Tag Archives: Media theory

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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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We Shape the Algorithm, and It Shapes Us

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Contributors: Adela, Lorainne, Maryam

Social media is at the center of everyday life. We scroll through endless streams of content carefully curated to our tastes, shaped by algorithms that “learn” from our behaviour. In this digital landscape, anyone can create and share media about anything, while platforms personalize what we see based on our activity. This constant curation keeps us engaged, presenting an illusion of infinite choice while subtly guiding what gains visibility.

Both creators and consumers play active roles in the system. Creators learn to work with the algorithm: choosing specific sounds, hashtags, and editing styles that fit its rhythm, while consumers customize their feeds to match their interests, following or blocking certain tags, creators, and engaging with select content. Together, these behaviours teach the system what “works,” creating a feedback loop in which both the user and the algorithm continually adapt to one another. It’s through this ongoing exchange that trends emerge.

In this blog, we attempt to extend Tim Ingold’s notion of correspondence to digital contexts, suggesting that users and algorithms are engaged in an ongoing process of co-creation: a form of digital correspondence where each shapes the other through continuous interaction.

We argue that, through the lens of correspondence, social media algorithms can be understood as both a system of control and responsive materials that evolve with user activity, forming a digital environment where trends are “made” collaboratively through attention, resistance, and adaptation.

Making as Correspondence

To set the ground, Ingold defines correspondence as the relationship we form with the world when we think through doing. For him, genuine inquiry is not at all about standing apart from the world and describing it from a distance, as if we were detached observers. Instead, it involves, as he writes, “opening up our perception to what is going on there” (p. 7) and responding to the world’s movements, textures, and changes. Therefore, correspondence is an ongoing, two-way process of mutual responsiveness between ourselves and our surroundings: we attend to what the world is doing, and our actions, in turn, answer back to it.

Ingold compares interaction and correspondence to the act of walking with another person. When two people walk beside each other, they are engaged in a deeply companionable activity, despite not speaking directly to each other and rarely making eye contact. Instead, they coordinate their pace, rhythm, and direction through subtle bodily cues and peripheral vision, and their connection unfolds through movement itself, rather than through communication or representation. This is not a verbal or face-to-face exchange but a lived attunement. It’s rather a way of “growing older together” (p. 106) in shared time, making the nature of the relationship dynamic, ongoing, and co-creative. Walking together, therefore, reveals what Ingold calls correspondence: a mutual responsiveness that arises through motion, and never through detached interaction.

Ingold extends this idea to the act of making, describing it as a dialogue between the maker and the material. The maker does not really impose form but learns from the material’s resistance and possibilities, adjusting gestures in response. Through this ongoing exchange, both the maker and the material are transformed. Therefore, we think to correspond is not at all to represent reality from outside, but to join with it: to move, learn, and evolve alongside it. It’s a way of knowing with the world, rather than knowing about it.

Correspondence in the Digital Sphere

Viewing algorithms through the lens of Ingold makes it clear that the relationship between them and social media users is one of correspondence. The production of and interaction with content on a platform is processed as data that continuously shapes our digital experiences. Every user’s contribution to the algorithm, regardless of whether they post content, is significant but often overlooked. The very act of liking, saving, or even swiping after a certain amount of time signals one’s level of enjoyment of a specific kind of content. Such simple actions give rise to personalized feeds, such as TikTok’s famous “For You Page”, that grow in effectiveness the longer one stays on the app. 

Correspondence is not limited to just being between user and algorithm, but also among users themselves too. Ingold describes the scene of a string quartet: players do not interact nor move position, but create interwoven sounds that blend into one (p. 107). This music room, we think, can be seen as equivalent to the digital spaces of social media platforms, in which users continuously contribute to an ever-changing conversation that describes a song, however discordant, of collective consciousness. Only through the algorithms that push forth voices and encourage user responses can such dynamic conversations take place. TikTok’s “stitch” feature that allows a direct response to videos is one of many that illustrates how users engage in a mutual feedback loop of responsiveness, and hence correspondence – similar to a string quartet’s act of “listening as they play, and playing as they listen” (p. 106). 

This phenomena is largely seen through the prevalence of trends on social media. Thanks to the dynamic, ever-shifting nature of the algorithm, trends disappear just as quickly as they arise. When a post gains traction, the algorithm prioritizes it and pushes it out to users’ feeds, leading to further engagement and more user-generated content on that topic. And through the use of popular hashtags and sounds, and the continuous mutual responsiveness among users, trends proliferate, change and shift – then fall off just as easily. This way, we correspond with other users while also corresponding with the algorithm by answering to what it shows us, collectively contributing to a fluctuating digital landscape that shapes our perceptions of the world.

The ability of algorithms to tailor the content fed to users allows for the positive engagement with personal interest and the development of niche, creative communities. However, we think its detrimental impacts cannot go unmentioned. Algorithms are strong perpetrators of echo chambers, in which the development of “filter bubbles” limits exposure to opposing views and reaffirms users’ confirmation bias (Latimore).

Furthermore, we must realize the content filtered out by algorithms is not only derived from user interactions, but also from the biases ingrained within their very programming – biases that mirror existing hierarchies of visibility and power.

Power and Algorithmic Control

These built-in biases remind us that algorithms are never at all neutral, they are shaped by the same social, political, and economic forces that structure the world around us. What began as a relationship of mutual correspondence between users and platforms starts to reveal a deeper imbalance. The very systems that seem to “listen” and adapt to us are, in reality, governed by unseen mechanisms of power.

Through Ingold’s framework, when we think about how we interact with social media today, we see a similar kind of correspondence, but one that has been distorted by forces we cannot fully perceive. Every post, like, and comment feeds into the algorithm, which in turn “learns” our behaviour and shapes what we see, believe, and desire. It’s still a dialogue but one that has become asymmetrical, where one side listens with human curiosity, and the other responds through invisible forms of data-driven control.

The algorithm, through Ingold’s lens, starts to look like a “material” that has learned to push back. It resists our intentions, reshapes our sense of connection and perception of reality, and even determines what counts as “worthy” of attention. But this correspondence is never innocent, never neutral; it’s shaped by power. The algorithm actually amplifies certain voices while silencing others, rewarding what is profitable, making certain things visible and trending while burying what doesn’t serve power and its agendas – very often the stories and struggles that most urgently demand to be heard.

We see inevitable connections in Critical Terms for Media Studies, and we keep returning to the description of mass media as “the playthings of institutions… under the management of the palace, the market, or the temple” (p. 277). That feels truer than ever. What appears as a participatory and democratic space is, in fact, an infrastructure of control. Algorithms amplify what serves institutional power and suppress what threatens it.

