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it was the damn phones after all

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If you have spent any time online, you have likely encountered the complaints from older generations about the sweeping cultural changes brought about by Gen Z. Teenagers today are less likely to drink underage, they go out less often, and rates of teenage pregnancy have decreased dramatically. Psychologist Jean Twenge describes this phenomenon as slow living: a lifestyle in which adolescence stretches over a longer period, partly because extended lifespans and shifting social norms have altered societal expectations from young people (268).

A few decades ago, teens counted the days until they could get their driver’s license. Now, it is common to meet adults well past eighteen who still have not obtained one. Parents who were rebellious teenagers themselves have raised their children in far more sheltered environments (Twenge 270). It has become increasingly rare to see kids playing outdoors without supervision or even trick-or-treating freely on Halloween. In an effort to protect children from the dangers of the outside world, parents prefer to keep their kids where they can see them. Compared to parents of the past who limited screen access, many of today’s parents allow near-unrestricted device use. Children now often receive an iPad long before they get their first bike—that is if they get one at all.

As a result, children’s perceptions of the world are now doubly mediated: first by their parents, and second by digital devices. One could argue that parental supervision is not new and that all children come to understand the world through some form of adult mediation. But in the past, these restrictions created fertile ground for rebellion and experimentation (Twenge 270). Twenge cites an article explaining how “the internet has made it so easy to gratify basic social and sexual needs that there’s far less incentive to go out into the ‘meatworld’ and chase those things… The internet [can] supply you with just enough satisfaction to placate those imperatives” (267) There is no more need for transgression because all desires can be fulfilled through digital mediation.

This is congruent with Alison Landsberg’s concept of prosthetic memory. These are memories that are not imprints of any personal experience but rather, are implanted in a person’s consciousness, typically through mass media (Landsberg 175). She used the example of cinema, but in an age when people are bombarded with digital images every waking minute of the day, it is safe to assume that most of their senses have been thoroughly numbed. Many of their lived experiences have been replaced by prosthetic memories which have so completely embedded themselves into their lives that it is hard to discern the difference between the real and prosthetic. With unrestricted access to the internet, the boundary between childhood and adulthood blurs. Children regularly encounter media created for adults including everything from movies, television, to social platforms. Inevitably, these cultural products contain adult themes with often little to no restrictions on who gets to access them. The result is an early desensitization that is in line with Baudrillard’s claim that postmodern society is marked by the disappearance of “real” experience (178).

But if digital experiences are replacing ‘real’ ones, does that mean younger generations are not living at all? 

Well, not exactly. 

Landsberg argues that mediated experiences can be crucial sites of identity formation. Prosthetic memories function as stand-ins for lived experience. Theis ability to shape our identities is almost identical to that of real experience (Landsberg 180). This is especially visible in the aesthetics popular among Gen Z. Many of today’s popular trends, from 80s revivals to the y2k renaissance, are rooted in nostalgia for eras most Gen Z members never experienced firsthand. Yet these revivals are not always faithful recreations. For instance, the term y2k originally referred to the Year 2000 computer bug and the anxieties surrounding it, but in the 2020s it has come to signify the most glamorous, desirable aspects of early-2000s pop culture. For Gen Z, y2k has taken on an entirely new meaning. Landberg claims that as social creatures, humans are eager to position themselves within narratives of history. Despite not having lived through the era themselves, through the prosthetic memories obtained from media representations of the 90s and 2000s, Gen Z extracted key elements of the style prevalent in those periods to revive and reconstruct y2k into an aesthetic unique to the 2020s.

Landsberg maintains that the line between real and mediated experience is not etched in stone. All experiences are mediated experiences, and to consider digitally mediated experience to be lesser than ‘real’ experience is quite a narrow point of view (Landsber 178). As Marshall McLuhan famously said, “All media works us over completely.” Thus, from a Landsbergian point of view, the fact that most of Gen Z’s experiences are digitally mediated, does not mean that they are not really living. 

However, despite Landsberg’s technological optimism, I am a bit hesitant about fully embracing mediated experiences. My opinions align more with Baudrillard’s theory of hyperreality (Landsberg 178). Though I agree that most experiences are mediated, I also do believe the physical materiality of lived experiences is superior to digitally mediated experience. Ultimately, no matter how pervasive digital technologies become, I believe we should try to engage in ‘real’ experiences alongside digitally mediated experiences as much as we can. 

