Leaping Robot is WRITING!

If you check on my blog from time to time, you’ll have noticed that I’ve slowed down with posting new entries. I’m currently writing a new book and that’s been getting the majority of my attention (in addition to all the other professor-y things I do like teach classes).

The new book is under contract with The MIT Press.  I’m currently calling it Art Rewired: Engineering a New Creative Culture. The focus of the book is the art-and-technology movement of the “long 1960s” (a time period bracketed by Sputnik on one end and Watergate on the other). During this time, several large-scale, formal collaborations between artists, engineers, and scientists emerged.

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Artist Rockne Krebs started using lasers to make sculptures in the late 1960s, sometimes collaborating with engineers.

Their creative efforts burst forth from corporate laboratories, artists’ lofts, publishing houses, museum galleries, and university campuses. These experiments – I use the word deliberately – in creativity, collaboration, and publishing would, they imagined, transcend aesthetics and art making, helping to reshape public perceptions of technology and engineering.

The new book will explain this sudden blossoming of interest and enthusiasm by drawing on ideas, scholarship, and research materials from art history and the histories of science and technology. The reasons for the sudden appearance (and subsequent receding) of the art and technology movement are complex. They are found neither solely in the art world nor in the expanding technological capabilities of Cold War engineers. Advocates for art and technology adopted diverse strategies – often complementary, sometimes at cross-purposes – to foster collaborations and secure resources and audiences.

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Members of the seminal NYC-based group Experiments in Art and Technology, 1966.

I have three main goals with the new project. First, while not ignoring the artists, this book restores the engineers and scientists, who were central to the era’s artistic collaborations, to the foreground. It recovers the history of the engineers who contributed time, technical expertise, and – most important – aesthetic input to their artist colleagues. Second, this book questions the verdict that the art and technology movement was a failure, either at the time or in retrospect. The ideals and ambitions of the art-technology movement, while challenged, never faded away and instead found a firm institutional footing. The effects of this are visible in today’s corporate world as companies like Apple are known for their design and aesthetic prowess, not just their engineering. Finally, I see this book as an experiment in writing history. It will bring perspectives and ideas from the histories of science and technology to a topic that has largely been the province of historians of art and new media.

Every so often, I’ll post something new, perhaps drawn from the new project. But, for now, I’m trying to get as much writing done as I can. Thanks for your interest.

Shifting Gears and Changing Rooms

(Bloggy Note: I recently appeared on the radio show Science Friday. Host Ira Flatow and I spoke about the history of another collaborative artist/engineer effort. This was the Art and Technology Program that the Los Angeles County Museum of Art ran from 1966-1971. After a 50 year hiatus, LACMA has recently rebooted the program. Although very different from the original incarnation, the new program brings artists, engineers, and corporate sponsorship together to jumpstart aesthetic experimentation. This seemed like a good coming out party for a new research project I’m starting…)

Over the past few years, I’ve become increasingly interested in collaborations between artists, engineers, and scientists from the 1960s onward. Regular readers of this blog will have noticed the recent posts about laser art in its various formsDNA origami, and so forth.

I’m planning on exploring the art-technology/artist-engineer nexus further for a new book project. It’s exciting as well as challenging/intimidating. There’s a huge amount of art history to get a handle on. But I think that every so often, it’s good to take one’s research in a brand new direction…and my timing is good. Starting in a few weeks, I have the good fortune to hold the Charles Lindbergh Chair at the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum. This will give me a good opportunity to jump start this project.

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Frank Malina , engineer of space and art.

While serving as the Lindbergh Chair, I want to examine the “art and technology movement” by focusing on the experiences and activities of engineers and scientists. One of the main topics I’ll be researching while in DC are the activities of the American rocket engineer turned artist Frank J. Malina.

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Malina (center) with Theodore von Kármán, 1941

Prior to the U.S. entry into World War Two, Malina helped develop and test nascent rocket technologies in the dry arroyos of Pasadena. After the war, Malina helped get the Jet Propulsion Laboratory off the ground. However, Malina became disenchanted displeased with the pursuit of advanced rocket technologies for military purposes. (M.G. Lord’s super book Astro-Turf highlights the historical hypocrisy of former Nazi Werner von Braun being seen all too often as the “father” of the U.S. space program while home-grown heroes like Malina are neglected.)