We see this in real time as voices exposing genocide, colonial violence, and injustice are shadow-banned, flagged, and buried beneath layers of distraction and a public that has been numbed into passivity.

Reclaiming Media as Ethical Making

As media students, we have a responsibility to see through this illusion, to think critically, to question, and to resist. Ingold teaches us that making is an ethical act of correspondence, one rooted in care and attention. To “make” within algorithmic systems, then, must mean to intervene consciously and to create media that refuse erasure, that restore presence where silence has been systematically imposed. 

In resisting the algorithm’s pull, we think that our role cannot stop at consumption or critique, it must extend to re-making media itself. Re-making as a tool for truth-telling, for exposing injustice, and for reawakening correspondence as a living, ethical practice.

Contributors: Adela, Lorainne, Maryam

References
Latimore, E. (n.d.). The echo chamber of social media. Retrieved from https://edlatimore.com/echo-chamber-social-media/
Ingold, T. (2013). Making: Anthropology, Archaeology, Art and Architecture. Routledge.
Peters, J. D. (2010). Mass Media. In W. J. T. Mitchell & M. Hansen (Eds.), Critical Terms for Media Studies (pp. 261–276). University of Chicago Press.
Photo credit: Which? Trusted Trader, “How to use social media for your business”, June 1 2023. https://for-traders.which.co.uk/advice/how-to-use-social-media-for-your-business

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Heidegger and Humanity of the Hand: Smartphone Cynicism

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In the chapter “Telling by hand”, we see Ingold proposing a very interesting concept that is the “humanity of the hand”. Where the author argues, with help from Heidegger’s philosophy, that it is in the hands that the essence of humanity lies. Other senses of perception, the eyes, the nose and the ears, do not afford us the ability to tell stories the way the hand does. It could very well be said that with our eyes, nose and ears, we perceive the world while through our hands, we shape it into form. With our hands – the supreme among the organs of touch, we write, we draw, we thread and as such, we are able to tell stories to the world. 

Humans and the Language of Hands

According to the famous German thinker – Martin Heidegger, the hand is no mere instrument, for only with it came the very possibility of instrumentality. Supported by anatomist Frank Wilson’s claim that the hand exists as an extension of the brain and not a separate device under its control. The brain reaches out into the hands and from there it reaches out into the world. The hand is what separates us from mere animals, but it is not because we have opposable thumbs, nor the fact that we have flexible fingers that move independently, equipped with nails instead of claws. For Heidegger, it is language that holds the hand, which in turn is what holds man. For him, words as the essential realm of the hand provides the stable base in which humanity is grounded. 

For this exact reason, animals are considered by Heidegger to be “poor-in-the-world”, for they lack the essence of “world-forming” that characterizes man, an essence afforded to man by the hand. “Humanity” thus, challenges man by opening up for man a world that is not simply given, but one that must be unraveled to be properly understood. The task of the hand as follows is to tell, one must write, one must draw, only then may one’s world be properly formed.

As such, for the German philosopher, writings only truly tell (a story) when it is written by hand, as opposed to text produced through a typewriter. He argues that the human eye’s script is interpreted as the form of writing that tells and through holding the pen, the hand expresses our humanity. A humanity that starts with the essential “being” which then allows us to “feel”, and it is through that feeling that we start to “tell”. This is exactly what the typewriter has taken away from us – our humanity, for to type is not to write at all, and the typewriter paradoxically stops us from writing, an act that inevitably silences us from telling. 

Stories of Screens, Scrolling, and Smartphones

Ingold’s concept of the “humanity of the hand” can be further extended to the contemporary act of typing on our smartphones. This specific process of mediation reveals how our hands continue to mediate thought and feeling, even in a digital context removed from the material intimacy of pen and paper. While Heidegger mourned the typewriter’s detachment of writing from the hand, the way we send texts today further complicates this separation and disconnect. It can be argued that touchscreens still demand the tactility of our fingers, but the gestures we make with every tap, swipe, and scroll, completely transform writing into a choreography of minimal movements. Hence, the new generation is being taught both this choreography alongside writing by hand simultaneously, resulting in a generational difference and new ways of perceiving and telling stories. 

In handwriting, the thumb is peripheral and supports the pen that is the main object of mediation, whereas in texting, the thumb becomes the primary storyteller. Every new development to our smartphones reduces the thickness of our screens and consequently the distance between our fingertips and the world within our devices. The thin glass screen acts as an invisible barrier, creating the illusion that all forms of mediation are coming directly and instantaneously from our fingertips, almost as if we have become one with our devices.

Today’s digital age creates endless possibilities for our bodies to craft messages, emotions, and relationships. With every communication platform competing for users’ attention, people are always building connections through new innovative ways. Whether that is through texting, calling, reposting, sending stickers, or even Instagram reels, the overstimulating combination of text, audio, and visuals convey more than words simply could. The rise of meme culture on the internet invented a new way to express oneself, which is to make references to other preexisting media. This way, our internal thoughts and feelings, even those that we are unable to fully express, can be mediated with massive external reach, all from the from our fingertips. 

Through these rapidly changing technologies, our bodies constantly translate feelings into digital traces. Instead of leaving fingerprints on tangible objects we touch, we leave digital footprints after every interaction. Furthermore, this enables your smartphone to then reconfigure its role in mediation. Regardless of its convenience and innovation, nothing can compare to the feeling of holding a physical handwritten letter. There is power in the warmth of touch that is now reduced to the cold surface of glass. Ultimately, our fingers’ ability to edit before sending and our habitual scrolling creates a new expression of the hand’s humanity, emphasizing the negotiations between intimacy and distance in the mediated fabric of modern communication.

The Typewriter Returns

Comparing this with Heidegger’s pessimistic opinion of technology, and specifically the typewriter, we can imagine his stance on the disconnect between the hand and smartphone. Through a handwritten letter, we receive more than the words on the page. We see the erased or crossed-out attempts, the personality in the way each “i” is dotted, or even an ink smudge from writing too fast. As we adapted to using typewriters, we lost the sense of humanity and personality in handwriting. However, through the typewriter, we still see a lingering sense of intention beyond the words, we can see the “x”-ed out phrases, creased paper corners, or even a coffee stain on a message written late at night. Evolving into the smartphone, we lose more of these unintentional material stories that linger in each message. With the ability to unsend, edit, and pre-send our messages, we so ingenuinely mediate our communication to a point where we have lost our humanity.

