7. I, It, We, and They See You
Veröffentlicht: 13.12.2013
in der Serie Marvin Heiferman
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In Blue Nights, a 2011 book in which Joan Didion struggles to come to terms with her daughter’s death, she relates how, when she was briefly hospitalized herself, doctors urged her to undergo a medical procedure:

I recall resisting: since I had never in my life been able to swallow an aspirin it seemed unlikely that I could swallow a camera.

“Of course you can, it’s only a little camera.”

A pause. The attempt at briskness declined into wheedling: “It’s really a very little camera.”

In the end I did swallow the very little camera, and the very little camera transmitted the desired images, which did not demonstrate what was causing the bleed but did demonstrate that with sufficient sedation anyone could swallow a very little camera.

This passage is a reminder, if we need another one, that most of us are or end up as subjects of photographic surveillance. Cameras will slide down our throats and be pushed up into our bowels.  We will, for no or good reason, be photographed when and wherever we gather: on sidewalks; at events, meetings and demonstrations; in offices, stores, stadiums, airports, schools, elevators, and in our cars. If it were possible to collect and string together the images of us as we move through the world, the result would be an extended, time-lapse tracking shot of life in the panopticon, no longer an architectural concept or dystopian fantasy, but where we now live.

I am not paranoid person, but scroll through the archive of WHY WE LOOK, my Twitter project, and you will see  that I am repeatedly drawn to and surprised by news stories that report on why, how easily and often our lives are being pictured, exposed, and monitored by the eyes of others. The art and photography worlds focus on and reward cleverly conceived and constructed images, but the most transgressive of images in today’s visual culture are those made, not for the ages, but for the moment, to be data-mined and, perhaps, acted upon.

To those of us who track or revel in the look-at-this, look-at-that miscellany that photographs open up or mirror back to us, it is humbling, frightening, and essential to acknowledge that the  collection of data, for good or nefarious purposes, is where much of photography’s utility and power lies.

As individuals, we engage in the photographic surveillance process willfully and, with digital cameras always at hand, frequently. In previous posts, we’ve looked at those who stake out and scrutinize themselves in continuous streams of selfies. Early adapters of life-logging and/or wearable cameras will soon have hands-off tools to picture every place they go and everything they see along the way. That activity might be read as a strategy to fight off existential dread, a celebration of life, or confirmation that we have become unpaid interns working for the corporations that make those devices and whatever agencies or individuals figure out how to appropriate that information.

Off-the-shelf Surveillance Cameras

We purchase the cameras that hover above infants’ cribs and monitor their sleep, and install granny-cams in nursing homes and hospitals to check up on family. We install security systems to monitor those who near or enter our homes. In Russia, dashboard cameras are widely installed in cars to pre-emptively scoop up information that may become useful if accidents are staged or take place. And we, in turn and of course, are relentlessly watched by cameras now seeming mounted everywhere--in the heads of retail store mannequins and on satellites producing images instrumental to determining the whereabouts, activities and probable next moves of innocents and violators.

Douglas Huebler, Variable Piece #70, 1975

I’ve always been intrigued with work by artists—including Bruce Nauman, Douglas Huebler, Merry Alpern, Sophie Calle, Lewis Baltz, and Trevor Paglen—that explores surveillance and the politics of sight.

MPH Red-Light Camera Notice of Liability
© Marvin Heiferman

I’ve had run-ins with surveillance in my personal life, too. Photographic images illustrated the traffic summons I received a while ago in the mail, supposed proof that my car illegally glided through an intersection where, I swear, the light was changing. But it didn’t look that way in photos produced by a profit-generating, red-light camera. I have to admit that while I was miffed, I was also amused by the fact that photography, the medium I’ve spent a lifetime advocating for, had nailed me.

Less humorous was a day, three years after that, when I climbed the stairs to my fifth-floor loft in midtown Manhattan and spotted something suspicious. Wires taped to the wall and that ran to the carbon monoxide monitor mounted high up in the hallway and facing my door, which I’d never paid much attention to before, lay on the floor. The moment I stooped to pick them up and them, a feeling of dread welled up in me.

