Should we worship at the altar of convergence? It might take a great leap of faith to do so — as even Jenkins himself notes in his introduction to Convergence Culture, the questions about convergence are primarily ones of uncertainty, and the possibilities of convergence are primarily still waiting to be realized.
But talk of convergence usually centers on consumers, Tara McPherson points out in “Reload:
Liveness, Mobility, and the Web.” She writes about corporations espousing convergence and the possibilities of “participatory entertainment.” But what about the possibilities of convergence for participatory democracy?
“Choice,” “presence,” “movement,” “possibility” describe the experience of Web surfing for the consumer, Jenkins writes. But they could also describe the experiences of a political participant in the convergence age. Participatory culture is an important part of convergence. As media consumers rethink their relationship to media, they grow more participatory and invested in their partial ownership of the medium. Jenkins’ concept of collective intelligence as consumption-as-collective-process poses even more intriguing questions about government-as-collective-process, even if he admits to being more interested in the former.
But, he writes, “we are mostly using this collective power through our recreational life, but soon we will be deploying those skills for more ‘serious’ purposes.” In this way, the transformation of political culture will echo the transformation of popular culture.
One way in particular new media has offered a flattening of the political hierarchy is through new ways of digesting the news, as blogs and podcasts and “citizen journalists” gain power. McPherson calls neo-Fordism the process by which the worker is incorporated into capital rather than subjected to it. Similarly, these new alternative outlets have set their own agenda, picking up on stories the mainstream media misses and even forming temporary “flash mobs” to bring an incident like Trent Lott’s comments about Strom Thurmond to the forefront of the nation’s attention. These neo-Fordists are invested in their product, the news, to such an extent that they form a virtual army of fact-checkers for every statement made by a politician and every claim make in a newspaper article. McPherson writes about the empowerment of the media consumer as the old TV idea of “controlling the audience” is replaced by a consumer-centered way of thinking—a process that is evident in the way television news is no longer able to unilaterally set the agenda. But the assertion, which Glenn Reynolds made in his book An Army of Davids, that citizen journalism will mean “the end of the power of Big Media” was too optimistic.
This leads us to the point that the political changes convergence may cause, like the pop-cultural changes, will be limited. Old media don't die but are transformed by their contact with newer media, as Jenkins writes; likewise the old political patterns will likely manifest themselves in newer ones.
Because convergence is, once again, a two-way street, with elements of divergence built right in. McPherson rightly points out that just as the grassroots are using convergence, so are corporations; even as technology empowers the individual it is empowering the powerful. Corporations try to continue to control media consumption the way they could with television by carefully programming Web sites, even while Internet users feel the illusion of volition and mobility that the Web creates. But even so, consumers in the age of convergence are trailblazing a path for a new breed of citizen.
Manovich/Jameson
Lev Manovich argues that navigable space is a fundamental form of new media. Summarizing his argument, explain how it relates (or does not relate) to Fredric Jameson’s conception of cognitive mapping, or Jean Baudrillard’s concept of simulation.
Fredric Jameson believes the most important characteristics of postmodernist space are the political and social implications, while Lev Manovich is much more concerned with its aesthetic ramifications. Thus Manovich doesn’t discuss the “suppression of distance” or the differences between local and greater spaces—Jameson uses the idea of space as a metaphor to discuss other things, while Manovich is interested in space itself.
However, Jameson’s idea of cognitive mapping as the individual’s place within the totality of the world meshes easily with Manovich, who points out that many navigable spaces take the form of a first-person navigation experience. Once again, however, Jameson’s concept of space is a metaphor, so as a literal placement of a person in space, navigable space does not mesh with Jameson’s ideas.
Manovich's central thesis is that navigable space is common to all forms of new media, both in literal navigation and the "navigation" of data, even though it isn't necessarily the most efficient means for the latter. It is "a key foundation for new media aesthetics," he writes—used in games (Doom and Myst) as well as work (operating systems, data analyses). However, Manovich seems to see navigable space as a medium as a series of unfulfilled opportunities.
For example, he writes that navigable space has much to offer in the way of storytelling opportunities by challenging the narration/description binary—instead, there are narrative actions and exploration, but exploration is part of the narrative, and the narrative is composed of navigation, not characterization or psychological narrative. Manovich is concerned with space not just an interface but a cultural form of its own.
