Audiovisual art is changing rapidly. Increasingly powerful projectors, screens and lighting rigs with integrated control systems, pervade the interwoven worlds of cinema, gallery and concert halls. These changes blur the borders of the art form with gaming, club and gig visuals, semi-permanent immersive experiences, and giant outdoor screens and projection-mapped buildings.
I’m fascinated by electronic light and sound in art, music and cinema, and so was curious to experience Eclipse, “a spatial light and sound experience” by Japanese art studio Nonotak (Noemi Schipfer and Takami Nakamoto).
You enter the exhibition into a darkened lounge bar that features the first of three separate experiences: a flat, wall-based light work titled Highway that gives a powerful sense of horizontal motion from the stepped sequence of flashing white bands of light.
The next, Dual, is a large sound and light space that uses the kind of directional lighting seen onstage at concerts to make deep spatial patterns with beams of light against a soft haze.
The third, Hidden Shadow, returns us to an image-based experience with directional seating and a large flat LED wall, on which shifting and dissolving points continually redefine a circle, linked to powerful overhead strobe-type lights in a way that seems to reference the installation title.
These are all monochrome, programmed in sequences, with continuous repetition. Although the timed-entry system seems to encourage the viewer’s movement through the spaces, roughly corresponding to their duration, ending again in the lounge and bar area.
Immersed in pulsing light and sound, I look for coordinates to ground my experience. There’s a long history of artists making light and sound do things simultaneously. Psychedelia seems an obvious ancestor.
Even before Hoppy Hopkins made liquid light swirl to the sound of Pink Floyd at London’s UFO club in the 1960s, pioneers in the US and Europe had constructed “colour organs” to play coloured lights in a musical way and painted glass slides for theatre projection, to access the synaesthesia (a neurodivergent condition that links the senses in unexpected ways) which was believed by some to be buried deep in all of us.
Animated film is part of this story, with Disney’s Fantasia the best-known union of music and visual movement in early popular film history, though modernists like Oskar Fischinger (who contributed to Fantasia) and Viking Eggeling made more austere abstract combinations of rhythm and graphic object for avant-garde audiences.
Nearby the Eclipse venue, the Tate Modern shows Anthony McCall’s 1970’s Solid Light installation works. Originally developed on clattering 16mm celluloid film for dusty and cigarette-smoke-filled social spaces, they play quietly and continually now on digital projectors with programmed haze machines in a clean, purpose-built gallery.
Closer in appearance (and in time) to the work of Nonotak are audiovisual artists like Carsten Nicolai and Ryoji Ikeda. They reconfigured the “visual music” tradition with a stripped-down and often monochromatic union of sound and light, bringing the precision of post-digital graphics to minimal techno and dub or the spookiness of glitch electronica to what is often now referred to as “a/v performance”.
Ikeda’s 2017 installation test pattern explored a similar aesthetic across the river at London’s 180 Strand Studios, home of another organisation dedicated to expanded audiovisual art.
Lumen Studios, who curated and presented the show, are aiming Eclipse at programmers, graphic designers and “edgy people”, literate in gaming, coding, NFTs, cryptocurrencies and other screen-based worlds and objects.
These are not necessarily the same people who would connect McCall’s lines of “solid light” to 1970s Materialist Cinema’s highly political demand to reject the “illusionistic” conventions of mainstream realist film. Nor should they have to.
The human eye is trained differently than it was when television ended before midnight and cinemas were not rivalled by streamed media on demand. This space could have entirely different reference points to those I am evoking. Set design, for example. On their website, Nonotak cites scenography, theatre, film, dance, architecture, and drawing among their areas of practice.
So maybe now it’s me that is the performer, on, or inside, a virtual stage or film set. Standing in the largest of the three installations, Dual, I feel as though I might be running from an alien on a giant transport ship heading for Mars.
I could also be in a more earth-bound comparison, standing at the back of a giant warehouse party, or a rave, away from the crush of dancing bodies while still in the synchronised cocoon of sensory electronics. It is visual, but also physical, and it creates a powerful kinetic dislocation from the space in which it is situated.
This last comparison highlights the “in-between” nature of the Eclipse installations in its temporary accommodation in Bermondsey. The cocktail bar points gently (and legally) towards the hedonism of gigs and raves, but the regulated entry system suggests a more institutional mode of attention, closer to the time-stamped immersive museum experience or even a live-action gaming environment, like an upmarket Laserquest.
Similarly, the audio, filled with effectively light-synchronised rhythmic pulsing, doesn’t have the gut-level bass of a contemporary club or music venue sound system. And while the slightly disembodied vitality of Dual made me think about dancing and moving in a slightly different way, it isn’t a dance floor.
Nor did it make promises of that kind. So this is less a criticism of the work than a recognition that my coordinates will always need updating, as the spaces we move through adapt to different forms of attention. If our species is fortunate enough to continue devoting time, technology, materials and labour to human sensory curiosity in the decades that follow, there will be more hybrid collisions of light, sound, image, rhythm, music, in real and imaginary, actual and virtual, space. I very much hope so.
Eclipse by Nonotak is on until December 8 2024 at 47 Tanner St, London
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Rob Flint does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