references

  1. Cari | Aesthetic | Y2K Aesthetic. Accessed December 2, 2025. https://cari.institute/aesthetics/y2k-aesthetic. 
  2. Landsberg, Alison. “Prosthetic Memory: Total Recall and Blade Runner.” Cyberspace/Cyberbodies/Cyberpunk: Cultures of Technological                    Embodiment, 1995, 175–90. https://doi.org/10.4135/9781446250198.n10. 
  3. Twenge, Jean M.. Generations : The Real Differences Between Gen Z, Millennials, Gen X, Boomers, and Silents–And What They Mean for America’s Future, Atria Books, 2023. ProQuest Ebook Central, https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/ubc/detail.action?docID=7208544. 177-249
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Embracing Failure and Negativity— A Critical Review of ‘The Queer Art of Failure’

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“If at first you don’t succeed, failure may be your style.” – Quentin Crisp

People fail more often than they succeed; in any competition, there are inevitably more losers than winners. Yet failure is still widely treated as embarrassing or shameful, something to be hidden or quickly overcome. Even optimistic narratives that claim to celebrate failure tend to frame it only as a necessary step on the road to eventual success. In The Queer Art of Failure, Judith/Jack Halberstam challenges this assumption, exploring forgetfulness, stupidity, masochism, and rejection to propose failure as a mode for imagining queer histories and resisting heteronormative social structures. Drawing on “low theory”, (cultural texts such as television shows, children’s films, and other forms of popular media) Halberstam explores the radical potential of failure in shaping queer culture and identities. 

Overview and Summary

The book starts off by introducing ‘Pixarvolt’, a genre of films produced by Pixar with overt or covert messages of rebellion. Halberstam claims that the inherent queerness of the child and their dependability on the adults in their lives makes them the perfect audience for narratives about rebellion and revolution.  Moreover, such themes are typically not explored within adult media which tends to veer towards gritty realism, rather than idealist fantasies of revolution. This preference for realism extends to animation as a medium, which is typically relegated to the realm of children’s media due to its exaggerated, anthropomorphic portrayal of fictional characters, and idealist themes of community and self-actualization. He also talks about ‘The March of the Penguins’, a documentary about penguins, and how it views animals through a heternormative lens which eventually leads to bias and misreporting. Thus, heteronormativity becomes the mediational means through which these scientists view the world. 

He builds a case for embracing, instead of rejecting, failure, negativity, and darkness as active elements of the ‘queer aesthetic’.  For queer and other  marginalized groups, forgetting normative societal structures and expectations can be a method to create new identities. It can also be a method of survival for many oppressed groups; to forget the past and move on ahead to live in the present. Furthermore, he discusses how incompetence and failure can be ‘weapons of the weak’; modes of resistance to rise up against their oppressors and critique dominant ideas of power.

Halberstam also examines alternative forms of femininity and feminism.  He talks about the limits of Western feminism in dealing with varied forms of womanhood, especially when their material conditions and politics diverge from conventional feminist concerns. She suggests an ‘anti-social feminism’, a type of feminism ‘preoccupied by negation and negativity’ which does not place its activism within the same normative structure as that of the oppressor. Through an exploration of Yoko Ono and Marina Abramovic’s performance art, he suggests that radical passivity and masochism can be elements of subversive forms of feminism where dramatizing your own submission makes it seem more like performance than an inherent function of the female body (333). Halberstam also implores the queer community to reconcile with the more unsavoury parts of the history, in order to understand how queer history affects current manifestations of queerness She encourages critical engement with probematic elements of queer history, and to acknowledge that radical identities are not necessarily equanimous with radical politics (399). Finally, she ties her argument back to animated films, and how despite being produced by massive conglomerates for the sake of profit, these movies can serve a valuable function as sites of identity formation for the child.

‘The L Word’ – The Problem with Representation

Through a case study of the television show, ‘The L word’, Halberstam presents an argument against queer representations in mainstream media (240). Despite being a story about lesbians, it presented a version of lesbianism stripped of most of its queerness, with masculine-presenting, butch lesbians being denigrated in favour of the androgynous, yet distinctly feminine lesbian protagonist Shane. Despite its promise of representation, the narrative still views lesbians through the heteropatriarchal gaze, in order to make them palatable to mainstream, heterosexual audiences.

This is in line with Bollmer’s ideas about how representations ‘perpetuate the interests of dominant classes’ (26). He posits that changes in society and media representation come about through demands of the audiences (34). Though queer audiences might gain a sense of empowerment through it, this sort of representation serves to disarm them, all while propagating an exclusionary image of lesbianism which can be easily absorbed into the mainstream. This leads to an ‘unbearably positivist and progressive image of lesbianism’, one that is divorced from queerness and flattens queer representation down to fit a criteria of mainstream acceptability. Both Halberstam and Bollmer are instead in favour of anger, unhappiness, and dissatisfaction as conduits for change (Bollmer 32). These ‘negative’ emotions provide avenues for questioning normative ideas about queerness and other marginalized identities as perpetuated by the  media.