Sixth Avenue, NYC, 2009
© Marvin Heiferman

All it took was a single, sharp tug to bring the carbon monoxide monitor crashing down. Once I’d nervously pried apart its cheap plastic housing, I found a tiny video camera no larger than a pencil point inside. Stunned at first, I quickly grasped the situation.  My landlord, who had been harassing all the loft tenants on the block for a quarter of a century, had gone high tech. The more primitive VHS videotape security system installed at the building’s street-level entrance produced tapes that needed to be logged in real time, making surveillance expensive.  This new digital system created an easily searchable record of each of my entrances and exits through the door, which I immediately understood would cause trouble for me.  And did. Within a year, and because of local laws defining residency, I had vacated the space to a new tenant ready to pay eight times the rent that I did. Once again, the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me. I wasn’t the only one who relished or made a living looking at photographs, many of which are made without their subject’s permission or awareness.

Video camera hidden in a carbon monoxide monitor, 2009
© Marvin Heiferman

Earlier this year, a good friend and a photographer, told me a related story. Her loft--in a multi-storied and glass-fronted building in a large mid-western American city--faces a thoroughfare where parades periodically pass by. On a day when one did, my friend was naked, calmly doing yoga exercises on her bed, and only vaguely conscious of the muffled sounds of celebrants wafting up from below. What broke the meditative mood and captured her attention, however, was the small drone outside her window, which had been floating above and slowly advancing with the parade until it spotted her. Mini-propeller blades still whirling, it spun around to face her, hovered in place until she ran for cover, and only then moved on.

These examples are, of course, minor examples of the methodical and increasingly sophisticated processes of surveillance that photography has enabled and abetted since its introduction. A thorough and much-needed exploration of invasive looking was co-organized by Sandra Phillips of SFMOMA and Simon Baker from the Tate Modern Exposed: Voyeurism, Surveillance and the Camera Since 1870 in 2010;. And for those interested in who or what does the looking these days--and all of us should be--alarms are increasingly being rung to alert us not only to the sorts of photographic images that are made and collected, but what (as Peter Burleigh rightly pointed in comments on this blog) happens to them once they are.

The future of photography is being defined by forces that, if no longer beyond our imagination, seem out of our control. With the release of ever-more detailed revelations of the scope of international surveillance, the push-back attempts now being mounted by privacy advocates, consumers, and even corporate information carriers make it clear that it is time to get serious about watching over those who watch over us.

Some recent articles exploring the theme:

Tech Giants Issue Call for Limits on Government Surveillance of Users

State surveillance of personal data: what is the society we wish to protect?

Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. New algorithm finds you, even in untagged photos

Face-reading softeware not only identifies you, but your mood, too

Sony files patent for a wig camera embedded in it

Google takes cameras indoors to map airports, train and subway stations with Street View update

1 Kommentar(e)
Peter Burleigh
Abgesendet am 19.12.2013 um 11:12

Again I agree, but also disagree with Marvin...

The history of vision has, I think, followed two key paths: on the one hand, the making visible—actually what we are most familiar with, and to which photography has contributed a great deal; on the other, its antecedent—the very possibility of vision.

The well trodden allegory of Plato’s Cave is certainly about the possibility of vision, both as a mechanism that parallels a truth and goodness in light—and as a Socratic declaration that a teacher can only show their student the way to enlightenment but not the end product... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=69F7GhASOdM

On the other hand, The Enlightenment as an epistemic revolution literally opens up the body to visibility: For example Vesalius’ “Fabrica” as a forerunner to William Hunter’s anatomical atlas which developed what John Bender has called the modest witness.

Where the Platonic-Socratic axis understood vision as embodied and truthful in individual experience, the Scottish rationalists measured, categorized, represented a truth as objective sense data that stood outside the body in an array of data. It is the Enlightenment perspective that leads to the materialisation of vision as a rational objective natural witness: photography, while the possibility of a particular visuality per se grounds the virtual/actual interface of the photogenic.