In distinguishing ourselves from other animals, Heidegger emphasizes the strength of the hand in the realm of communication, or more importantly, storytelling. Despite the capabilities of this dexterity, we find our communication regressing to selections of premade facial expressions–emojis. When considering interpersonal communication, we see this grasp of personalisation among the monotonous, identical fonts in messaging systems. In place of personalised handwriting styles, some find ways to change their typing font. In place of crossed-out phrases and typos, some retype their messages rather than editing or deleting . As such, with the dramatic development from the typewriter to today’s smartphone, the typewriter maintains more personalised humanity in comparison to the smartphone. Perhaps if Heidegger could re-evaluate, his interpretation would cut the typewriter some slack. 

Courtesy of Kim Chi Tran, Maxine Gray, Nam Pham

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Content creation is not a linear process

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Making as a Source of Media-Theoretical Tools

Introduction

Throughout this class, we have explored many topics, but one area we have not yet deeply examined is social media, something that has had a tremendous influence on our everyday lives. After reading Tim Ingold’s Making: Anthropology, Archaeology, Art and Architecture, I began to see common parallels between his theories and the work of content creators. Ingold’s exploration of anthropology, ethnography, and the process of “thinking through making” can be directly applied to the practice of digital creation in the media. As a content creator myself, I found that many of Ingold’s concepts mirror the creative processes, challenges, and inspirations that shape content production for social media platforms.

The process of content creation

One of Ingold’s main arguments is that making is not a linear process, but rather an evolving relationship between the maker and the materials they work with. He writes that “making creates knowledge, builds environments and transforms lives” (Ingold, 2013, p.1). This perspective resonates strongly with the world of content creation. Many assume that creating online content is as simple as coming up with an idea and executing it, but in reality, it is a continuous process of experimentation and adaptation. A content creator may start with a basic idea, but as they film, edit, and engage with feedback the idea evolves. The “materials” of content creation are not just physical tools like cameras and editing software; they also include trends, cultural conversations, algorithms, and the audiences themselves. In this sense, social media creation is an ongoing dialogue between creator, material, and environment, much like Ingold’s conception of making.

Ingold’s example of the mason further illustrates this point. He explains that traditional masons learned their craft through practice and mentorship rather than formal education (Ingold, 2013, p.52). Their knowledge came from direct engagement with materials like “trowel, plumb line and string” (Ingold, 2013, p52) which guided their learning and skill development. This process closely parallels how many content creators work today. Few creators attend formal training programs in content creation; instead, they learn through trial and error, observing others, and experimenting with new techniques. For instance, when I first started creating videos, I did not have access to professional equipment. I used natural lighting, basic editing apps, and my phone to bring my ideas to life. Over time, I learned how different materials, for instance light, sound, and even social media algorithms shaped my work. Like the masons, creators learn by doing.

Anthropology and Ethnograpy relationship with content creation

Another key concept Ingold explores is that creativity is inherently relational; it develops through connections with people and materials. He writes, “We go to study with people, and we hope to learn from them” (Ingold, 2013, p.2). This anthropological approach aligns with how many creators learn and grow today. Being part of a creative community is important for inspiration and growth. Personally, I feel most motivated when surrounded by other creators because brainstorming new ideas, assisting on shoots, and watching others work spark my creativity and help me think differently about my own projects. Many creators also rely on their audiences for this same kind of learning. Asking questions like “What do you want to see next?” allows creators to engage in a dialogue that both inspires and informs their process. This is why anthropology in the making process is important as Ingold mentions. 

Ingold’s concept that “materials think in us, as we think through them” (Ingold, 2013, p.2) further deepens this connection. For content creators, the “materials” might include digital tools like editing software or even the social platforms themselves. When creators work with these tools, they are not just manipulating them, instead they are also shaped by the tools’ affordances and limitations. The platform’s design, algorithm, and audience behavior all influence how creators think and what they produce. This two-way relationship highlights Ingold’s notion that thinking and making are inseparable; our thoughts are formed through the process of working with materials.

While anthropology emphasizes learning through relationships, ethnography focuses on observing and documenting human experiences. In the context of social media, ethnography can be compared to how creators use data and analytics to understand their audiences. Engagement metrics, user-generated content, and algorithm trends all act as forms of documentation that inform creators’ strategies. Ingold, however, cautions against relying too heavily on documentation and accuracy, noting that “the speculative, experimental and open-ended character of arts practice is bound to compromise ethnography’s commitment to descriptive accuracy” (Ingold, 2013, p.8). This means that strict adherence to data or predetermined formulas can hinder creativity. The same applies to content creation while analytics can provide useful guidance, they should not dictate every decision. Even if a creator uses the information from the analytics for success, there is no guarantee that their content will resonate. Creativity thrives on uncertainty and risk-taking, not just replication.

The Art of inquiry


I also found Ingold’s discussion of the “art of inquiry” particularly insightful. He describes anthropology as an “‘’indispensable to the practice of anthropology as an art of inquiry’’” (Ingold, 2013, p.2). This suggests that makers, through their curiosity and exploration, embody the same investigative spark as anthropologists. Many content creators express a similar mindset that they constantly observe, experiment, and learn from the world around them. Interestingly, this also raises questions about influence and intention. Many creators resist the label of “influencer” because they associate it with inauthenticity or a label that they will have to rely on. However, Ingold’s theory suggests that all makers inevitably influence others through their work. Whether they intend to or not, content creators shape public conversations, trends, and perceptions. Recognizing this influence can empower creators to approach their work more thoughtfully, considering how their content might impact their audiences.

Concluding thoughts

The connection between Ingold’s theories and social media becomes even clearer when we consider the concept of evocative objects. Social media platforms themselves can be seen as evocative objects, tools that evoke emotions and dependencies. For many creators, these platforms are more than just spaces for sharing work; they become extensions of identity and creativity. However, this connection can also become overwhelming. For instance, if a creator stops posting for several months, they often see a drop in engagement, followers, and even income opportunities. I’ve experienced this myself feeling pressured to post regularly, not because I was inspired, but because I feared losing visibility. Over time, this reliance on social media can blur the line between passion and obligation. Ingold’s reminder that materials should support thinking, not control it. Creators need to maintain a healthy relationship with their platforms and use them as tools for creative exploration rather than letting them dictate their worth or direction.

Reflecting on Ingold’s ideas through the lens of social media has given me a deeper understanding of my own creative process. I’ve learned that making is not about perfection or linear progress, it’s about engaging with materials, environments, and people in ways that generate knowledge and growth. Anthropology and ethnography offer valuable frameworks for understanding how creators learn and evolve within communities. They remind us that creativity is not isolated; it is social, collaborative, and constantly changing. Ingold’s theories encourage creators to think critically about their tools and to embrace the process of making as a form of inquiry. Social media should serve as a space for exploration, not a trap of comparison or pressure. By thinking through making rather than simply producing algorithms or trends creators can rediscover the joy and curiosity that fuel genuine creativity.Ingold’s Making ultimately challenges us to rethink what it means to create in the modern media.

