Suzanne Mooney スザンヌ・ムーニー

How long do you spend looking at a work of art, watching a movie, or playing a computer game? I actively avoid art museums and galleries on weekends and holidays, as I cannot abide the ordered shuffle from artwork to artwork, giving almost equal time to each work on display. Generally, at art exhibitions I find myself drawn in or disinterested in extreme degrees. The pressure from the group, social and even physical, as bodies move in apparent automation, take me out of the viewing experience and leave me focused far more on the spectacle that is the viewing public, a chimera viewer. Unlike with other entertainment media, there is no obvious beginning and end to the viewing time. I find myself wondering how the appropriate amount of time might have been decided upon collectively, and likely without any conscious thought. So many of our entertainment viewing experiences are of a fixed duration. We know how long to watch a movie―from the beginning to the end. But over time, through the development of technology and shifts in culture, our expectations of durational experiences in other media are changing too.

The medium more often than not dictates our expectations and experience of duration. Before cinema, the dioramas of Daguerre and Bouton were a viewing spectacle of just 10 to 15 minutes in length. Movies, in the early days of feature films, had their length decided by the physical length of the film reel, with multi-reel films following soon after. Television and radio shows, although often serial, are generally easy to make time for, being typically shorter than feature films, shrinking a little as advertisements appear in greater frequency. Soap operas, some with more than 10, 000 aired episodes, have enthralled audiences for decades, drawing the viewer towards the spectacle of the mundanity or otherness of life, interjected with love and loss. The box set has transcended its namesake format, morphing into subscription-based on demand video providers like Netflix. No longer does the consumer readily enter into an unstated agreement to wait a week at a time to watch the next episode in a television series. Binge watching and series extended into double digits are the new norm, and with this our expectations for viewing duration are adapting. We want more. The film industry is packed to the brim with sequels, prequels, re-boots and interconnected cross-platform storylines. Take the Marvel Cinematic Universe as a prime example, beginning with the Iron Man film (2008), the franchise combines not only 19 feature films, but also 10 additional television series such as Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Jessica Jones taking the total running time to 9 days 17 hours and 29 minutes.*1 The latest release, Avengers: Infinity War (2018) features a colossal 76 characters, each having their own back-stories and build-up over the course of a decade of viewing, and relies on the viewers’ knowledge gained over this time. This is what we expect, and our expectations for viewing and duration continue to change as we engage with entertainment.

In the global computer games industry, set to break the 100 billion dollar mark before 2020, we can find the long-duration, extended viewer-experience taking form. In our media entertainment, despite being interactive in nature, computer games also have pre-determined playtime. 15 hours is typical for a game narrative to unfold, but this length is extended depending on time spent in additional tangential storylines, activities or exploration. Even open-world games tend to have narratives of fixed duration to some degree. Recently, in a select number of games, the narrative has become central with gameplay featuring in support of the narrative. The game God of War (2018) is a 25-hour one-shot sequence that takes the player on a journey, the main chratcer interacting with his son throughout. Senua’s Sacrifice (2017) with just 7 to 8 hours of gameplay is unusually short, shifting the experience even further in the direction of film, or perhaps the box set. Both place emphasis on the framing of scenes, lighting, character development and story-telling, taking the game experience very much into the realm of the cinematic experience. And is this not what we expect, as consumers?

Extended experience comes in many forms―viewing time, 3D cinema, IMAX, V.R., 360-degree video―and controlling the pace of the narrative, the view in real-time and even the fate of characters along the way is another extension of the cinematic experience. As the computer game veers ever closer to cinema, and technological developments in display systems open up new possibilities for viewer-controlled cinema (e.g. through the use of 360-degree video) it may be only a matter of time before the film and computer games industries eventually begin to merge as we, the viewer/player/consumer seek more and more control over the duration and depth of our entertainment experiences.