The medical penetration into the body, opening interior cavities up to light, gave way to penetrative wave scans of the body that image it without requiring an invasive camera within which to operate. The swallowed medical camera which Marvin mentions both operates with a camera (a box inside which images are made) and more importantly requires a camera or cavity in which projected incident light is reflected back to the ‘eye’ of the camera. An optical fibre camera won’t capture any image if it is pressed up against tissue. But tomographic scans produce images of the body that require neither light nor space (in the sense of a cavity in which projection and reflection of light can occur). Rather they demand solid tissue to produce visible representations of the body.

Surveillance thus operates both body-externally through photographic processes, and body-internally through tomographic ones.

Now the question is whether indeed the surveillance that we are exposed to disciplines us as Marvin has argued. Disciplines us as docile subjects of a supercapitalism. Marvin, you’re completely right to think of the photographs now being made as data which fits into an array rather than as visual objects that indicate a subject. This tendency can be located at the bifurcation of orthodox (Bentham/Foucault) 19th-century panoptical vision (potentially being watched, not knowing whether one is watched, behaving according to the expected norms because one expects one is being watched…) into the oligoptic on the one hand, and the panspectral on the other.

Chris Otter’s excellent Brought to Light: Photography and the Invisible tracks the processes and technologies of making visible in Victorian cities, suggesting that there is an emerging regime of collective vision in the 19th century—which perhaps now is fully fledged.

“…an oligoptic space lacks a central, dominant vantage point, making it an arena within which a small group of people observe each other: it is a place where mutual oversight takes place. In an oligoptic space the viewed can always return the glance because all viewers are viewed, and, hence, one can always verify whether one is being watched.”

The oligoptic is a kind of surveying to monitor and mutually benefit: benevolent inspection of housing conditions, work practices, levels of pollution.

In contrast, panspectral observation collects data across an array of cross-references that feed a bureaucratic machinery of automatized observation
(— here I am thinking of Taylorism and time & motion studies, in one direction; Galton’s multiple printed images of criminal, emotional, and racial types which in the end became so indistinct as to add up to nothing, in the other.)

Today, it seems then that there is no longer a question of the possibility of vision, or even the possibility of being seen. These are both just givens. Some of this necessity of visibility, which we seem no longer to be able to avoid, nor shirk is channelled to a shared good: the kind of closed-circuit TV surveillance that happens in London busses, for example, does not hide that you are being watched, or worse may be being watched. The images of different positions in the bus are screened inside the bus: basically, every passenger can see themselves and others, and sees and knows that they themselves and others are being watched, or at least recorded. In this system, the policing imperative is directly distributed amongst those who are policed, a ‘democratic’ oligoptic system. Under such observation in a London bus, we all share in being authorities about the norms of accepted behaviour—even if we are not all capable of enforcing those norms through the threat of physical force. This is where the oligoptic meets the shattered panopticon—mutual observation meshed with smaller internalized policing structures. In the best of worlds it works…in the worst of worlds it goes down a nasty avenue

The paths of observation—external and internal—collapse on one another in the kind of surveillance that the NSA justifies as a ‘making safe’, or that the TSA’s complete body scanning, which compresses the visual, the tomographic and data into a risk-assessing algorithm engenders. The pervasively invisible data-driven image collection, panspectral sweeping of our world for cross matched salient features that break expected norms is the danger that implicit visibility evokes. The only reassurance that we can have in relation to photography as a mode of vision is that the optical camera not see inside a body, can’t ‘see’ if we push them right up against us.

Perhaps this is the way to resist the pervasive monitoring of photography. Can we make ourselves less distinctly identifiable to photographic systems by bringing those prosthetic eyes so close that the excess information muffles the details (as with Galton’s multiple prints). Shouldn’t we just let regimes of vision run wild and capture as much of us as we like, in the end to leave us with our freedom?

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