However, while computers have changed in their power (for example, computer games' graphics have improved), navigable space as a concept has not really evolved. Manovich suggests that looking at other art forms may provide solutions to that problem—for example, how do painters (who also deal with a rectangular frame) address space? Jameson is likewise very concerned with historical context. Manovich also notes that most examples of computer navigable space only imitate real space, while the medium allows for new conceptions of space—for example, refusing to follow the typical space/object binary.
Navigable space is at the heart of the Internet as well—and, like the Internet, has its origins in the military by way of flight simulators. The term "cyberspace" comes from steering, and browser names like Netscape Navigator and Internet Explorer (and Safari) play on the navigation theme.
Manovich points out that navigable space is also capable of "flattening" hierarchy; for example, by combining narration and exploration it defeats the hierarchy of narration. As well, navigable space is usually isotropic, so it doesn't even favor one direction over another! The humans who navigate computer space come in two types, Manovich argues: the flaneur or dandy (the chatroom or Second Life user, perhaps) and the explorer (the Doom or Myst player). This may suggest a class distinction, and Jameson says class no longer exists. On the other hand, it's very likely that many Internet dandies are also explorers and vice versa, and it's not clear which would be the higher class.
Lastly, computer space is and will continue to be, Manovich argues, more often haptic or aggregate, where objects are viewed as separate from and unrelated to the space they inhabit, than optic, in which the space exists before the object. He explains this with the example of polygonal modeling, where the space is a "vacuum." He argues that computer space is not used as a medium, where space and objects would be closely linked. Jameson explores a similar idea in his description of “monadic relativism,” in which he writes that each individual is in a closed world and a “representation of the social totality” would depict “sealed subjective worlds and their peculiar interactions”—like the discrete objects in computer space.
Even if Manovich is more concerned with the (as yet unfulfilled) promises of space as art form, and Jameson with its political implications, their ideas do overlap on occasion. It remains to be seen whether navigable space will come into its own as a medium.
Fredric Jameson believes the most important characteristics of postmodernist space are the political and social implications, while Lev Manovich is much more concerned with its aesthetic ramifications. Thus Manovich doesn’t discuss the “suppression of distance” or the differences between local and greater spaces—Jameson uses the idea of space as a metaphor to discuss other things, while Manovich is interested in space itself.
However, Jameson’s idea of cognitive mapping as the individual’s place within the totality of the world meshes easily with Manovich, who points out that many navigable spaces take the form of a first-person navigation experience. Once again, however, Jameson’s concept of space is a metaphor, so as a literal placement of a person in space, navigable space does not mesh with Jameson’s ideas.
Manovich's central thesis is that navigable space is common to all forms of new media, both in literal navigation and the "navigation" of data, even though it isn't necessarily the most efficient means for the latter. It is "a key foundation for new media aesthetics," he writes—used in games (Doom and Myst) as well as work (operating systems, data analyses). However, Manovich seems to see navigable space as a medium as a series of unfulfilled opportunities.
For example, he writes that navigable space has much to offer in the way of storytelling opportunities by challenging the narration/description binary—instead, there are narrative actions and exploration, but exploration is part of the narrative, and the narrative is composed of navigation, not characterization or psychological narrative. Manovich is concerned with space not just an interface but a cultural form of its own.
However, while computers have changed in their power (for example, computer games' graphics have improved), navigable space as a concept has not really evolved. Manovich suggests that looking at other art forms may provide solutions to that problem—for example, how do painters (who also deal with a rectangular frame) address space? Jameson is likewise very concerned with historical context. Manovich also notes that most examples of computer navigable space only imitate real space, while the medium allows for new conceptions of space—for example, refusing to follow the typical space/object binary.
Navigable space is at the heart of the Internet as well—and, like the Internet, has its origins in the military by way of flight simulators. The term "cyberspace" comes from steering, and browser names like Netscape Navigator and Internet Explorer (and Safari) play on the navigation theme.
Manovich points out that navigable space is also capable of "flattening" hierarchy; for example, by combining narration and exploration it defeats the hierarchy of narration. As well, navigable space is usually isotropic, so it doesn't even favor one direction over another! The humans who navigate computer space come in two types, Manovich argues: the flaneur or dandy (the chatroom or Second Life user, perhaps) and the explorer (the Doom or Myst player). This may suggest a class distinction, and Jameson says class no longer exists. On the other hand, it's very likely that many Internet dandies are also explorers and vice versa, and it's not clear which would be the higher class.