Malina left California for France where he joined the Division of Scientific Research for the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization. Malina could not, however, escape Cold War allegations of Communist associations and he quit his UNESCO post in 1953. Long interested in art, it was at this point that Malina decided to pursue it as a full-time career.

It is Malina’s career path after this point that especially interests me. After first experimenting with more conventional media, Malina turned to more experimental tools and technologies. Malina’s experiments with kinetic, audio, and electronic art depicted the new landscapes that rapid advances in Cold War science and technology – exemplified by the Bomb, the rocket, the computer – revealed. The launch of the first satellites and then the first people into space profoundly influenced Malina and his art. “Because of man’s first steps in exploring extraterrestrial space,” he wrote in 1966, “we are more conscious of the universe, both intellectually and visually.”

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Malina at work in his Paris studio, c. 1965.

In 1968, with backing from controversial British publishing tycoon, Robert Maxwell, owner of Pergamon, Malina launched the journal Leonardo. It’s still published today.Malina imagined the journal as a forum in which humanists and scientists could communicate and collaborate. Malina made it a point to emphasize that Leonardo was neither about art criticism or aesthetics (he disparaged both often and Leonardo included no advertisements for dealers or galleries).

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Some space-themed covers of Leonardo

Instead, the focus was on the process of creating art. Under Malina’s editorial guidance, the early volumes of Leonardo provided a forum for artists, scientists, and engineers to interact and collaborate. Malina purposely adopted the format of scientific journals and published articles by artists and scientists that described their artistic experiments with digital computers, cybernetics, holography, and lasers.  Malina often approached the creation of art as an experiment that could be amenable to research, something which makes a perspective from a historian of science especially useful.

Looking more broadly, artist-engineer collaborations were seen as experiments in creativity that could benefit the art world as well as industry and university labs. For engineers, subject to vociferous attacks about their complicity in the arms race, environmental destruction, and other global ills, the art and technology movement presented them with an opportunity to humanize technology and re-define their profession, if only on a personal level.

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Artist Robert Whitman (left) with engineer John Forkner, c. 1969, as they collaborated on the Art and Technology Program that the Los Angeles County Museum of Art ran.

I’m hoping this new project shifts the focus from the artists by giving more attention to their under-recognized partners in collaboration – engineers and scientists. Many of the artists these professionals worked with were big names in the modern art world. But art critics largely ignored the technologists who partnered with star artists like Andy Warhol, Robert Rauschenberg, Lucinda Childs, Robert Whitman, or John Cage. These accomplished engineers and scientists from elite institutions like Caltech, MIT, or Bell Labs were typically reduced to “invisible technicians” doing the artists’ bidding. I want to bring the engineers and scientists, who were central to the era’s artistic collaborations, to the foreground.

I’m super excited to be starting work on this new project. Malina’s papers are at archived at the Library of Congress so I’ll be parked there for many days, slowly making my way through the collection. Per aspera ad astra

Fog & Physics

Every day, hundreds of visitors to the recently relocated Exploratorium in San Francisco cross a pedestrian bridge between Piers 15 and 17. Here, if the timing is right, they can encounter and play within an immersive fog sculpture. “Fog Bridge” was conceived and designed by Japanese artist Fujiko Nakaya. Its existence as interplay between art, aesthetics, and physics can be traced back more than four decades.

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Fog bridge at the Exploratorium; photograph by Gayle Laird © Exploratorium

Nakaya’s work began in the 1960s during the brief but potent flowering of formal collaborations between artists and engineers. A signature piece of this “art & tech” movement was the Pavilion. Initiated and sponsored by Pepsi-Cola, the multi-media experience that was the Pavilion opened in the spring of 1970 as part of Expo ’70 in Osaka. In an era marked by Big Science – typified by expensive large-scale research collaborations – we can see the Pavilion as the aesthetic analog: Big Art.


The Pavilion at night; Osaka, 1970.

Organized by Experiments in Art and Technology (or E.A.T.), a group co-founded in 1966 by Bell Labs engineer Billy Klüver, scores of artists, engineers, and staff worked to bring the Pavilion into existence. Meanwhile, Pepsi poured over some $1.2 million into funding their work.1


Part of the team that made the Pavilion possible.

The Pavilion was the apogee of the “art & tech” movement of the 1960s and, as Klüver often pointed out, one of the grandest art projects of the 20th century. Visually, the most striking thing about the Pavilion, at least from the outside, was how much of it you couldn’t see. This is because the designers of Pavilion decided early on to shroud (perhaps hide?) the Pavilion’s crumpled geodesic-style dome – what one E.A.T. member lampooned as a “Buckled Fuller dome” – with fog.2 This was no natural fog however, but an artificially generated veil of atomized water droplets crafted by Nakaya and engineered by a small California company.