Bibliography

Making. (n.d.). http://ndl.ethernet.edu.et/bitstream/123456789/8315/1/179.pdf

Images are all mine.

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Silence in the Age of Noise: Eco’s Library of Meaning 

“The Internet gives us everything and forces us to filter it not by the workings of culture, but with our own brains. This risks creating six billion separate encyclopedias, which would prevent any common understanding whatsoever.”
– Umberto Eco

Umberto Eco was many things, an Italian medievalist, philosopher, novelist, semiotician, cultural critic, and above all, a lifelong lover of knowledge. In Umberto Eco: La biblioteca del mondo film, we see him as a scholar surrounded by books, someone whose entire being seems shaped by them. From the outside, Eco appears calm, curious, and quietly humorous, and a man who treats his library as if it were a living mind.

As a cultural critic, Eco spent his life examining how meaning is made, distorted, and forgotten in the age of mass media. Long before the rise of social networks and the internet, he warned about the danger of information overload, of a world where knowledge could be reduced to noise. The film captures that concern through the physicality of his library, where every book is resistance against digital amnesia. Unlike the virtual world, Eco’s shelves preserve the weight of memory and resist the illusion that everything should be fast, accessible, and infinite.

A central theme that emerges from the film, and that we try to explicate here, is media and memory.

The Living Library: Memory as Being & the Foundation of Knowledge

Eco describes his library as a living organism. It is more than just a collection of written archives. Rather, the library is a being that holds memory and transforms as collections are added or moved around. The film opens with Eco speaking about memory, referring to the library as a “symbol and reality of universal memory” (2:01). He categorizes memory into three forms: vegetal, organic, and mineral. The library represents vegetal memory, full of physical books that originate from trees, knowledge rooted in nature. Organic memory lives within us; it is the memory we carry in our minds. When humans say “I,” Eco explains, it is our memory speaking. Stories that are written or passed forward, imagination, fiction, all of that is memory taking the shape of culture, entertainment, conversation, etc. Finally, mineral memory is what the digital world represents, vast collections of knowledge stored as data on the silicon of computer chips. Eco emphasizes that memory is imperative to building a future. Having knowledge about what came before us and reflecting on the past, is what gives us enough insight to build a future that is worthwhile. 

“We are beings living in time. Without memory, it’s impossible to build a future.” (11:08).

In Critical Terms for Media Studies, Bernard Stiegler discusses how humans have always relied on external tools to anchor memory or “exteriorize” it through language, writing, and technology. With the digital age we currently live in, and the extensive reach of information through the internet, this only gets amplified to an unfathomable magnitude, where millions of people have the ability to not only consume, but also to produce content abundantly. Stiegler elaborates on how humans have a retentional finitude. “It is because our memories are finite that we require artificial memory aids” (p.65).

These ideas align closely with Eco’s reflections in the film. He talks about how, though it is important to preserve knowledge, one needs to be selective about what they consume in order to make sense of it. An example he shares is that of a character who has the ability to remember all that he sees, and yet he is an “idiot” because all of that input is too much for a mind to conceive. Such is the state of the internet. The vastness of it is overwhelming and is, in fact, counterproductive to gaining knowledge. Eco says,

“The moment we think we have limitless knowledge, we lose it.” (26:40)

Individual organic memory, on the other hand, is selective. It acts as a limiter and rejects what is unnecessary or too complicated to perceive. This is favourable as it separates value from noise.

Knowledge, Noise, and the Loss of Meaning

We noticed that, for Eco, knowledge is not something that can be separated from the medium that holds it. He resists the idea that information should be instantly accessible, clickable, and endlessly reproduced. In the film, he says,

“Information can damage knowledge, like nowadays, with mass media and internet, because it’s too much. Too many things together produce noise, and noise is not a tool of knowledge.”(31:30)

We thought this reflects Bill Brown’s idea of the dematerialization hypothesis, the fear that digital media, by turning everything into data, threatens our “engagement with the material world” where physical objects once held meaning (p. 51). Eco resists this by grounding knowledge in material form, books that can be touched, smelled, and remembered. His library shows that thought itself has a materiality, what Brown calls “the process of thinking as having a materiality of its own” (p. 49). 

It caught our attention that Eco uses the term noise to describe how the overflow of digital information harms knowledge. Bruce Clarke, in his chapter on Information, uses the very same word to describe the way excess information disrupts meaning. “Information theory translates the ratios or improbable order to probable disorder in physical systems into a distinction between signal and noise, or ‘useful’ and ‘waste’ information, in communication systems” (p. 162). He explains that information and knowledge are not the same. Information is “a virtual structure dependent upon distributed coding and decoding regimes” and can exist only when interpreted by a mind (p. 157).

Like Eco, Clarke shows that while the digital world allows infinite copies and speed, it also breeds instability and forgetfulness: “what the virtuality of information loses in place and permanence, it gains in velocity and transformativity” (p. 158). In this sense, Eco’s silence-filled library resists the entropy of digital culture. Where Clarke sees noise as both inevitable and revealing, Eco insists that too much of it actually corrupts knowledge. We think that both of them agree that without slowness, form, and material grounding, meaning dissolves into static. Noise. Meaningless.

Authenticity in the Age of Digital Reproduction

Eco’s phone is always off, and that’s exactly the point.

“It’s always out. People believe they can reach me and they cannot… I don’t want to receive messages and I don’t want to send messages!” (21:59)

He might seem quirky, but this is resistance. He’s resisting a world flooded with messages that “each of them says nothing” (22:37). It’s a world overloaded with information where meaning gets drowned in noise, a point he also makes when warning that “the risk is losing our memory on account of an overload of artificial memory.” Instead of reading and remembering, we click a button and generate a list of tens of thousands of sources we’ll never look at. “A bibliography like that is worthless,” he warns, “you can just throw it away” (26:10).

John Durham Peters, in the Mass Media chapter, critiques this same media logic. He describes mass media as a system of “one-way traffic” where the sender and receiver are separated and messages become generic and impersonal (p. 273). In contrast, Eco really values slowness, intentionality, and presence. He seems to refuse to play along with a digital, information-saturated world obsessed with sending and reacting. In that refusal, we feel he makes a statement that not replying can be its own form of meaning. 

Connecting this to Walter Benjamin, we see a shared concern with how technological ease erodes authenticity. Benjamin warns that “that which withers in the age of mechanical reproduction is the aura of the work of art” (Section II/p. 221). The aura, for Benjamin, is about presence, time, and uniqueness, which are all qualities destroyed by endless replication. Eco’s fear of artificial memory speaks to this same loss. When we can generate a list of 10,000 sources in a second, the search itself becomes meaningless. Nothing is earned, and so nothing is remembered. Meaningless.