Endnote:
*1 A detailed list was of viewing order and time was compiled by a Reddit user and shared thought a Marvel Studios subreddit. http://goo.gl/UHxHwA
Found through How Long Is The Entire Marvel Cinematic Universe? by Cameron Bonomolo.
http://comicbook.com/marvel/2017/11/04/marvel-cinematic-universe-entire-how-long/

Suzanne Mooney スザンヌ・ムーニー

In 19th century Europe, visual culture was transformed. It was certainly not the first time, but this point of technological change saw the foundations laid for the contemporary globalised world we now inhabit. The birth of photography allowed Nature to be captured through photographic processes, or in the words of Daguerre*1, “It is a chemical and physical process which gives her the power to reproduce herself.”*2 We may no longer require chemical processing in the shooting and development of photographic images, but the basic principles of photography remain unchanged: the light from our three-dimensional world becomes fixed as a two-dimensional representation. At the time of Niépce’s first successful heliograph*3, and development of the Daguerreotype and subsequent processes that followed, I wonder, could Niépce or Daguerre have truly fathomed the omnipresence that the photograph would attain? On contemplating this current place and time, it is somewhat difficult to project the resultant impact and longevity of more recent development in visual culture. Politics, economy, and a host of other factors will determine which methods of image-production are to stand the test of time ― light-field, 3D, 360-degree cameras, etc. Yet, in many ways, the method of production has become less important. Not as a means of image making per se, but rather as one of dissemination, social media is without doubt one of the greatest changes in our experience of images. Even as recently as the end of the last decade of the 20th century, although it was common to consume images on a daily basis ― through advertising, books and magazines, television, and the Internet, to name but a few examples ― the making of images was not a daily activity for the majority. Nowadays, through social media, in addition to consuming images, the extent to which the average user shares image content is astounding. Social media has irrevocably impacted our relationship with photographic imagery and has made producers of us all.

Let’s take a moment to consider this role of “producer”. It is true that the rate of the public’s general production of images has increased exponentially, but we are also less involved in the making process. It is a challenge to fail at taking a photograph with an iPhone, or most other recent models of smart phones. The software and camera technology do most of the work. The camera adjusts tone, allows the user to shoot in extremely low light, and handles dynamic range better than most compact cameras, in addition to offering presets through which we can select the desired style of image even before the shutter is opened. Through our cameras we can view our world in black and white, sepia tone, or vivid colours, though the real-time generated preview image. We can even bring the Purikura booth with us to draw out that inner kawaii. It is as simple as making a request ― envisioning the end image and instructing the machine to produce the image as per the specifications. And as I relay this information that you are likely well aware of, you may be thinking to yourself that this is hardly something new or cutting-edge. This way of viewing the world is now commonplace. Not only can we imagine our world in images, but we can also view our immediate surroundings through the lens and computer processing of our phones in real-time. The old clichéd image of raised lighters was replaced by that of an ocean of glowing smart phones some time ago, as festival-goers can spend an equal amount of time viewing performers on the screens of their phones, while broadcasting the images live along with saving the experience for posterity. But now in this second decade of the 21st century, as instagrammable takes its place in the lexicon of the English language, public events, concerts, exhibitions and travel can be measured and valued in their ability to be reproduced as images. The ease with which an experience can be captured as an image and shared through social media platforms is impacting the way our first-hand experiences are being designed and structured.

Smart devices may already feel like an extension of our selves, and it may be only a matter of time before the distinction between the body and machine is less clear-cut, but the shift in our visual experience of the world is already changed. As we await the A.R. or V.R. revolution, it is easy to miss the fact that in our hybrid digital/analogue world, Mixed Reality is already very much here. If we could only project fifty or so years into our own futures to pull this period of development into focus, into perspective in the broader history of human technological development, I can’t help but wonder what profundities of our current technological development will be so clearly visible in hindsight as that of photography of the 19th century.

Endnote:
*1 Louis Jaques Mandé Daguerre (1787 – 1851), a French artist and inventor who, through his collaboration with Joseph Nicéphore Niépce, developed the Daguerreotype process, the first photographic process available to the public (1839).

*2 “Daguerreotype”, Louis Jaques Mandé Daguerre. Classic Essays on Photography Edited by Alan Trachtenberg. Leete’s Island Books. New Haven, Conn. 1980

*3 Joseph Nicéphore Niépce (1765 – 1833), a French inventor and pioneer in photography who produced the world’s first surviving photographic image, and the first photographic image from nature View from the Window at Le Gras (1826/1827), a heliograph (from Greek: helios meaning sun and graphein meaning to write).

Suzanne Mooney スザンヌ・ムーニー

Food is an expression of culture. In every important milestone or seasonal event, food plays a role, through connection with the local area and land, and the social aspect of sharing a meal with others. More recently, food is a constant feature in photographs on social media, facilitating a public expression of identity.