Queer Temporalities

Halberstam talks about the Oedipal family structure based in normative temporality—a temporality grounded in repetitiveness and regularity that prioritizes permanence and longevity. In a hterosexual family, the figure of the child acts as the link connecting the past to the present and eventually, to the future. The child, according to Kathryn Bond Stockton, is already queer; a blank slate upon whom “proto-heterosexual(ity)” must be projected lest they disrupt the temporality of the heterosexual family (192). Meanwhile the queer community, through a rejection of heterosexual family ideals of succession and lineage, constructs a system of ‘sideways relations’, in which kinship ties grow parallelly, at the same time, rather than continuing onwards towards the future (Halberstam 192). For the queer community, “queer temporality constructs queer futurity as a break with heteronormative notions of time and history” (214). Thus, forgetfulness becomes particularly crucial in the construction of new queer relations and temporalities through a disruption of the normative order.

She uses ‘Finding Nemo’ as an example to emphasize how Dory’s forgetfulness allowed for the formation of a new, vaguely queer relation to be formed between her and the family unit of Martin and Nemo. At no point was she a stand-in mother for Nemo, or wife for Marlin. 

Halbserstam also opens up the conversation about the historical relations between homosexuality and Nazism. Many queer scholars might steer clear of such contentious subjects, in fear of feeding into homophobia, but Halberstam claims that it is essential for the queer community to grapple with the more problematic elements of their history.  

Drawing upon Michel Foucault’s idea of archives, which is ‘a system that groups and orders the past in a way that materializes it in the present’ she claims that the queer archive sanitizes queer history by focusing mainly on the oppression of gay men in Nazi Germany, while ignoring the ways in which masculine homosexuality collaborated with and overlapped with Nazism (Bollmer 65).  She claims that an essential part of queer negativity is to also acknowledge these unsavoury parts of queer history, which often get relegated to the margins, to better understand how these elements of queer history shape current queer relations and culture (Halberstam 350).

Conclusion

‘The Queer Art of Failure’ was very much a product of its time. Many of Halberstam’s references now feel obscure or heavily US-centric, which can make the arguments difficult to follow though the point of using “low theory” was to draw from accessible popular media. The book was written before the large-scale rise of social media, yet many of its insights are still relevant today. It is fascinating to observe how the texts Halberstam analyzes have held up in modern pop culture. Many have stood the test of time and have become permanent structures of the current pop culture archive while others have been relegated to the margins. Halberstam’s focus on low-brow digital media is in line with our class discussions about  power of media in shaping narratives. Their ability to inscribe and document have direct effects on how the archives of queerness are built, and how queer representation is transformed over time.


Works cited

  1. Bollmer, Grant. Materialist Media Theory An Introduction grant bollmer. London, England: Zed Books, 2021. 
  2. Halberstam, Jack. The Queer Art of Failure. Durham: Duke University Press, 2011. 
Critical Comparison

Human-Technological Relations: An Exploration of McArthur and Van Den Eede

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Emily McArthur and Yoni Van Den Eede, through an exploration of Siri via Walter Benjamin’s definition of the ‘aura’ and self-tracking technologies through Marshall McLuhan’s extension theory of media, explore the relationship between humans and technology and the ways in which interactions between the two shape the media ecology. In this post, I will be comparing the two texts in order to find common ground and points of difference between the two and point out the ways in which each author conceptualizes the boundaries between the human body and technological mediation.

McArthur

McArthur builds a case for the aura of technological devices and programs. Walter Benjamin’s definition of aura is ‘the sense of uniqueness’, which deteriorates due to forces of technological reproduction. However, he has a positivist attitude towards technological development, as the destruction of aura also destroys the mysticality inherent in it, and essentially leads to a democratization of art (McArthur 115). 

Originally, Benjamin’s definition of the aura had been applied to aesthetic works such as art and literature, with technology merely being the means of reproduction in this equation (McArthur 114). But what McArthur proposes is a reimagined view of the aura; a posthuman aura which allows technologies like Siri, which teeter on the edge of humanity and artifact, to gain a unique kind of authenticity (115). This new conception of aura, as proposed by McArthur, is based on the technology’s simultaneous proximity and distance from the user. It appropriates human mannerisms and functions well enough to lull the user into perceiving it to have a ‘quasi-human’ face, while also drawing a clear boundary through its robotic tone of voice, reminding the user that it is a technology created by man (117). It also performs a democratizing function, by making available a technology to everyday users, that had only been available to people working within the tech industry up until then (McArthur 117). All in all, McArthur presents a determinist approach to perceiving human-technological relationships. She raises concerns about such algorithms collecting data and surveilling users for corporate gain, fracturing human relationships as a result of excess proximity to technology, and encourages readers to critically engage with media.