Lastly, computer space is and will continue to be, Manovich argues, more often haptic or aggregate, where objects are viewed as separate from and unrelated to the space they inhabit, than optic, in which the space exists before the object. He explains this with the example of polygonal modeling, where the space is a "vacuum." He argues that computer space is not used as a medium, where space and objects would be closely linked. Jameson explores a similar idea in his description of “monadic relativism,” in which he writes that each individual is in a closed world and a “representation of the social totality” would depict “sealed subjective worlds and their peculiar interactions”—like the discrete objects in computer space.
Even if Manovich is more concerned with the (as yet unfulfilled) promises of space as art form, and Jameson with its political implications, their ideas do overlap on occasion. It remains to be seen whether navigable space will come into its own as a medium.
Introduction & Excerpt
I have used four of Barthes’s codes, most with modifications. One I have tailored specifically to the novel, and more specifically to the passage: references to the nature of the narration, that is, those references which remind the reader that his or her only view into Case’s world is through Case’s eyes. There’s a little overlap there with the cultural code, but I’ve tried to keep them separate. I also used the proairetic code, marking the recurring throwaway details between the dialogue, without commenting on them. The hermeneutic code will mark the various parts that start or continue a mystery thread. I used the symbolic code in one specific case, where it draws distinctions between the old and young. I’ve also split the cultural code into two groups: those references intended to alienate the reader from the fictional world, and those intended to remind the reader that the fictional world is related to the real world.
The passage is marked off by the beginning of a chapter at one end and by a shift in scene at the other. I have chosen not to break the text up physically, one, because the medium allows it, and two, Barthes himself acknowledges that splitting it is “arbitrary in the extreme.” In any given segment, he does not analyze every word, but only a few phrases. So, I’ve left the pieces which have less to offer alone and marked only the important parts.
The passage is marked off by the beginning of a chapter at one end and by a shift in scene at the other. I have chosen not to break the text up physically, one, because the medium allows it, and two, Barthes himself acknowledges that splitting it is “arbitrary in the extreme.” In any given segment, he does not analyze every word, but only a few phrases. So, I’ve left the pieces which have less to offer alone and marked only the important parts.
After a year of coffins, the room on the twenty-first floor of the Chiba Hilton seemed enormous. It was ten meters by eight, half of a suite. A white Braun coffeemaker steamed on a low table by the sliding glass panels that opened onto a narrow balcony.
“Get some coffee in you. Look like you need it.” She took off her black jacket; the fletcher hung beneath her arm in a black nylon shoulder rig. She wore a sleeveless gray pullover with plain steel zips across each shoulder. Bulletproof, Case decided, slopping coffee into a bright red mug. His arms and legs felt like they were made of wood.
“Case.” He looked up, seeing the man for the first time. “My name is Armitage.” The dark robe was open to the waist, the broad chest hairless and muscular, the stomach flat and hard. Blue eyes so pale they made Case think of bleach. “Sun’s up, Case. This is your lucky day, boy.”
Case whipped his arm sideways and the man easily ducked the scalding coffee. Brown stain running down the imitation ricepaper wall. He saw the angular gold ring through the left lobe. Special Forces. The man smiled.
“Get your coffee, Case,” Molly said. “You’re okay, but you’re not going anywhere ’til Armitage has his say.” She sat crosslegged on a silk futon and began to fieldstrip the fletcher without bothering to look at it. Twin mirrors tracking as he crossed to the table and refilled his cup.
“Too young to remember the war, aren’t you, Case?” Armitage ran a large hand back through his cropped brown hair. A heavy gold bracelet flashed on his wrist. “Leningrad, Kiev, Siberia. We invented you in Siberia, Case.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Screaming Fist, Case. You’ve heard the name.”
“Some kind of run, wasn’t it? Tried to burn this Russian nexus with virus programs. Yeah, I heard about it. And nobody got out.”
He sensed abrupt tension. Armitage walked to the window and looked out over Tokyo Bay. “That isn’t true. One unit made it back to Helsinki, Case.”
Case shrugged, sipped coffee.
“You’re a console cowboy. The prototypes of the programs you use to crack industrial banks were developed for Screaming Fist. For the assault on the Kirensk computer nexus. Basic module was a Nightwing microlight, a pilot, a matrix deck, a jockey. We were running a virus called Mole. The Mole series was the first generation of real intrusion programs.”
“Icebreakers,” Case said, over the rim of the red mug.
“Ice from ICE, intrusion countermeasures electronics.”
“Problem is, mister, I’m no jockey now, so I think I’ll just be going. . . .”
“I was there, Case; I was there when they invented your kind.”