While I write this short text, we have entered the month of November, and as the season begins its shift towards colder days, the evenings grow shorter, the leaves turn colour and the warmth of summer abates. The familiar autumn season, even on the other end of the Eurasian continent, evokes sights, smells and flavours from childhood―seasonal foods and a subtle yet distinctive scent on the cooler air. The feast of Samhain (better known to most as Halloween) has just passed, marking the end of harvest and time to settle in for the winter. This Gaelic celebration combines rich histories, cultures, and traditions from across Europe. There is some debate about the origin of Samhain (translated as “summer’s end”), but it has its roots in Celtic culture. In countries that see a significant shift in seasons, the harvest festival has practical and cultural importance. At the end of the harvest, family and community came together to celebrate Samhain, to ward off the spirits of ancestors and to share their local culture, feasting together. Food is still an equally important part of Halloween as for any traditional celebration, by way of barm brack, colcannon and soul cakes*1.

This time of year used to see preparation for winter underway through the traditions of preserving, pickling and fermenting. Ultimately, the human body and the seasons are intertwined through our need to eat to survive, and such distinctions of season are deeply tied to farming and survival through the less abundant months of the year. In this globally interconnected world, it is easy to forget how so many of our cultural festivals were deeply connected to seasonal change and survival. But despite this, food holds great cultural meaning, even today, despite the availability of almost any food all year round. These days, methods and recipes are still passed down through generations, even if only for cultural preservation rather than their original purpose as a means of survival.

Food and social interaction have always been interrelated. These days, food is shared not only in person but also through social media. Consumer-generated images fill social media threads, with hashtags such as #foodporn or #foodgasm. A recent publication in the Journal of Consumer Marketing*2 suggests that the act of taking a photograph of one’s meal, combined with the delayed satisfaction of stopping to upload an image, actually makes the act of eating more pleasurable. Another study*3 found some correlation between eating in front of a mirror―as substitute for eating with others―and improvement in the eating experience, also resulting in a greater appetite and consumption of food. The 1960s T.V. dinner has been replaced by the gastrogramming of today’s social media generation, both of which create a way for the lone diner to feel some connection with the wider world. Our means of social interaction change, particularly with developments in technology and media but, of course, there is far more going on in the sharing of eating experiences through social media than seeking companionship. Through the selection of food, any of the wide range of identifiers―religion, nationality, vegetarianism, health-consciousness―used to build our online persona, true to that of our “real-life” self or otherwise, are made public.

It is at this time of year that I begin preparing Christmas puddings, based on a recipe from my grandmother. This traditional preserved food will be a centre-piece when celebrating the year’s end with friends, setting the pudding alight at the climax of the meal, and no doubt it will make its way onto social media in some form, an expression of my own heritage and the making of memories, connecting across differences of language, culture, or politics―all gathered at the table to feast together.

Endnote:
*1 I do not include pumpkins in this list, as they are a relatively recent addition to Halloween celebration, a change brought about through the mass emigration of Irish to the United States between 1820 and 1860, approximately 2 million people. It was only in America that the traditional carved turnip was ousted by the easier to carve, and tastier, pumpkin.

*2 Sean Coary, Morgan Poor, (2016) ‘How consumer-generated images shape important consumption outcomes in the food domain’, Journal of Consumer Marketing, Vol. 33 Issue: 1, pp.1-8

*3 Ryuzaburo Nakata, Nobuyuki Kawai, (2017) ‘The “social” Facilitation of Eating without the Presence of Others: Self-Reflection on Eating Makes Food Taste Better and People Eat More’, Physiology & Behavior, 179. Supplement C, 23–29

Suzanne Mooney スザンヌ・ムーニー

Visual cues remind us where we are, and in every waking moment we read our surroundings, interpreting the environment through a lifetime, or part thereof, of knowledge and experience. We perceive place with a multitude of senses, but in this day and age often experiences of space and place lean towards the visual, whether driving in a car, looking out through a window, or viewing through a screen, other senses are limited to place unnatural weight on the visual experience. The smallest visual detail can trigger moments of recognition, but without a point from which to reorient, without knowing where we are, can we feel connection to that place?

On a recent drive from Dublin, in the Republic of Ireland, to Northern Ireland, I found myself searching for such clues of location. After the peace process and Good Friday agreement between Ireland and political parties in Northern Ireland in 1998, and despite the continuance of the 499km border division between north and south, there has been no visible border present between the Republic and the United Kingdom*1. For close to fifteen minutes I could not have told you in which country I was. While it is common within the EU to have inconspicuous border markings, the Irish border is unique in that it has no signposts to inform travellers that they have crossed a territorial boundary. Only by reading the contents of graffiti, or noticing the change in sign posting from bi-lingual place names to English only, did I reorient myself. I was not lost. I drove along, no change in course, but an inability to locate myself within my understanding of that place, made for an interesting experience of dislocation.