Van Den Eede

On the other hand, Van Den Eede uses self-tracking health technologies as a case study to examine the extensionism theory, often championed by media theorists. He presents arguments for and against the extensionist perspective, specifically expanding upon Marshall McLuhan’s theory of extensionism and putting it into conversation with Kiran and Verbeek’s critique of the instrumentalist nature of the extension theory. Van Den Eede himself seems to take a stance against the extensionist theory, citing it as a useful way of examining media technologies but one that ultimately reduces human-technology interactions to a binary of complete ‘reliance’ or ‘suspicion’ (156). He instead ‘superposes’ McLuhan’s extensionism theory with Kiran and Verbeek’s argument that the relationship between humans and technologies should be one of trust, in which the user learns to critically engage with the technologies (168).

Translation and Linguistics

Both McArthur and Van Den Eede bring up translation as a crucial element of the human and technological relationship. McArthur talks about how natural language processors do not actually comprehend human speech; rather it goes through a series of translations (116). From sound waves to code and then back to sound waves. The magic of the translation process, the fact that information is converted into multiple different forms before being reflected back to the user is part of what gives the technology its aura (117). She argues that this appropriation of human language simultaneously performs the function of ‘mystifying’ and ‘demystifying’ language. While technology’s ability to comprehend and respond to humans in a language they understand grants it an exalted status, human speech is wrested out of human hands, causing them to lose the unique connection they had with the language (116). 

On the other hand, Van Den Eede argues that McLuhan’s media theory is deeply rooted in linguistics, citing McLuhan’s idea that media are translations of human organisms and functions into material forms (159). He refers to media as metaphors, suggesting that these media constitute a language through which humans make sense of the world around them. Van Den Eede contends that analysing media through a linguistic framework allows us to understand them by linguistic means. He examines the etymology of media and finds that it originates from the human, which, he argues, lends weight to McLuhan’s extensionist claim that the body from which media originates should hold significance (160).

Reciprocity and Control

McArthur cites Benjamin to explore technology’s ability to ‘gaze back’ at us, noting how, in the case of traditional art, this gaze once afforded value to bourgeois works. Essentially, she argues that this returned gaze grants the object a form of social control over the human (119). While it constructs a hierarchy that gives users the illusion of mastery over a human-like apparatus, there remains an imbalance, as the data collected by these corporations is used to refine algorithms and exercise corporate control over users (McArthus 125). Moreover, just like the aura of bourgeois art, the aura of Apple’s products gain control over the masses through the strengthening and construction of social hierarchies, with Siri adding onto its exclusivity. Though McArthur claims the aura has been ‘democratized’ by the value of it being available to the common people, Apple is still a brand whose products can only be acquired by a certain class of privileged individuals. Rather than democratizing aura, it furthers commodity fetishism and the aura of technology simply becomes another part of the equation of corporate profitmaking endeavours (120). 

Van Den Eede also addresses similar concerns, drawing on McLuhan’s theory of the environment’s reciprocal relationship with human extensions. He comments on a transformative process in which humans and media continuously reshape one another. By translating ourselves into media, ‘we reach out into the environment, but this also makes it possible for the environment to reach back into us’(160). He claims that the extensionist theory creates an illusion of  one-way traffic between humans and media, leaving humans unable to notice the effects media have on them. He advocates for a ‘two-way traffic’ approach towards technologies, arguing that they shape us just as much as we shape them (166). In this sense, Van Den Eede champions a co-shaping relationship between humans and technology, in which technology and humans exist within the same environment, on equal footing.

Posthumanism

McArthur describes the aura of technologies as posthuman, meaning a type of aura that is not inherent, but is instead imbued in a device through the painstaking efforts of engineers (120). In line with her technological determinist view she seems to be skeptical towards posthumanism. She claims that the posthuman aura of Siri is broken when it fails to process spoken instructions, which happens quite frequently. It reminds the user that Siri is not actually an autonomous entity, but rather a program developed by engineers which is liable to fail (124). 

McArthur’s view on the posthumanism of technology is in line with the McLuhanian extension theory and the concept of Narcissus narcosis, the idea that humans are unaware of the fact that these technologies originate from us. Van Den Eede seems to be critical of the anthropocentric implications of the extension theory, claiming that the idea of becoming aware of the ‘origin’ of technologies from the human still prioritizes human body over technology (160). He does admit, however, that Kiran and Verbeek’s idea of ‘trusting’ oneself to technology is also based in a certain negotiation of the boundaries between the two, which has a hint of a humanist character as well (168). All in all, while he does support a posthuman approach towards technology, he also encourages readers to critically engage with technologies.