Both thinkers push back against the fantasy of instant access. The idea that more access equals more knowledge is an illusion. They urge us to resist, to slow down, and to remember that real meaning is not something you download or scroll through, it’s something you cultivate.

Reclaiming Presence & Silence in the Age of Noise

In today’s digital world, we’re constantly connected yet barely present. We scroll, click, react, and call it communication. But Eco reminds us that just because something is sent doesn’t mean it’s meaningful. All the things that he warned about, the web being an unnecessarily huge record that “causes memory to blackout,” are even more true in today’s world, where social media is an endless scroll full of options and irrelevant information, accessible at any place, right in the palm of your hands.

Eco’s refusal to be always reachable, his love for slow reading, and his quiet library all push against a world obsessed with speed and saturation. We’re taught that more information is better, but at what cost? Eco shows us the cost is lost memory, lost presence, lost meaning.

Maybe the lesson here isn’t how to keep up but how to pause. How to be intentional. How to let silence speak louder than noise. If we want to hold onto meaning in a world that drowns us in messages, maybe it’s time to stop replying and start actually listening.

Written by Kenisha Sukhwal & Maryam Abusamak

Works Cited

Benjamin, Walter. The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. Translated by Harry Zohn, edited by Hannah Arendt, Schocken Books, 1969.

Brown, Bill. “Materiality.” In Critical Terms for Media Studies, edited by W. J. T. Mitchell and Mark B. N. Hansen, University of Chicago Press, 2010, pp. 49–54.

Clarke, Bruce. “Information.” In Critical Terms for Media Studies, edited by W. J. T. Mitchell and Mark B. N. Hansen, University of Chicago Press, 2010, pp. 155–170.

Peters, John Durham. “Mass Media.” In Critical Terms for Media Studies, edited by W. J. T. Mitchell and Mark B. N. Hansen, University of Chicago Press, 2010, pp. 263–276.

Umberto Eco: La biblioteca del mondo. Directed by Davide Ferrario, produced by Rosamont and Rai Cinema, 2021.

Screenshot from the film (31:51).

Cover image by Kenisha Sukhwal.

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Shaping the World & Letting It Shape Us

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Shaping the World & Letting It Shape Us

In the Making

Oftentimes, we may think that making starts with an idea in our head that turns into a physical form in the real world. However, every time we make something, sketch an idea, or fix something broken, we are also learning along the way. Tim Ingold’s Making: Anthropology, Archaeology, Art and Architecture (2013) reconsiders what it means to create. Instead of viewing the act of making as simply turning concepts into objects, Ingold describes it as a process of growth and interaction with materials. Amongst many theorists and scholars, his thinking builds on the psychologist James Jerome Gibson, who argued that we experience the world through an “education of attention,” gaining knowledge by simply noticing the environment around us. As we live and learn amid the world around us, we continuously pick up creativity through exploring and responding to the interactions that shape our experiences.

About James Jerome Gibson

James Jerome Gibson was an American psychologist known for his influence in the field of ecological psychology, the study of the relationship between organisms and their environments, where an organism’s behaviour is shaped by “affordances”. Born in McConnelsville, Ohio, in 1904, Gibson earned his Ph.D. in psychology from Princeton University in 1928 then taught at Smith College and Cornell University, where he began his pioneering research. 

https://monoskop.org/James_J._Gibson

Gibson explains in his most influential work, The Ecological Approach to Visual Perception (1979), that affordances are the possibilities for specific actions that the environment provides and the perceiver’s abilities. (Gibson 119). For instance, how a chair invites us to sit and a path invites us to walk on it .

Gibson’s theory rejects the notion that the mind and body are independent from one another and emphasizes that our perception and actions work hand in hand to understand our world through our bodies as we move and interact with it. This is what Gibson refers to as the “education of attention,” which is the process of learning by noticing information through participating experience and movement, rather than by solely passive observation (Ingold 2).

The Art of Paying Attention

Ingold draws from James Gibson’s concept of the education of attention to explain how people learn by doing. Through every move we make in our bodies, we learn to perceive by being active participants in our environment. Ingold draws Gibson’s concept of the education of attention to argue that making works the same way, as the maker learns through attentive participation while being attentive to materials, developing sensitivity to their textures, resistance, and potential.

In Making, Ingold writes that learning occurs through “what the ecological psychologist James Gibson calls an education of attention” (Ingold 3). The maker learns by feeling, sensing, and responding to the materials, not just by following a set plan in their head. Ingold also says that we “learn by doing, in the course of carrying out the tasks of life” (Ingold, 13), explaining that creativity is an ongoing journey between the maker, their bdy, and then the materials that they interact with.

Affordance in Materials

Ingold provides an example in chapter 3 of Making, “On Making a Handaxe”.  Ingold describes the Acheulean handaxe, which was made from flint over more than a million years ago. The origin of this axe came about when knappers paid attention to how the stone reacted when struck, noticing how the sharp edge and shape of the axe formed naturally (Ingold 34–38). This example proves that  Ingold extends this idea into materials themselves when making, where they also “join forces” in possibilities for action (Ingold 21). For example, clay affords shaping, wood affords carving, and yarn affords knitting. Thus, the maker’s creative process is shaped by both their intention and by the affordances that materials and tools display through use.

“I want to think of making, instead, as a process of growth. This is to place the maker from the outset as a participant in amongst a world of active materials. These materials are what he has to work with, and in the process of making he ‘joins forces’ with them, bringing them together or splitting them apart, synthesising and distilling, in anticipation of what might emerge.” (Ingold 21)

Ingold’s approach to affordances indicates that materials and textures are not just passive tools because they indirectly participate in the creative process. Our duty is to respond to these affordances through attention so that making becomes a partnership between us and the world, rather than a one-sided action of control by humans.

Applying Gibson and Ingold to Our Media Environment

In terms of media studies, Gibson’s theory about affordances as well as the notion of “education of attention,” are relevant. Though Gibson’s ideas are connected to ecological affordances, we can use them to discuss media landscapes and what they provide us with. Ingold and Gibson’s theories surrounding anthropology, ecology, and psychology, when translated to understanding digital media, provide valuable insight about how we interact with, and use technology. 

A current example of Ingold’s application of Gibson’s theory can be seen in our digital habits, where we feel confused and overwhelmed with the features of emerging technologies. However, through continuous engagement, experimenting with new technological tools rather than repressing them, we slowly develop a system’s flow. Understanding the environment remains relevant now, beyond building axes and houses, as we are now experiencing a new type of environment, the media environment. Our perception and creative abilities evolve faster as media itself becomes a space of exploration between human attention and technological affordance.