In the absence of official markings, each side of the open border has been tagged with graffiti, or flags have been erected or painted to claim the space, and also to mark occurrences of tragic events at those sites. Human beings have placed claim on territories through visual markers for as long as tribalism has been a part of culture. And for as long as we have structured our societies through division, belonging has been of importance. If it were not for the visual interventions into the landscape of the Irish border, it would have taken considerably longer to reorient myself. We seek these unofficial signs in every place that human beings have existed. We look for the traces of territorial markings, official and unofficial, to understand our degree of belonging to or separation from place.

When calling into question the importance of the visual in our cities, graffiti offers a multifaceted example. Graffiti is present in many disadvantaged areas but it is also used as a means to regenerate the same areas through organised or commissioned graffiti projects. The defacing, tagging or decorating―depending on your opinion on the quality of image in question or graffiti culture as a whole―of public or private property, is read as a signifier for the local area, its safety and quality of life. In discussions of gentrification, and the “cleaning up” and sanitisation of neighbourhoods with a history of social problems, poverty or illegal activity, the value of visual traces―under-maintained or defaced property, etc.― are more than the remnants of the past. They are visual clues to the history of human experiences in that place. The cleaning up of an area too often results in the sweeping away of visual cues of the history of a place, and with it much of the character of the area.

A question to be considered more deeply is “Do we really want to live in a clean city?” Indeed, a better quality of air, an absence of unpleasant odours, and certainly fewer cockroaches, are preferable to most. However, are we human beings really happy in visually sanitised spaces? Furthermore, without the visible traces of human experiences in the city, along with the interventions of the passing of time, can we feel a sense of belonging?

Run-down or abandoned storefronts present the image of a suffering economy, or aging population, but in removing such visual cues, it is important to consider whether the reform is designed to address the problems the community is facing, or whether the cleaning up is for the benefit of the middle-classes. A great number of local authorities and organisations working with disadvantaged areas throughout the developed world accept that gentrification is not the answer, and seek instead to facilitate a self-determined approach for local communities, often teamed up with art-related intervention and community-engaged projects. Although this has been a positive development, an ideal model on which to redevelop the space of the community has yet to be established, and thusly the image of the gentrified city, a clean and economically viable model, still prevails to some degree. The problem with this image of the city is the removal of human traces, of the markers and cues that denote one’s belonging. There is a kind of power in the aged, the defaced, or even the broken places of the city. They speak of the histories of people, of human acts and if the progression of society as a whole. Rather that sweeping away these visual traces in an effort to redevelop an area, we must look for ways to harness the strength of these visual cues of territory and time―this otherness of the city.

Endnote:
*1 For further reading on the Irish border see Catherine Nash and Bryonie Reid, Partitioned Lives: The Irish Borderlands, 1 edition (Burlington, VT: Routledge, 2013).

Suzanne Mooney スザンヌ・ムーニー

Identity is always mediated through one form or another―appearance, affiliations, tone of voice, profession, or language, etc.―and thusly, identity itself is not fixed. One can even identify differences in the structuring of identity in “Eastern” and “Western” cultures, my most memorable encounter of which was a problem in translating a short text from English to Japanese some years ago. Through discussion with a Japanese friend, we deciphered the difficulty. The difference lay in conceptualizing identity as formed by gathering fragments of the world to which one belongs to make the individual, or, alternately, identity being a fragmentation, imagined as a leaving of pieces of oneself in various places, or groups, within a society. At that time I had been living in Japan just a couple of years, struggling with the language to some degree, but engaged in a greater struggle with my identity. One key factor in this issue of identity was the fact that I had begun to live parts of my life exclusively through a second language, and the projection of my character through Japanese did not correlate with the persona I projected when speaking in my native tongue.

Being Irish, I was raised and educated through English and Irish (Gaelic), Irish being the official first language, despite its being displaced by English as the dominant language in the Republic. My English, though not strongly accented, is still a variant of Hibernian English that borrows a little grammar and syntax from Gaelic, flavoured here and there with Dublin slang and nowadays even occasional Japanese phrasing. I cannot tell you how my accent and phrasing in Japanese are interpreted, but I can say with confidence that there is far less of a chasm between my perceived characters in each language nowadays. But in the years of moving beyond the communication of basic information, to more nuanced discussion of ideas and opinions, I was initially plagued by the curse of kawaii. Perhaps the mistakes in my grammar were endearing, my tone too soft, or the expression of my thoughts over-simplified. I’m not entirely sure of the cause, but I resolved to assert myself in a manner more in line with my self-image, both socially and professionally.