Conclusion

McArthur appears to be more skeptical of human-technology relations, raising concerns about surveillance, data collection, algorithmic control, and the varied ways in which the capitalist system harnesses technology to exercise social control over the masses. She adopts a more humanist stance, echoing the McLuhanian notion of the human body assuming a superior position in  human-technology relations by value of it being the source of technology.

In contrast, Van Den Eede adopts a more optimistic stance toward technology. He only briefly touches upon surveillance and data collection, primarily using it to support his argument for a ‘trust’ approach to human-technology interactions (165). Though he ends up finding a middle ground between extensionism and Kiran and Verbeek’s alternative ideas of human-technology interaction, it is clear that he values the posthumanist notion of a two-way relationship between humans and technologies. Despite these differences, both authors share confidence in the user’s capacity to critically engage with media, emphasizing the importance of reflection and awareness in navigating technological environments.

Works Cited

  1. Van Den Eede, Yoni. ‘Extending “Extension”.’ Design, Mediation, and the Posthuman, 151-172.  https://doi.org/10.5040/9781666993851.ch-008. 
  2. McArthur, Emily. “The Iphone Erfahrung.” Design, Mediation, and the Posthuman, 2014, 113–28. https://doi.org/10.5040/9781666993851.ch-006.
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Scrolling: The Regression of the Hand and the Decline of Material Correspondence

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‘Scroll’ in its most literal sense refers to a rolled up sheet of paper or, more commonly, parchment, which was used for documentation. However, the word ‘scroll’ is now more commonly used as a verb rather than a noun, referring to the action of moving the display of a screen up and down. Moreover, apart from the gesture of moving one’s hand up and down a screen, the range of movement that can take place on the tiny phone screen is limited, yet it can still produce significant effects. The process of drumming one’s fingers seems to be completely unrelated to the forms that appear on the screen in the form of text or image. The physical movement of the hand on the screen does not directly translate into the form that is produced on the screen. This phenomenon relates to what Ingold refers to as the ‘regression of the hand’—the decline of the tactility and relations between manual movement and the material traces it yields.

I would like to explore the ways in which the actions involved in being on the phone lead to processes of creation and, most importantly, communication. Furthermore, I am interested in how modern electronic devices, particularly those with touch screen interfaces, challenge or even defy André Leroi-Gourhan’s idea of graphism. Leroi-Gourhan defines graphism as “relatively durable traces of dextrous manual gestures”(Ingold 116). In simpler terms, this refers to the marks that serve as a record of actions.

Heidegger, in commenting on the typewriter, expresses distaste for it and discusses how this device transformed the nature of writing (122). The transition from typewriter to computer keyboard intensified this separation. Unlike the typewriter, which immediately imprinted letters onto paper, the computer displays words on a screen separate from the physical act of typing. If the text displayed on a computer screen is eventually printed, the act of inscribing it onto a material medium is credited not to the one who typed but to the machinge, the printer. 

With cell phones, this separation becomes even more complex. The keyboard itself is no longer a an individual, physical machine but one of many virtual functions of the device. Ingold argues that the act of typing leads to a disruption in the process of transduction, wherein the ‘ductus’—the actual kinaesthetic action does not directly correspond with the form that appears on the screen (Ingold 122). Ingold’s transduction refers to the process through which gestural action produces a transformation in material form (102). In the case of touch screen devices, this relationship is fractured. The physical action required is minimal, and the materiality of the medium being operated upon is ambiguous. The material that the hand comes into contact with is the surface of the phone, yet the change that takes place is in the code that exists in a virtual realm. This change in code is then represented by images and icons displayed on screen, giving the user an illusion of interacting with the material within the digital realm. 

Grip and Gestures

While using a phone, a person typically grips the device between the pinky finger and the thumb, with the back of the phone resting against the other fingers and balanced on the pinky. The thumb, which helps to secure the phone, also performs most of the navigational movements on the screen. Though the position of the hands often changes depending on the activity being performed, the actions being done on the screen are all done by the fingers. In particular, the tips of the fingers. This is in line with Ingold’s idea that the progress of technology is characterized by the shift from use of hands to fingers (123). In using a cell phone the tasks of typing, editing, clicking pictures are carried out as the fingers move across the surface of the screen. But the actual content being produced through these actions exists within the screen. The fingers make contact with the surface, yet the resultant forms remain entirely virtual. When you pinch to zoom in, the visual content on the screen enlarges, but the physical scale of the screen itself does not change. 

Ingold discusses how repetitive manual actions during the process of creation physically affect the hand in ways that contribute to or even enhance the process of making (117). He gives the example of string makers and cello players: their hands become coarser and develop calluses. The hardened skin protects the fingers from pain, allowing the musician to play longer and the craftsperson to produce better strings. Thusm these injuries, far from being a hindrance, actually facilitate the craft. In such cases, the deformation of the hand becomes integral to the process of creation. 