“You got zip to do with me and my kind, buddy. You’re rich enough to hire expensive razorgirls to haul my ass up here, is all. I’m never gonna punch any deck again, not for you or anybody else.” He crossed to the window and looked down. “That’s where I live now.”
Case's role in narration:
Year. Though it’s clear to Case that it’s been a year since his employers disabled him, the reader may or may not have gleaned that from the previous chapter.
She. Even though Case knows Molly’s name, he’s apparently not willing to use her name yet. In fact, since a new chapter has begun, one would expect the author to use Molly’s name again before reverting to pronouns, but, if we take the author’s voice largely to be Case’s, then the omission makes sense. (See “the man.”)
Bulletproof, Case decided. Reminds the reader that he or she depends on Case to offer an accurate interpretation of events. Since the narration is third-person limited, Gibson isn’t going to offer an opinion on whether or not the vest is indeed bulletproof. The reader’s instinct is to trust Case, but elsewhere Case is shown as somewhat naïve and fallible. Even the act of reading the narration is largely an act of trusting the fictional character.
His arms and legs felt like they were made of wood. Like most references to Case’s health or feelings, this one reminds the reader that is either hung over from or currently under the influence of some sort of drug. It’s another reminder of Case’s fallibility as a character.
The dark robe was open to the waist, the broad chest hairless and muscular, the stomach flat and hard. Three descriptions, three uses of the definite article instead of the personal pronoun “his.” It establishes a distance from the goings-on that Case/Case the narrator seems to like to keep. Another example: the reference to a “brown stain” after Case throws his coffee, as though the stain is somehow not connected to his throwing the coffee.
the man. Once again, though Case and the reader have learned Armitage’s name, rather than naming the character, the text uses “the man.” Perhaps it reflects the character’s unwillingness to trust Armitage or accept him right away.
Twin mirrors tracking. Molly’s glasses are frequently used as synecdoche for her eyes, another instance perhaps of the distance between her and Case.
She. Even though Case knows Molly’s name, he’s apparently not willing to use her name yet. In fact, since a new chapter has begun, one would expect the author to use Molly’s name again before reverting to pronouns, but, if we take the author’s voice largely to be Case’s, then the omission makes sense. (See “the man.”)
Bulletproof, Case decided. Reminds the reader that he or she depends on Case to offer an accurate interpretation of events. Since the narration is third-person limited, Gibson isn’t going to offer an opinion on whether or not the vest is indeed bulletproof. The reader’s instinct is to trust Case, but elsewhere Case is shown as somewhat naïve and fallible. Even the act of reading the narration is largely an act of trusting the fictional character.
His arms and legs felt like they were made of wood. Like most references to Case’s health or feelings, this one reminds the reader that is either hung over from or currently under the influence of some sort of drug. It’s another reminder of Case’s fallibility as a character.
The dark robe was open to the waist, the broad chest hairless and muscular, the stomach flat and hard. Three descriptions, three uses of the definite article instead of the personal pronoun “his.” It establishes a distance from the goings-on that Case/Case the narrator seems to like to keep. Another example: the reference to a “brown stain” after Case throws his coffee, as though the stain is somehow not connected to his throwing the coffee.
the man. Once again, though Case and the reader have learned Armitage’s name, rather than naming the character, the text uses “the man.” Perhaps it reflects the character’s unwillingness to trust Armitage or accept him right away.
Twin mirrors tracking. Molly’s glasses are frequently used as synecdoche for her eyes, another instance perhaps of the distance between her and Case.
Cultural—real:
coffins. The reference for today’s reader is to a vessel used to encase and bury corpses. The reference for an inhabitant of the novel’s world would encapsulate that as well, but would register a “coffin” primarily as a small, cheap place to sleep. It’s not difficult for the reader to realize, from context, that that’s what “coffin” means, though. It’s a common practice both in science fiction and reality, after all, English has a preference for assigning old words new values rather than making up new ones. Examples: mouse, desktop, trash. The effect of this and the following references to the real world is to make the world more accessible to the reader; without references to his or her own life, the reader can dismiss the story as completely unrelated to himself or herself.
twenty-first floor of the Chiba Hilton. There is, in fact, a Hilton in present-day Chiba, outside Tokyo. It does not, however, have twenty-one or more floors. It’s perhaps, reassuring to the reader that the Hilton chain still exists. In fact, many name brands are still present in Gibson’s book.
white Braun coffeemaker. Also exists:
(amazon.com)
imitation ricepaper. An excellent example of a combination of the two halves of the novel’s cultural references—ricepaper is recognizable, imitation ricepaper is a little stranger.