By drawing on Gibson’s concept of “the education of attention,” Ingold shows that learning, creating, and perceiving all arrive from active engagement and participation with the environment. Though Gibson was mentioned only once throughout the entire book, the concept of the education of attention helps lay the groundwork for his later arguments on correspondence and material growth, where Ingold explains that perception, movement, and creation are all essential and related processes. Hereafter, making is a way of paying closer attention to the environment and being in touch with the world as it takes shape through our hands.

Contributors:

Kenisha Sukhwal, Aubrey Ventura

References:

Gibson, James J. The Ecological Approach to Visual Perception. Houghton Mifflin, 1979.

Ingold, Tim. Making: Anthropology, Archaeology, Art and Architecture. Routledge, 2013.

“James J. Gibson.” Monoskop, https://monoskop.org/James_J._Gibson. Accessed 18 Oct. 2025.

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Jacques Derrida and Tim Ingold: Making Through Blindness

Image of Jacques Derrida

Introduction

What does sight and hand inform us about making? Through Jacques Derrida’s own theories regarding our use of sight and hand, Ingold supports his own arguments while also challenging Derrida via his book Memoirs of the Blind: The Self-Portrait and Other Ruins. Throughout this work, we will analyze how Derrida’s philosophies on sight (and its contrast with blindness) alongside the hand (and drawing with it) has been cited to articulate its importance in making as argued by Ingold.

Derrida’s Background

Derrida is a French philosopher whose works involve theories regarding the humanities, which we have seen references of in class through the language and writing chapters of Critical Terms for Media Studies. With his background in philosophy, he puts forward his thesis with terms such as “deconstruction,” where he analyzes the flawed nature of Western philosophy and viewing concepts in opposition (e.g. culture and nature, speech and writing, mind and body, etc.). This sort of “deconstruction” of seemingly oppositional ideas is what will inform Derrida’s arguments, as we will see in his analysis of “sight and blindness” as well as “drawing and the hand” (“Jacques Derrida”). 

Sight, Blindness, and Weeping

Derrida’s hypothesis of sight postulates that it is “always set on convincing you” and is the “grafting of one point of view onto another”(2). Through this hypothesis, the definitions of blindness and sight develop ambiguity. Sight is both what we believe to be true, and an imparting of our personal perspective onto another, influencing them with our interpretation. Derrida discusses the space of blind as one that conjugates the “tenses and times of memory”: foreseeing “there where they do not see, no longer see, or do not yet see”(5, 6). Ingold furthers this temporal approach to considering sight when he describes it as “an activity of seeing forward” and a way to stay one step ahead of the material (69).

While Derrida’s discussion of sight concerns itself more with the metaphysical, distinguishing between “believing [what one sees], and seeing between” and explaining that the root of skepsis lies in the eyes and visual perception, Ingold applies his concepts to the process of making (Derrida 2). Ingold discusses drawing as a way to “look back on lines already drawn” to open our eyes, effectively making ourselves the “master of truth… who sees and guides the other towards the spiritual light” as Derrida describes it (Ingold 131, Derrida 6).

Derrida’s study of blindness eventually expands to a discussion of the eye itself. He defines eyes as the essence of the man and, as Ingold cites, its ultimate destiny is “not to see but to weep”(Derrida 125, Ingold 111). As such, the eye simultaneously veils sight and reveals the truth of the eyes (Derrida 126). In essence, the eye’s truth and what they observe is revealed as the world is covered, allowing a person to properly digest what they have seen. 

Similar to how Ingold claims technology is what separates humans from animals, Derrida differentiates between us in that we are the only ones who weep as an emotional response (126). Through weeping, humans “go beyond seeing and knowing”, using our eyes in both functions of telling: we understand the world around us through sight, and can convey our emotions through weeping (Derrida 126). Though we can not effectively observe our surroundings and openly weep congruently, Derrida’s emphasis on this dual use for eyes opposes Ingold’s theories of the individuality of the hand. However, Ingold stresses that the hand is distinct as it combines both aspects of telling, effectively clarifying any argument potential.

Drawing and the Hand

In Memoirs of the Blind, Jacques Derrida argues that “drawing is blind” (2) and that the act of drawing is dependent on blindness. To Derrida, drawing is an anticipating act, predicting what is to come. He describes how the hand moves across a surface before the eye can register what is being inscribed. He sees this process as taking initiative or “to take (capere) in advance (ante)”(4). The moment in which the artist first makes the first trace (trait), they are opening the path to invention. This trace is neither visible nor predetermined by what is already present. Even if there’s a model in front of an artist, the outcome is not predetermined. As there’s always a gap between the subject and the drawing, no matter how similar the deception of the subject is, a distance always remains.

As someone draws, their hands move ahead of their sight, meaning that they cannot see the entire line until it unfolds on the page. He argues that drawing “escapes the field of vision”(45) and rejects spectacular objectivity, which is the realm of everything visible and knowable. Derrida critiques the West’s dependence on this spectacle, holding onto the idea that vision provides truth. Drawing lives outside of this spectacle, as it goes against the idea that sight is all-encompassing, as it’s not a reproduction of what’s seen, because it occurs outside of visibility. Derrida’s overarching argument is that drawing is a process of touch, memory, and invention that isn’t beholden to vision.

Building on Derrida’s work, Tim Ingold’s Making reinforces his argument that making is a process of discovery rather than something representative. He rethinks the relation between drawing and writing, emphasizing that both originate from the hand, which he says works to tell the stories of the world. The hand is active as it probes and caresses; these actions precede visions and representation. In accordance with Derrida, Ingold argues that a mark is not in the realm of visibility but a lived movement: the practice of making. To Derrida, vision is haunted by blindness, but Ingold sees this haunting as fundamental to creativity. He sees the separation of sight and drawing as something that hinders how intertwined touch, memory, and perception actually are.

Conclusion

As media theorists, both Ingold and Derrida pose crucial questions and ideas that pertain to our relationship with the media. Much like drawing, when we produce media, there is a sense of “blindness” where we are obfuscated by the process of production itself. The notion that creating as a process is seen in both Derrida and Ingold’s arguments, where we see them discuss products as an unfinished, ongoing process. Ingold uses Derrida’s work to reinforce his main argument that making is a correspondence between the maker and the material. Both scholars argue that making is not a process determined by preconceived notions of reality but rather a relation between body and material. However, Derrida highlights this through his philosophies on the hand and blindness, revealing that the artist “creates or makes” without full knowledge of what will be the outcome. Ingold builds on this perspective and focuses on materiality. He describes the lived experience of making and how the maker and material are constantly working with one another. Just with the artefacts and buildings that Ingold puts forth his analyses on, media, too, are unfinished products constantly being reshaped with what is unseen (blind) as well as the hands that create them under new contexts. We see this often with how media are constantly edited, adapted into different forms of media, and also recontextualized under new perspectives. As academics, understanding each medium, not as its own standalone finished project, but in a perpetual state of change, is what guides us and our studies in the media landscape.