Translating the words of public figures necessitates immense skill, requiring a great depth of linguistic and cultural knowledge. The task of interpreting, not just the words, but also the nuance of meaning, and the character of the speaker, is a quandary for even the most practiced translator. The now infamous 2005 audio recording of Donald J. Trump that surfaced during his 2016 election campaign, in which he regaled with his actions towards women, how he could just “…grab ‘em by the pussy”, was repeated throughout the English-speaking world to the shock and disgust of the majority.  Watching the news on various television stations, I waited with curiosity to hear this particular phrase translated into Japanese. I could not imagine an NHK news anchor repeating the English words, nor could I figure out a direct translation that would be aired on the national news. I never heard the words translated by the national broadcaster. Most references were to “lewd comments” made. The boldest translation into Japanese, according to Daniel Morales’s Japan Times article , was by Agence France-Presse , but this translation did not receive airtime on par with the original English outside of Japan.

The words themselves, an admission of action, had meaning beyond their crass description of acts. One does not grab gently. And there are few men that would use the word pussy in front of their mother, daughters or in a professional environment. The omission of words of such import caused me to reexamine how the persona of Trump was being presented through the Japanese language, and how this knowledge gap may shape and direct differences of opinion between English and non-English speakers in Japan.

Nuanced words and loaded phrases have played a major role in the rightward shift of politics over recent years. “Take our country back” was heard at rallies across the United States. The first black president of the U.S.A. had awoken deeply rooted fears and divisions drawn across racial lines, and a minority within the white majority made public a sense of collective vulnerability. Across the Atlantic the rhetoric was mirrored in the words of Brexit campaigners. “Let’s take back control” spoke of returning to a former sovereign glory, a history of a proud nation, but with little discussion over the colonisation of other nations that were the foundation stones on which the British Empire built itself. During a January 25, 2017, press conference, Tokyo Governor Koike chose the words “Let’s make Tokyo Great again” referring to improvements being implemented throughout Tokyo in the run up to the 2020 Olympics. Although originally coined during Ronald Reagan’s 1980 presidential campaign, these words, with America in place of Tokyo, are synonymous with Trump’s 2016 campaign rallies. Governor Koike’s presentation did not heave with regressive rhetoric. Nevertheless, “great again” implies return to a greater time, or social order. The appropriated English words are rank with divisive undertones and, for an English-speaker, inseparable from this association. The plans outlined by Koike spoke of progression, forward-thinking in terms of energy conservation and tourism, yet with the language chosen rooted in the wave of Trumpism. Are they harking back to their original Reagan connection to economic regeneration? Did the re-uttering of these words miss the nuance of current meaning, or not?

Trump supporters have praised his plain speaking, but on the global stage, his language must be analysed more closely. Difficulties in translating Trump’s non-sequential, nonsensical patter have been addressed in numerous articles.  But whatever your opinion on Trumpese, Trump speak, or the problems of Trumpslation, there is no doubt that in these words, and those of the many participants in the rightward swing in politics of this era, are layers of meaning and intention that will be analysed for years to come to better understand the reasons for the current global political climate and the characters that have played their parts.

Suzanne Mooney スザンヌ・ムーニー

The words artist and medium are combined in almost every discussion of contemporary art, but to ‘be’ a medium evokes an entirely different image, that of a large table, low-hanging chandelier, and seated guests hand-in-hand, all eyes fixed on he or she who will channel the spirits from some further plane of existence. Do what you can to wipe such an image from your mind and, in this instance, consider the artist to be neither channel nor vessel for spirits, meaning, genius, or even for ideas. In this case, the nature of ‘being’ a medium is the artist as one who exists (or existed) in the world, and this very fact of being, of living, as a medium in and of itself.

The role of artists in society has forever been in a state of flux, their works taking a wide range of forms far too varied to name here but including documentation, worship, propaganda, entertainment and academic enquiry. Earlier centuries found value in imitation, and often looked upon creativity as divine intervention. With the nineteenth century came the Enlightenment, and with it the proliferation of a Kantian notion of the artist, a lone individual, born a creative genius, who needs only accept their fate. Have we shed the image of the genius artist? Perhaps, to some extent, but the weight of value currently placed on originality has bolstered the fallacy of the artist as inherently individual. And as such, the one-of-a-kind artists are numerous enough as to be a collective norm―most clearly evident in the paradox of the hipster.