In the case of operating touch-screen devices such as phones, however, this relationship between bodily transformation and creative process becomes disrupted. The body still undergoes change; users experience repetitive strain injuries like carpal tunnel syndrome, the so-called ‘iPhone pinky,’ where the pinky finger becomes bent from supporting the device, and even soreness in the thumbs from constant scrolling or typing. However, unlike the callused hands of the craftsman or musician, this alteration in the hand of the phone user does not affect the process of making in any way.

This is because the gestures required by touch-screen devices are minimal and effortless. On a touch-screen interface, the physical gestures enacted by hands such as toggling, swiping, or pinching, are reduced to nothing more than pre-programmed features. Though these features are derived from bodily gestures, when incorporated into digital devices they become standardized features designed to trigger certain responses on the screen. This is in line with Ingold’s analysis that such actions have become metaphorical rather than genuinely physical or material (124). The gestures no longer result in real manipulation of substance but instead, represent symbolic actions whose effects are purely virtual.

This transformation creates a kind of simulacrum, in which gestures acquire meaning only through their digital consequences rather than through any tangible engagement with the material. The hand’s action ceases to produce traces in the Leroi-Gourhanian sense of graphism, instead reducing manual gesture into a sort of abstraction.

Human and Posthuman Writing

Heidegger suggests that the typed word lacks the humanity of handwriting. Ingold argues that the perfect, mechanical typescript robs the writing of any traces of being produced by a human, and  reduces it to a mere means of communication rather than a way of telling (Ingold 122). In this light, the movement of the hand is what imbues the produced handwriting with its humanistic dimension.

Ingold, drawing on Leroi-Gourhan, argues that while machines can extend human capacities and enhance certain forms of production, they also subtract something essential (122). The integration of mechanical devices into human action pushes us toward what he describes as a ‘posthuman‘ condition. He argues that even the simple act of pressing a button removes part of the humanity from the process, reducing it to an interaction with an intermediary rather a correspondence with material. Leroi-Gourhan’s argument raises the question: what happens when the entire process consists of nothing but pressing buttons? And those buttons are not even physical? On touch screens, the buttons are mere visual representations of electronic codes designed to simulate real-life, tactile surfaces. The gestures we perform do not affect real objects; they activate digital representations that mimic the appearance of materiality. The result is a detachment between human movement and material change.

Moreover, the rise and incorporation of Generative Artificial Intelligence into many applications has further flattened the process of creation. The art of inquiry, the ‘thinking through the making’, that Ingold propogates in ‘Making’ ceases to occur, as creation is increasingly reduced to typing short prompts for AI systems that generate text, images, or designs automatically (6). The hand’s role shifts from making to merely initiating a command.

All that remains now is scrolling. Most app interfaces are designed for endless scrolling, condensing all human interaction into a single repetitive gesture. Earlier in the essay, we discussed how effortlessness has become the priority in technological design. Yet it is precisely in effort that the humanism of creation lies. By removing friction between the hand and the material, we move further and further away from genuine making. As Ingold says, “It is precisely where the reach of the imagination meets the friction of materials, or where the forces of ambition rub up against the rough edges of the world, that human life is lived” (Ingold 73).

Ingold, T. (2013). Making: Anthropology, Archaeology, Art and Architecture (1st ed.). Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9780203559055

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Leon Battista Alberti: A Case Against the Hylomorphic Model of Architecture

Introduction

In Making, Ingold emphasizes the importance of creation and our relationship with materials. This idea becomes clearer when he discusses the process of building in the chapter ‘On building a House’. By drawing on Leon Battista Alberti’s texts and theories, Ingold deepens our understanding of the process of building and what it really means to make something. Ingold uses Alberti’s work, primarily his text ‘On the Art of Building’ (1450) to support his central argument: that the process of making ought to be understood as a process of working with the materials for creation, rather than using them to create.

About Leon Battista Alberti

Leon Battista Alberti was a true Renaissance figure, humanist, theorist, and architect. In Ingold’s book, the focus is on Alberti’s architectural work and how it shapes our understanding of the creative process (Kelly-Gadol, 2019). Before connecting the two thinkers, however, it’s important to understand Alberti himself. He was known for his precision and for creating structures that stood apart for their balance, harmony, and attention to detail (Kelly-Gadol, 2019). This dedication to process and form is likely what drew Ingold to Alberti’s ideas, as they align with his own belief that making is a way of thinking and engaging with the world.

