it a history of its making, a memory of its movement. The art-object is vast in its potential to be seen and re-seen. Whether by accident, or intent, there are always cracks on the surface of an art-object. Some of these cracks may only be breached with new technologies – such as the x-rays that pulled across the void William Hodges' lost vision of the Antarctic. Some of these cracks are allowed to creep onwards by artists who long for their art-objects to develop lives of their own.

In this article I have concentrated on the movement inherent in art-objects. Scupltures and paintings are traditional fodder for this kind of exploration. But what of the text? How is the modern writer, aware of the networks of intent that spiral from her art-writing, best to shatter her work into life? How can we make the text move and encourage it to crack? And how will we read its movements upon its return?

This is a question I currently ponder. A question I hope to explore in Part Two of this article (to be published on Monday, 2nd of November).

by Daniel Rourke

A Polyptychal Discursion: This text, designed with its own concerns in mind, diverges on many trajectories, crossing over itself, intersecting its arguments and statements with images and forms which question the traditional logic of the essay. This text will become enabled not through a writer's statements, but through a reader's response. A spiral of concepts ruptures the words, burrowing underneath the palimpsest, pulling you, the reader, into the written phrase.

Response is required of any reading. The internet is a form capable of allowing a reader's response to influence the writer's trajectory; to send the written back into itself, melding its writer and its reader as one critical engagement.

This text requires your writing.

Website and interactive portfolio of artist

“There was a time when it was not technology alone that bore the name techné... Once there was a time when the bringing-forth of the true into the beautiful was called techné. And the poïesis of the fine arts also was called techné.”

Martin Heidegger, The Question Concerning Technology (1954) For Martin Heidegger the essence of technology is to be understood as distinct from technology itself. Etymologically the word technology stems from the Greek techné, "the name not only for the activities and skills of the craftsman but also for the arts of the mind and the fine arts". Techné is to be understood as craft: a “bringing-forth” / a “revealing”:

“Bringing-forth brings out of concealment into unconcealment... The Greeks have the word aletheia for revealing. The Romans translate this with veritas. We say “truth” and usually understand it as correctness of representation.”

Martin Heidegger, The Question Concerning Technology (1954) This unconcealment of truth is a poïetic process, a bringing about of presence in the craft of creative engagement. This concept of the techné seems to emerge naturally when we look at art, at text, as palimpsestic. The essence of the x-ray as it peers under the surface of the painting reveals - brings-forth - a greater truth to the painting, e.g. what the painter sketched before she layered the oil upon the canvas. Our root in the present, as entities only capable of engaging with art as it appears to us now, is mediated by the essence of technology. The past becomes revitalised as a cross-section through the present.

“By going back to its own root and almost beyond it, technology is made to disclose its revealing and concealing gesture, and further yet, its deep complicity with poetic creation.”

Jean-Michel Rabaté, The Future of Theory - 2002 Any engagement with art that effectively realigns its perceived surface with its palimpsest can be understood as poïetic: as techné.

This essential mode of technology does not rest naturally with our modern view, yet in the negative of essence, one finds a boundary via which to re-define technology yet further:

“The product of technology is not a function of a mutual context of making and use. It works to make invisible the labor that produced it, to appear as its own object, and thus to be self-perpetuating. Both the electric toaster and Finnegans Wake turn their makers into absent and invisible fictions.”

Susan Stewart, On Longing (1984) The idea of technology as labour towards product is intrinsic to our modern comprehension. But what of the technology of text? of the written or printed word? The labour which produced the technology of text is irrelevant to the essence of text itself. The essence of Finnegans Wake is in the crafting labour of readership – an active reversal of traditional perceptions. Text as techné reveals nothing less than the boundaries of consciousness, of truth, of humankind:

“For man, as Julian Huxley observes, unlike merely biological creatures, possesses an apparatus of transmission and transformation based on his power to store experience. And his power to store, as in language itself, is also a means of transformation of experience.”

Marshall Mcluhan, Understanding Media (1964) Language is revealed through text as the mode of our conscious experience – a truth which furthermore transforms the very capacities of the thoughts which think it. Once text, in its essence, is transmitted and elucidated via readership there is transformation “of the process of coming-into-being of the world” :

“From a phenomenological standpoint... the world emerges with its properties alongside the emergence of the perceiver in person, against a background of involved activity. Since the person is a being-in-the-world, the coming-into-being of the person is part and parcel of the process of coming-into-being of the world.”

Tim Ingold, The Perception of the Environment (2000) [ Note: This is an extract from my MA thesis, which is still in the process of being revealed. I hope you enjoyed it. ]

This slice in hyperspace follows on from these past posts: How things 'become': The infinity of definitionThe Archaeology of 'The Book'hypertext/?="The Metaphor is the Message" (Part I) ...and is a direct response to this post by Robokku: Temporal Hypertext Time is important in the definition of any model, hypertextual or otherwise. At the moment I am interested in how new technologies allow us new ways to see, to realise the world around us. This constant re-definition of our realities can actually add temporality to mediums which previously had none.

Modern technology has allowed art historians to 'look' at paintings with new, multidimensional, eyes. Shine certain wavelengths of light onto a Picasso painting and it becomes possible to read marks under the surface of the paint. What's more, apply several different wavelengths of light to the same painting and multiple layers, painted by the artist at various different times, become visible.

In a sense, once an available technology has re-examined the painting its process is more obvious: the non-temporal becomes temporal. Each layer is like a snap-shot of the artist's process, their vision, even their 'mistakes'. The laser/x-ray imposes a kind of hyper[textu]ality upon the painting which previously was unavailable (but not absent - only hidden). Of course this causes the art historian to weep with joy, but it also causes an exponential explosion of interpretation from that moment onwards. Any further examination of the painting now occurs in hyper-reference. The painting can never be seen as merely 2-dimensional again.

The example I have given can be extended to countless other mediums and medias. Film has its cutting room floor / multiple editions. Ancient manuscripts have their palimpsestic layers, just as the painting does. In fact palimpsest is THE word to use here, as it applies to all medias.

Examine the outside of an old brick building and very often you will find the outline of a window that was bricked in, a foundation that no longer leads to an out-house, or a patch of brickwork that had to be fixed. Even the photograph has had its dimensionality extended. These are remnants of temporality, just like the layers under the painting: the word is a palimpsest, and I've grown used to using it often.

Now here's the bit which leads back to my original post. and acts as in answer to Robokku's questions...

How does/can this palimpsestic awareness apply to the future of information/expression? The internet contains copies of its former self, hidden not so far from view. Wikipedia has its history section and google has its cache. The Internet Way Back Machine allows ghostly simulacra of webpages to be pulled out of the deep freeze. My 1998 homepage is alive, somewhere.

But is this layering of information the same as a palimpsest? I am not sure. Binding time together with human reality are the narratives that anthropomorphises it. Follow the xray-defined marks under the painting's surface and you can actually see the former brushstrokes of the artist, layer after layer, hour after hour: time is made real in the narrative story of the artist's action.

This kind of narrative arc does not really exist in internet archives. The user is taken out of the equation and all that is left is a username editing the entry on 'Defenestration' for the 12th,17th or 26th time. A ghost of personhood can be seen, but it is far inferior to the powerful force of just one single hidden Picasso brushstroke.

How can we infuse our new metaphors with these narrative dimensions?

I linked to a Seed magazine conversation in my Archaeology of the Book piece that NEEDS to be read (or watched) again and again. Please come back after the layers have realigned themselves and add some layers of your own to this (or Robokku's) post.