Nevertheless, the artist is inseparably intertwined with the art produced. Collectors want to own an O’Keeffe, a Picasso, or a Yayoi Kusama―replacing the object with the name of the maker does not even sound peculiar―and through this phrasing we can further confirm the fusion of the artist and the art. In building one’s career in the art market, there is still as much, if not more, emphasis on the creation of the artist than that of the works, and artists who intend to pursue a career are themselves aware of the need to build and shape their identity. Despite what may appear to be a dismissal of the value in such brand-building for the artist, on the contrary, I see a latent potential beyond the popularizing of a brand, the possibility to employ the artists’ image to deepen the reading of a work―essentially an extension of medium to include the artist themselves―another tool to be embraced and utilised.

McLuhan’s perspective that “the medium is the message” (McLuhan 1967; McLuhan 1994) has been integrated into a wide range of academic discourse, and in such times as these whereby the evolution of medium is par for the course, producers who choose not to interrogate their medium of choice are lauded for taking a purist approach or being disconnected from the society at large. Educational institutions are increasingly moving away from distinctly separated medium-specific courses, moving further from the mindset that each medium exists within its own bubble, its own self-referential modes of discourse that seek not to question the decision that lead to its adoption by the artist. Interdisciplinary or transdisciplinary approaches and fluidity in means of production is the mainstay for the contemporary artist wishing to find a sustainable place for him or herself in the current art climate. But the artists themselves are as much a factor in the reading of any work of art as the medium through which it has been produced. Within the world of contemporary art, I would expect little resistance to the assertion that ‘who the artist is’ matters at least to some degree in most, if not all encounters with an artwork. Even if we do not require or desire this knowledge of who made it, on knowing, there is an inevitable effect on our reading or enjoyment of any given work of art.

Identities of all kinds play a part in the building of the artist’s identity, and otherness―such as sexuality, nationality, race, disability, or gender―fits the bill of the prescribed image of the artist. The unsmiling face of Yayoi Kusama promoting her current exhibition at The National Art Center Tokyo illustrates this point to some extent. More than any other factor, her visible advanced age and harsh facial expression contrast so acutely with the colourful nature of her works and the wonder of stepping into an infinity room that an essential tension comes to the fore. She reminds us that the artworks have a maker, and how different the function of the making is compared to the function for the viewer. As a result, Kusama’s presence, the fact of her being and living, and how her works relate to that existence, make the artist the medium as much as any materials used in production.

Suzanne Mooney スザンヌ・ムーニー

Since the peak of the financial crisis of 2008 and its devastating effects on the Irish economy, there has been immediacy between politics and everyday life. This has also been true of the relationship between art and politics, evidenced by multiple campaigns partnering art and political ideology. Once such example is the Artists’ Campaign to Repeal the Eighth Amendment– the 8th amendment of the Constitution of Ireland (Article 40.3.3) – that has collected 2,869 artists as signatories as of October 2016, and held a demonstration on September 16th with thousands participating. You can follow the ongoing online battle between the pro and anti-Repeal campaigns on Twitter with the hashtag #RepealThe8th. The Repeal campaign has a specific, focused agenda– it is for the current Irish government to allow a nationwide referendum to repeal the 8th amendment of the Irish constitution, which states that “The State acknowledges the right to life of the unborn and, with due regard to the equal right to life of the mother, guarantees in its laws to respect, and, as far as practicable, by its laws to defend and vindicate that right.” thus placing exactly equal value on the life of a woman and that of an embryo/foetus from the moment of its conception. The topic is first on the agenda for the newly established Citizens’ Assembly. Currently, thousands of Irish women travel to the U.K. every year to terminate unwanted or non- viable pregnancies (see the tragic cases of Savita Halappanavar,*1 Sheila Hodgers,*2 or an asylum seeker identified only as Ms. Y*3). According to the UK Department of Health, 3,451 women and girls traveled from Ireland to England or Wales for a termination in 2015– an average of nine per day.*4 The short journey across the Irish Sea may not seem too bad until one considers the predicament of those without the financial means to travel, minors, non-nationals awaiting visas or refugees who may not have permission to leave the country, in addition to the stress of being abroad. As the nation has not protected the rights of women as stipulated by the European Court of Human Rights,*5 the campaign is demanding a right to vote on what constitutes bodily autonomy for a woman. As the campaign has gained momentum, Irish arts institutions have been vocal in their support, and thus Project Arts Centre, a contemporary arts space for visual and performing arts, became the site of a mural from the US-based Irish street artist Maser, commissioned by The HunReal Issues. The mural was painted on the front wall of Project, which is located on a pedestrian street in the heart of Dublin’s cultural quarter, Temple Bar. But shortly after the completion of the mural, an objection was raised with Dublin City Council’s planning authority, resulting in its removal. There has been a recent spate of political lobbying by privately owned conservative Catholic groups.