Ingold’s Case Against Hylomorphism

Across the length of the book, Ingold builds a case against the hylomorphic model of creation. The overarching argument across the text is to prove that designing and making is one and the same, or at the very least, should be considered as the same thing. This is exemplified in his analysis of Alberti’s writings on architecture. Based on a Vitruvian model, Alberti seeks to elevate the Renaissance architect to a higher standing than the carpenter-masons of the time (2013, 49). In a perfect illustration of the hylomorphic model, Alberti claims that the architect is the true mastermind who designs a building, while the carpenter is a mere ‘instrument’ who marries the preconceived form to the material (Ingold, 2013, 49). Though the carpenter is the one working with the materials, it is only by virtue of the architect’s design that the structure comes to life. Not only does this argument subordinate the carpenter-mason, but it also reduces the material to something that holds the form devised by the architect. This is in complete opposition to Ingold’s idea of creation, which places materials and creators on an equal standing and argues creation is a process of correspondence between the two, rather than an imposition of form on the materials. 

Alberti’s Model of Architecture—The perfection of the Hylomorphic model?

Traditionally, the study of architecture is considered to be concerned with designing blueprints which serve as the basis for building structures. The creativity rests on the shoulders of the architect, while the construction of the structure is nothing more than bringing the architect’s ideas to life. This is also reflected in the real world, seeing the vast economic and social disparity between architects and construction workers.  This is in line with what Ingold describes as the conventional idea of making, writing “…in the case of the artefact, to draw a line between making and using means marking a point in the career of a thing at which it can be said to be finished, and moreover that this point of completion can only be determined in relation to a totality that already exists.” (Ingold,  2013, 47). Alberti’s approach towards architecture follows this same idea, emphasizing the architect’s ability ‘to project whole forms in mind without any recourse to the material’. This is the traditional process of making, which takes place with the final form in mind. However, Ingold argues against it, claiming that the actual process of creation is just as important rather than only the finished result. 

Ingold describes hylomorphism as the imposition of a practitioner’s ideas on the materials extraneous to their body (2013, 21). Alberti’s writings on architecture seem to be based on the Vitruvian and Platonic ideals, which emphasize the need for an architect to be a learned scholar, and a ‘ruler’ who directs the workman (Ingold, 2013, 50). In similar fashion, Alberti seeks to raise the architect from the position of a mere craftsman, drawing a clear distinction between the two by describing the carpenter as an ‘instrument in the hands of the architect’ (Ingold, 2013, 49). Ingold also comments on the contradicting ideas expressed in Alberti’s treatise, in how he emphasizes the importance of gathering local and practical knowledge while also endorsing a hylomorphic model of creation, and how even though he acknowledges that the ‘hand of the skilled workman’ is indispensable in enjoining the form to the material, it is evident that he considers the architect’s design, informed by his intellect and scholarship, to be far more important in the hierarchy of the process of building.

Design and Geometry

Ingold also talks about design through an examination of geometry, particularly, Alberti’s lineaments. While Alberti’s lineaments are abstract, geometric projections on paper, the carpenter-mason’s geometry is informed through experience and is tactile (Ingold, 2013, 51). Alberti’s idea of geometry was shaped by Euclidean principles, whereas the carpenter’s geometry was learned ‘on the job’. The carpenter-mason’s lineaments emerge through correspondence with material, their drawings a ‘craft of weaving with lines ’ (Ingold, 2013, 55).

In ‘Drawing the Line’, Ingold further explores how Alberti’s idea of architectural drawings, meant to specify the form of a structure that is to be built, is a form of technical drawing (Ingold, 2013, 125). He also comments on how the architect’s drawings can become an end in themselves, to the point where builders find it difficult to implement these designs in the actual materials (2013, 126). Here, we can clearly see the effects of architecture as a practice being divorced from the process of creation. The architect’s drawings become designs for the sake of designing, as they are unable to imagine the practical realities their designs must contend with.

This is exemplified in how architectural designs deal with rainwater. Most architects do not design with rainwater in mind, which often ends up resulting in leaks (Ingold, 2013, 48). Interestingly, Alberti himself emphasizes the importance of accounting for rainwater when designing roofs, introducing another contradiction in his ideas (Ingold, 2013, 49). The recurring theme of incongruent ideas of creation in Alberti’s ‘On the Art of Building in Ten Books’ is suggestive of the fact that perhaps Alberti had not anticipated how this split between architect and material realities of building would evolve, to the point where what was considered to be basic knowledge for an architect back then is now often overlooked.

Conclusion

Thus, by examining Alberti’s theories, Ingold challenges the separation between designing and making. During Alberti’s time, most craftsmen were not formally educated, yet this allowed them to think beyond established norms (Ingold,  2013, 52). Their creativity relied on practical knowledge passed down through generations, as well as a deep, hands-on relationship with their tools axes, chisels, trowels, plumb lines, strings, and especially templates, straight edges, and squares (Ingold,  2013, 52). This connection between maker and material supports Ingold’s argument that creativity and understanding emerge when the creator considers themselves and the materials to be an equal participant in the process of creation. 