Citations

Britannica Editors. “Jacques Derrida”. Encyclopedia Britannica, 4 Oct. 2025, https://www.britannica.com/biography/Jacques-Derrida. Accessed 17 October 2025.

Derrida, Jacques. Memoirs of the Blind: The Self-Portrait and Other Ruins. University of Chicago Press, 1993. 

Ingold, Tim. Making: Anthropology, Archaeology, Art and Architecture. Routledge, 2013. 

Written by:

Molly Kingsley, Christine Choi, Aminata Chipembere

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Making in the Eco Chamber

“Those who buy only one book, read only that one and then get rid of it. They simply apply the consumer mentality to books, that is, they consider them a consumer product, a good. Those who love books know that a book is anything but a commodity.”

― Umberto Eco

Umberto Eco: A Library of the World is a documentary that delves into Italian literary critic and semiotician Umberto Eco’s life and his personal library, which houses over 30,000 volumes of novels and 1,500 rare and ancient books. Director Davide Ferrario discusses with Eco, conducts interviews with his family and friends, and retrieves archival footage of Eco to beautifully encapsulate Eco’s life through his love and passion for books and the exploration of the truth. The 80-minute film presents Eco’s library as a living archive that mediates the relationship between media and memory, providing insights into how media shapes thought, culture, and history. Expanding to the scope of this course, the film explores the importance of the distinction between material and digital media, semiotics, and the body. I will connect these concepts to Tim Ingold’s novel Making, specifically, with Ingold’s claim that media as living matter and his distinction between ‘objects’ versus ‘things’. I argue that Eco’s approach to media and memory through books parallels Ingold’s concept of making as a continuous process between the conscious and material world.

The film’s themes of media and material knowledge emerge most vividly through Eco’s private library, which serves as both a physical living archive and a conceptual framework for understanding his worldview. The library, which is a growing personal collection of Eco’s books, then becomes a symbol of a living system of knowledge, rather than a static collection of objects. The film strengthens this idea by presenting Eco’s notion of vegetal memory, which mediates memory and knowledge through paper and books. Eco claims, in his paper on vegetal memory, that libraries are ‘the most important way of keeping our collective wisdom’ (Eco, 1). For him, books and their mass presence through the space of a library become a physical thing that mediates memory, linking memory to material forms. This idea parallels Ingold’s argument that material form is flowing, not fixed. He claims that the material world and human thought are mediated through correspondences, where the flow of materials and the flow of consciousness are intertwined, where making becomes a process of mediation (Ingold, 21). For Eco, making comes in the form of curating books for his personal archive, where he engages thought and memory with the physicality of books. Ingold proposes that making is an embodied interaction that occurs before and during meaning is made (Ingold, 96). Eco mirrors Ingold’s claims as he physically turns the page of each book, engaging with it at every turn. Beyond completing the reading, he continues to engage with the material by keeping a collection of books. Here, the meaning of books changes before, during, and after the activity of reading the actual contents of the object. With embodied interaction with its material, as Eco refuses to put on gloves to preserve its material, rather letting it decay, breathe, and live in its environment, the books transform from a commodity to a physical vessel of memory and knowledge.

To further explore the library as a metaphor for collective knowledge, Eco’s fascination with semiotics exhibits many parallels with Ingold’s distinction between objects and things and their affordances. Eco connects semiotics, the study of signs as a means of meaning-making, back to vegetal memory, where every book is a sign whose contents reference other signs and histories. Through these signs and the curation of other signs through books, humans can form frameworks to understand the world. Because of this, Eco’s library transforms into a semiotic system that not only houses these vessels of signs and knowledge but also creates a network that connects books through categories and cross-referencing. Furthermore, Ingold’s interpretation of seeing things as things, rather than as objects, is extremely relevant in exploring how Eco engages with books through a semiotic lens.

Ingold quotes philosopher Martin Heidegger’s claim that objects are complete in themselves, where correspondence does not occur because it does not interact with the world and its surroundings (Ingold, 85). On the other hand, Ingold claims that things are with us as opposed to objects being against us. Things can be experienced in a way that corresponds with their surroundings, rather than merely witnessing or existing alongside an object. A thing is a dynamic gathering of material matter that engages with other things, such as people or the environment (Ingold, 85). Ingold concludes his claim by stating that things exist and persist because they leak, where materials interact with each other physically across the different surfaces they encounter. Through these types of leakages and interactions, things can be living and dynamic and possess a sort of bodily agency that can die, decay, or transform over time (Ingold, 95). With this distinction between ‘objects’ and ‘things,’ it is clear that Eco’s books are not static or to be read and stored once completed. Rather, his consciousness corresponds with the book’s materiality, and even goes beyond his personal interpretations of his texts when he connects different texts and shares his understanding with the public. As mentioned in the quote at the start of this post, Eco’s passion for books goes beyond viewing them as a mere object or commodity; rather, it affords him knowledge and understanding of the world around him. Through this ongoing dialogue between mind and material, Eco transforms reading into a living practise, one that blurs the boundaries between individual memory and the collective intelligence stored within his library.

Ultimately, Umberto Eco: A Library of the World reveals that knowledge is never static but is continually made and remade through our material and intellectual engagements with media. Through the lens that books are dynamic ‘things’ rather than ‘objects,’ the film presents Eco’s books as a living, constantly growing system of knowledge. A point in the film that struck me the most was the intimate moments of Eco physically interacting with his books. Sensory actions such as touching the covers or each page, smelling the books, or rearranging books in categories became systems and processes of thinking. This reminded me that reading is not just an intellectual activity, but also a tactile and relational practise. Reflecting on our course discussions, I found parallels with the Critical Terms chapter I read for my presentation, “Writing,” where theorist Andre Leroy-Gourhan emphasises graphism in writing. Specifically, how literacy is not only used as a means of communication but as a tool that links mind, body, and material. The film offers a powerful reminder that media are not passive containers of knowledge but active participants in the making of knowledge itself.

Works Cited

​​Eco, Umberto. (2022). Umberto Eco: A Library of the World [Film]. Directed by Davide Ferrario.