A further example of the implementation of existing, but rarely enforced legalities in relation to building fronts is objection to the sign for Pantibar, a gay bar on Capel Street in Dublin, owned by the drag queen and equal rights campaigner Panti Bliss (Rory O’Neill). The objection was on the basis that the sign is not in keeping with the character and integrity of the street. However, Pantibar has just won its appeal and has been granted permission under “exceptional circumstances” to be allowed to retain its sign as “the sign is integral to the social, historical and cultural significance of the current use of the premises.”

Just as the plazas and open spaces in cities that appear to be public are increasingly privately owned and controlled, the façades of private, and public, buildings in the city are subject to the rules of planning authorities. While the planning rules may not be designed with intention to curb free or political expression, they may be utilized as such, particularly by lobbyists with access to large sums of financial support. So how can one engage in free expression in public spaces without being beholden to planning regulations or permission from private companies or individuals? In the case of Maser‘s mural for Project Art Centre, an interesting possibility came about. After the removal of the Repeal mural from the Project Arts Centre building, not only was the image of the mural featured on the cover of Irish Art Review (Sept. 2016), news and social media sites, but an innovative strategy was employed to allow the public to view the mural in place, at its original site and in any location of the viewers choosing. Through the website*6 it is possible to access a QR code that when viewed through the link provided, an augmented reality version of the Repeal mural becomes visible on-screen. Initially, people printed out the QR code and stuck it to the wall of Project Art Centre, thus re-creating the original viewing experience, but mediated through their smartphone. Under local planning regulations “temporary signs” do not require planning permission and therefore placing the image on any surface within the city is permissible. This AR version of the mural is not subject to planning regulations, and can be viewed even in the most contested or controversial location.

It became apparent during the Arab Spring of 2010-2012 that the future of political activism is through technology. This has continued in more recent activism, such as Hong Kong’s Umbrella Movement, beginning in 2014. Swift communication across social media platforms and clear, strong visual branding to make a campaign recognisable in an instant are integral to building momentum. Ireland’s Repeal campaign follows this pattern too, selling goods online with their branding prominently featured. But in all cases, there is still an emphasis on presence within urban spaces. Often when the term “mediated experience” is used in relation to technology, there is a sense of something lesser―less real, less authentic―that comes to mind, however, there is also a possibility to transcend the regulated spaces of the real, and through the mediation of technology, to find unregulated spaces for political engagement. Augmented reality presents endless possibilities for combining the momentum of online activism with a presence in actual sites of contest. And with regard to the legality of such interventions, the QR code, for example, is merely a link to information, and therefore may circumvent laws relating to images in public spaces. As censorship and regulatory laws in countries throughout the world struggle to keep up the pace with technology, I expect and look forward to seeing, AR feature more prominently in political movements to come.

Endnote:
*1 Patient Safety Investigation report into services at University Hospital Galway (UHG) and as reflected in the care provided to Savita Halappanavar. Health Information and Quality Authority. Published on October 9, 2013. https://www.hiqa.ie/publications/patient-safety-investigation-report-services-university-hospital-galway-uhg-and-reflect (Accessed Dec. 28, 2016)

*2 The original article outlining Sheila Hodgers’ story was written by Padraig Yeates and was published in The Irish Times in September 1983. Recent article retelling her story by Fintan O’Toole, August 5, 2003. http://www.irishtimes.com/opinion/the-ugly-politics-of-the-womb-1.368580 (Accessed Dec. 28, 2016)

*3 An account of the case of Ms. Y from Amnesty Ireland. https://www.amnesty.ie/ms-ys-case/ (Accessed Dec. 28, 2016)

*4 Irish Family Planning Association statistics on Abortion in Ireland. https://www.ifpa.ie/Hot-Topics/Abortion/Statistics (Accessed Dec. 28, 2016)

Original UK Department of Health report, Abortion Statistics, England and Wales: 2015. https://www.gov.uk/government/statistics/report-on-abortion-statistics-in-england-and-wales-for-2015 (Accessed Dec. 28, 2016)