Ingold, T. (2013). Making: Anthropology, Archaeology, Art and Architecture (1st ed.). Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9780203559055

Kelly-Gadol, Joan. “Leon Battista Alberti Paintings, Bio, Ideas.” The Art Story. Accessed October 19, 2025. https://www.theartstory.org/artist/alberti-leon-battista/. 

Insha and Anati

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Ordinary Old Rock—My Evocative Object

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I have this rock I picked up at a national park in Mumbai. A light-coloured, perfectly round rock with spiral lineation running along its surface. It may be an odd hobby, but I have always liked collecting rocks. However, I usually end up throwing them away within a couple day because pretty as they might be, there’s not much you can really do with a rock. I thought this would be the case for this rock to but surprisingly enough, even after all these years and a trip across the globe, I still have it with me.

At first I just didn’t have the heart to throw it away. It was too perfect a rock, almost circular with a completely smooth surface . So I just kept it on my desk and eventually forgot about it. It lay there catching dust until I was packing to leave for university. On an impulse, for some inexplicable reason, I decided to pack this rock to take it with me to Canada. I thought I could use it as paperweight, but that was just an excuse (after all, who even uses paperweight in this day and age?). 

I had never lived away from home. In all my eighteen years of existence, I had never faced a situation where I had to pack my entire life into a suitcase to move to a place entirely foreign to me. Even after cramming most of my belongings into a suitcase, there was still an entire house worth of my cherished items that I had to leave behind. My belongings have always been sacred to me. I did not even have the heart to throw away my elementary school textbooks but here I was, abandoning almost everything that I held close to my heart. My favourite books, my childhood photo albums, the old wooden box filled with random knick knacks that I had collected over the years; I had to leave almost all of it behind. I stuffed this tiny rock in between my clothes, a desperate attempt to lay claim to anything I could get my hands on. Though I could not take everything with me, I would do my best to take anything I could, even this tiny inconsequential rock.

Now, I have been living in Canada for almost four years. I have painstakingly built a whole new ecosystem of objects of my own. Books, clothes, shoes, and other random paraphernalia. Almost everything I brought over from India has either been discarded or replaced, and the few things I have left have melded into my  new life so well that I can hardly distinguish between my old belongings and the ones I acquired here. Everything changed, but that rock still remains. I have moved thrice, and every single time I have made sure to take the rock with me. A lot of people have asked about its significance and I never really know what to say in response to that. It seems a bit strange and even a little foolish to tell people that I brought this plain-looking rock from India. This is in line with Turkle’s statement that we are more comfortable with objects that have a specific use rather than considering objects as something with an emotional connection (5). Perhaps the rock’s lack of purpose is precisely why it has stood the test of time. If it truly had some use, it would have been abandoned once it stopped serving that purpose. 

The Rock as an Object of Transition and Passage

Of course, the rock is not the only object from India I have with me. But the rock has assumed a special place in my life, as an active reminder of home. Turkle claims that such periods of transition make a person vulnerable to the objects and experiences from that period of transition. She draws on Victor Turner’s idea of liminality, emphasising how times of transition are an important site for the creation of new symbols. Drawing from these ideas, I believe this period of transition granted this otherwise innocuous object the affordance of being a symbolic representation of home and my life at the time. A freeze frame, capturing a very specific moment in time.

During that transitional period, when I was thrust into a completely new environment, this rock served as a comforting reminder of home. A real, tangible proof that I was once familiar with the land that now feels so foreign to me. This lines up with Turkle’s observation that during traditional rites of passage, when person is forced to part with all that they consider to be familiar, they are more susceptible to objects and experiences of that time. At a time my life was in constant flux, this rock was the only constant. Not only does the rock embody a specific time and place, but it has also come to represent that version of myself—one who was so desperate to hold onto the past that she clung on to anything she could, even a tiny old rock. 

Since then, I’ve moved several times, and with each move, I’ve grown more comfortable with the idea of letting things go. Change no longer unsettles me the way it once did. So now, after all this time, the rock no longer serves solely as a reminder of home. Instead, I’ve come to see it as a thread linking together the different versions of myself that have emerged through each transition in my life.

Works Cited

  1. Turkle, Sherry. “WHAT MAKES AN OBJECT EVOCATIVE.” Evocative Objects: Objects We Think With, 307–326. 
  2. Turkle, Sherry. “INTRODUCTION: THE THINGS THAT MATTER.” Evocative Objects: Objects We Think With, 3–10.