Tokyo Bay. Another real geographical feature. And it turns out the real Chiba Hilton is also on the Bay!
(www1.hilton.com)
jockey. A reference to the person who rides a horse in a race, here applied to something else: someone who uses a computer deck for hacking-type excursions. Similar to “coffin.”
twenty-first floor of the Chiba Hilton. There is, in fact, a Hilton in present-day Chiba, outside Tokyo. It does not, however, have twenty-one or more floors. It’s perhaps, reassuring to the reader that the Hilton chain still exists. In fact, many name brands are still present in Gibson’s book.
white Braun coffeemaker. Also exists:
(amazon.com)
Also, the drinking of coffee relates the world once again to our own; it’s conceivable that an octagon could serve the same function as caffeine, but the coffee is more accessible.
imitation ricepaper. An excellent example of a combination of the two halves of the novel’s cultural references—ricepaper is recognizable, imitation ricepaper is a little stranger.
Tokyo Bay. Another real geographical feature. And it turns out the real Chiba Hilton is also on the Bay!
jockey. A reference to the person who rides a horse in a race, here applied to something else: someone who uses a computer deck for hacking-type excursions. Similar to “coffin.”
Cultural—fictional:
fletcher. From context, a weapon that shoots darts. It’s obvious from context that it’s a weapon, since she “fieldstrips” it, and the first time it is called a fletchette pistol. A reader aware of what a flechette is would get it more quickly than I did.
the war. Ask a person in 1938 about “the war,” and they’ll talk about the first World War. Today, “the war” means Iraq. So the reader is aware of the practice of referring to wars non-specifically with the expectation a person will understand them. But the reader is thrown off, in this case, because in this fictional world what war it is, who fought, what the outcome was is not known.
Special Forces. This term has a meaning in the real-world military, but its application here is odd because Case apparently associates it with a gold earring.
console cowboy. Another reapplication of a recognizable name. This one has more apparent connotations: cowboy as renegade, cowboy as pejorative, cowboy as independent, cowboy as outlaw. All are applicable to the console cowboy as well.
(Case? Image from legendsofamerica.com)
Ice from ICE. This is an interesting example of the author pausing actually to explain an unknown reference. Maybe he thought the term “icebreaker” was too clever not to explain its etymology; regardless it’s a little out of place when the purpose of the other fictional references is to displace the reader, not to clue him or her in.
punch any deck.
the war. Ask a person in 1938 about “the war,” and they’ll talk about the first World War. Today, “the war” means Iraq. So the reader is aware of the practice of referring to wars non-specifically with the expectation a person will understand them. But the reader is thrown off, in this case, because in this fictional world what war it is, who fought, what the outcome was is not known.
Special Forces. This term has a meaning in the real-world military, but its application here is odd because Case apparently associates it with a gold earring.
console cowboy. Another reapplication of a recognizable name. This one has more apparent connotations: cowboy as renegade, cowboy as pejorative, cowboy as independent, cowboy as outlaw. All are applicable to the console cowboy as well.
(Case? Image from legendsofamerica.com)
Ice from ICE. This is an interesting example of the author pausing actually to explain an unknown reference. Maybe he thought the term “icebreaker” was too clever not to explain its etymology; regardless it’s a little out of place when the purpose of the other fictional references is to displace the reader, not to clue him or her in.
punch any deck.
Hermeneutical:
To some extent, the cultural-fictional references serve the same function as the hermeneutical codes. I reserved this section for those references which recur later in the novel or are otherwise mysteries.
Case whipped his arm sideways. This is more of a temporary mystery—why is he whipping his arm? To throw coffee at Armitage? Why is he throwing his coffee at Armitage? This one’s harder to answer. Maybe he doesn’t trust him. It’s also possible he’s testing him in some way.
Screaming Fist. This is only the first reference to an operation and a story that figures heavily in Armitage’s background. The summary description he offers is far from complete, and details continue to emerge until the end of the novel.
Case whipped his arm sideways. This is more of a temporary mystery—why is he whipping his arm? To throw coffee at Armitage? Why is he throwing his coffee at Armitage? This one’s harder to answer. Maybe he doesn’t trust him. It’s also possible he’s testing him in some way.
Screaming Fist. This is only the first reference to an operation and a story that figures heavily in Armitage’s background. The summary description he offers is far from complete, and details continue to emerge until the end of the novel.
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