*5 United Nations Human Rights, Office of the High Commissioner, Ireland abortion ban subjected woman to suffering and discrimination – UN experts. The Committee findings published on June 1, 2016. http://goo.gl/rKbA5i (Accessed Dec. 28, 2016)
Video of UNHR Committee Chair N. Rodley’s final remarks. https://youtu.be/bUVIR9KAmhI (Accessed Dec. 28, 2016)

*6 Download and print the QR code from http://8mural.com (Accessed Dec. 28, 2016)

Suzanne Mooney スザンヌ・ムーニー

Walking through a city, any city, we encounter a multitude of surfaces– the surface upon which we walk, others we have cause to touch, and our visual encounter is dominated by the outer façades of architectural structures. We experience the interiors of relatively few buildings, re-visiting the familiar spaces inhabited through our work and leisure. Indoor spaces range from the very public of government buildings and transportation hubs, to the private spaces of domestic life and intimacy. Outdoor areas of the urban landscape are predominantly occupied by the public, but to whom does the space belong?

What appear to be public areas are often extensions of private construction projects, left available for limited public access in return for a reduction in property tax or ease of planning permission. To test this theory one has only to erect a camera tripod in what appears to be a public space, say in an open plaza in front of a train station or popular meeting place, to be informed by a promptly-arriving guard that filming is strictly prohibited on the privately-owned property.

As public spaces continue to shrink in size and in number throughout cosmopolitan cities all over the world, the available public space for political engagement is becoming increasingly limited. Public demonstrations or activism on private properties rely on the complicity of the owner, without any obligation to be unbiased. Under laws or planning regulations, the outer walls of private buildings are also restricted with regards to political voice. The surfaces of walls have long been sites of visual expression– from human beings’ earliest evidenced visual expressions in the caves of Lascaux, to political expression on the west side of the Berlin Wall and the walls dividing wealthy neighbourhoods and Favelas in Brazil, and the murals of Northern Ireland’s segregated housing estates throughout the Troubles– nationalistic/sectarian conflict in Northern Ireland since the late 1960s. My third example is one I would like to discuss further as a precursor to some examples of the current state of political and artistic expression in Ireland today.

The arts have long been a means of veiled and overt political sedition, and still are today. In Irish literature, theatre and music, songs of protest, loss and defiance abound, and the political has taken many forms in the visual arts. During the height of the Troubles and still today, Catholic and Protestant communities are demarcated by the presence of large-scale political murals on the end walls of terraced housing estates. The painted surfaces remind Loyalists and Republicans where they can and cannot walk, but furthermore, martyrs are immortalised, events commemorated and communities, divided, show their respective presence and strength. As a country, the history of Ireland spans thousands of years, but the Irish Republic is less than 100 years old, shadowed by the irresolvable political problems that come hand in hand with dividing a country, north and south.

Political murals are far from unique to Northern Ireland, but the scale, skill and prevalence has been immense. Growing up in the Republic these murals were part of daily news broadcasts and a constant in the media, and no doubt have shaped the thinking of subsequent generations. The marriage equality referendum in 2015 in Ireland saw an impassioned engagement with politics from the younger generations of voters, dedicated to making their country a more open society than the one in which they were raised. With this youthful enthusiasm came creative and ambitious modes of expression centered around bringing the issue of marriage equality, and the taboos of homosexuality and non- binary relationships that it incorporates, into everyday conversation across generational and social divides. The innovative and heart-warming ringyourgranny campaign encouraged young people to call their grandparents and speak directly about the issues, and spread nationwide through YouTube, Twitter and various websites and social media platforms.

But perhaps the most memorable image of the lead-up to the referendum was an image by artist Joe Caslin that was featured across news and social media. The image is in fact one of two. Each picture features a same- sex pair in a moment of embrace. The image of the male couple was pasted onto the façade of a four-storey building on the corner of Dame Street and South Great George’s Street in the centre of the capital city. The image of the female pair was affixed to the sidewall of a castle in County Galway in the west of Ireland. There was no text included to state the political view of the author, but the content and timing of their appearance made them a clear proponent of the “Yes” vote campaign. The biodegradable prints were fixed to the wall using a potato-based adhesive, designed to naturally fall away from the wall surface after rainfall, and thus the “murals” were a temporary intervention. Documentation and sharing of the temporal artwork by the general public, however, has given it longevity. In this year, after Ireland’s referendum on marriage equality was concluded and the new law enacted, artists have continued to be politically active on a number of fronts.