Eco, Umberto. “Vegetal and Mineral Memory: The Future of Books.” Academia.Edu, 21 June 2015, www.academia.edu/13152692/Vegetal_and_Mineral_Memory_The_Future_of_Books_by_Umberto_Eco. 

Ingold, Tim. Making: Anthropology, Archaeology, Art and Architecture. Routledge, 2013.

Cover image from The Belcourt Theatre

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In a Silent Search

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Reflection on Umberto Eco’s Library of the World

When the film opened with Umberto Eco walking slowly through his library, surrounded by more than 30,000 books, I felt something stir inside me. His library is, quite honestly, my dream library. The way the camera moved through the endless rows of books felt almost like watching time itself, layer by layer and century by century. Eco’s library felt like a living organism and a space for remembering and a pulse of thought and time. 

Rewatching the film again at my own pace, taking notes and pausing throughout, I realized how much of what we’ve been learning in this course came to life in Eco’s words and character. As he said early in the film, “a library is both a symbol and a reality of universal memory” (2:01). That line stayed with me because it shows exactly what the film explores, the library as an extension of the human mind and a living memory system that binds matter, meaning, and mediation together.

Books as Media & Memory

The film presents the library as a medium of memory and through it, Eco shows how matter and meaning are inseparable. Eco’s son says, “It’s a living thing, not an archive, not a traditionally organized library” (44:14), and that description stayed with me because it reframed what a library could be. In Eco’s eyes, every book is both an object and an idea, a kind of container of thought that only becomes alive when touched, opened, and read.

I think this connects to Stiegler, from the chapter on memory in Critical Terms for Media Studies, where he explains that “human memory is originally exteriorized, which means it is technical from the start” (p. 67). He calls this process epiphylogenesis, the way we evolve “by means other than life,” through the tools, marks, and traces we create (p. 65). In other words, memory has always existed partly outside of us. Eco’s library, in that sense, becomes an externalized form of what Stiegler calls hypomnesis, meaning “recollection through externalized memory” (p. 67), sort of a living system of technical memory that carries human thought across generations.

Eco, in the film, categorizes memory into three kinds: vegetal, organic, and mineral. He explains that books represent vegetal memory because they are literally made of living matter: “books are made out of trees and anciently from papyrus” (9:40). The paper, ink, and bindings store traces of human experience the same way trees store rings of time. Books, then, are one of humanity’s earliest forms of technical memory, bridging nature and culture and body and medium. In a sense, when Eco walks through his library, he’s walking through a forest of preserved thought, each book a leaf in the great tree of human memory. That’s a library of the world.

Mediation, Knowledge, & the Human Mind

Eco’s intellectual life thrives through mediation. He believed that “to be curious intellectually means to be alive” (40:59). That line really stood out to me because it shows how Eco lived with a kind of restless curiosity that never stopped questioning or exploring. For him, thinking is an ongoing process of understanding. 

“I feel I had a full and long childhood because I stole somebody else’s memories,” he says, describing how reading allowed him to experience countless lives (33:46). This made me think about how books become mediators of experience, carrying us into other people’s memories, stories, and worlds. He also rejected the hierarchy between “important” and “unimportant” texts: “The life you conquer with reading does not discriminate between great literature and entertainment” (34:09). I think this aligns with Mitchell and Hansen’s idea of media as “environment for living—for thinking, perceiving, sensing, feeling” (p. xii). Reading, to Eco, was a way of living through mediation itself.

And this reminded me of Turkle’s ideas in Evocative Objects, where she writes that “everyday objects become part of our inner life: how we use them to extend the reach of our sympathies by bringing the world within” (p. 307). His library feels alive because I think it mirrors the structure of a human mind. It’s associative, layered, and full of contradictions. It very much resists the linear order and embraces the chaos of curiosity.

Silence, Information & the Loss of Meaning in Today’s World

One of the most thought-provoking parts of the film was when Eco talked about silence. He said, “You cannot find God where there is noise. God reveals himself only in silence” (1:15:00). That line felt timeless but also so relevant to the kind of world we live in today, one that is constantly oversaturated with distractions.

At some point in the film, an interviewer asked Eco if he didn’t own a cellphone, and Eco said, “Yes, but it’s always out… I don’t want to receive messages, and I don’t want to send messages! This world is loaded with messages, and even each of them says nothing!” (48:10). I actually laughed listetning to that but the more I thought about it, the more profound it became. I don’t think Eco is anti-technology but he was critiquing the modern condition of constant noise, essentially that is communication without depth and meaning.

He warns that “the risk is losing our memory on account of an overload of artificial memory,” because when everything is available instantly, nothing stays long enough to matter. “Clicking a button, you can get a bibliography of 10,000 titles. A bibliography like that is worthless. You can just throw it away. Once you went to the library and found three books, you would read them, and you would learn something” (26:10). 

In the film, there was a sign that read: “In a library, silence is both a duty and a necessity” (31:51). I think that really summed up Eco’s entire philosophy. Silence, for Eco, is so sacred, it’s almost a form of preservation. It’s the condition for memory, reflection and meaning to survive. In a world overflowing with noise and distraction, Eco’s library felt like an act of resistance and a reminder that real understanding is born from the quiet, slow process of thought.

Why this Film Matters, Now

This film matters especially now because it reminds us what it means to think slowly in a world that never stops moving. In an age of instant access and algorithmic noise, Eco’s library feels almost radical and a sanctuary of slowness, silence and curiosity. His philosophy challenges the illusion that more information equals more knowledge, showing instead that depth is actually what sustains understanding.

Eco’s philosophy pushes back against the digital condition in which technology’s promise of infinite access leads to the loss of knowledge itself. His insistence on silence and reflection feels like an act of intellectual resistance.

I think we were asked to watch this film because it turns the media theories we’ve been studying so far into something we can see and feel. Eco’s closing words were so important: “There’s no truth or creativity in an earthquake, only in a silent search” (1:15:25). I think it means we should slow down, remember, and think again.

References

Eco, U. (2022). Umberto Eco: A Library of the World [Film]. Directed by Davide Ferrario.

Cinecittà. Mitchell, W. J. T., & Hansen, M. B. N. (Eds.). (2010). Critical terms for media studies. University of Chicago Press.

Stiegler, B. (2010). Memory. In W. J. T. Mitchell & M. B. N. Hansen (Eds.), Critical terms for media studies (pp. 64–87). University of Chicago Press.

Turkle, S. (Ed.). (2007). Evocative objects: Things we think with. MIT Press.

Photo Credits

Daily Sabah. (2021, February 22). A library of all libraries. Daily Sabah. https://www.dailysabah.com/opinion/op-ed/a-library-of-all-libraries

Screenshot from the film (31:51).

By Maryam Abusamak

Other

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.