Fujiko Nakaya, c. 2005.

Born in Sapporo in 1933, Fujiko Nakaya was the daughter of Japanese physicist Ukichiro Nakaya. He became well-known in mid-20th century for his path-breaking research on the science of snow.

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Ukichiro Nakaya, c. 1940

For decades, Nakaya – recently featured in a Google doodle – worked to perfect lab techniques for making artificial snow crystals. He then rigorously studied their structure and developed a classification system for them.3

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Nakaya in the lab, c. 1940.

The culmination of Ukichiro Nakaya’s work was a 1954 book published by Harvard University Press called Snow Crystals: Natural and Artificial. Snow flakes, he wrote, were “hieroglyphs sent from the sky.”

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Ukichiro Nakaya’s 1954 book

His daughter, Fujiko, took her father’s empirical approach to understanding a specific meteorological phenomenon and applied it to art. After graduating from college in 1959 at Northwestern University, she spent two years at the Sorbonne in Paris where she studied painting. Around 1966, she met Klüver and participated in the (in)famous 9 Evenings: Theatre and Engineering show at the 69th Street Armory in New York City. When Klüver and E.A.T. got the nod from Pepsi to do the Pavilion, Nakaya became a central person in the project. Besides handling logistics and smoothing over Japanese-American interactions, in Osaka, she designed the fog sculpture that would surround the building.

Producing fog from pure water isn’t easy however. In nature, fog is often produced when the air temperature drops until the air is saturated and water droplets condense. One way to generate artificial fog would be to boil water which, when surrounded by cooler air, condenses. Another would be to dramatically cool the Pavilion’s roof. Both of these approaches would require huge amounts of energy. But there was a third method, the one that Nakaya wanted to do. Fog can also be made by atomizing water i.e. basically spraying tiny droplets of water into the atmosphere.

To realize her aesthetic goal, Nakaya struck up a collaboration with a physicist based in Southern California. Thomas R. Mee moved to the Pasadena area after working on a variety of weather modification projects for Cornell University in the early 1960s. After working a few years for Meteorological Research Inc..4  In 1969, he started his own company. Initially, Mee Industries Inc. made niche instrumentation for weather and pollution studies.

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Tom Mee, shown in 1985.

In June 1969, Nakaya contacted Mee who had never heard of E.A.T. and was unaware of plans to combine art and engineering at the Osaka fair. But he was “impressed by her knowledge of cloud physics” – Mee had met Nakaya’s father and was well-aware of snow research – and her probing questions about how one might go about making fog.

Mee w agreed to meet with Nakaya and experiment with a method in which water was sprayed under high pressure through a very narrow nozzle to produce a dense cloud of tiny water droplets. More experiments and hardware development followed. A few months later, on a hot, dry August day in California, Nakaya and Mee met in his Altadena backyard, set up the equipment – 60 pin-jet nozzles connected to piping in which water was pumped at 500 psi – and successfully tested a prototype system. The result was a large cloud of artificial fog that partially obscured Mee’s house.

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Testing Mee’s fog system, August 1969.

The nest step was to scale up the system in Osaka for the Pavilion. Ultimately, 2,520 of Mee’s specially-crafted nozzles and 11,000 gallons of water an hour would enshroud the Pavilion in an ever-changing fog sculpture some 150 feet in diameter. The humid Osaka air cooled the air around the Pavilion so that the pure white fog that Mee’s system generated poured down over the structure in patterns that Nakaya wanted. To pull this off, Nakaya and a team of specialists carried out detailed monitoring of the environment around the Pavilion site to account for wind speed, humidity, and temperature.


Fog-shrouded Pavilion, Osaka Expo ’70.

After Expo ’70 ended,  Mee’s company eventually began to sell fog-making systems. A patent application he submitted in 1970 cites the possibility of using his system for agricultural purposes, either for cooling areas or frost control, as well as producing a “visible cloud” which can have a “highly decorative and entertaining effect.” By 1985, company sales were approaching $2 million. After some rough financial times as a public company, the company rebounded as Mee’s children – Tom Mee passed away in 1998 – took over the business and a controlling interest in the firm. The company saw a major expansion in 1997 when the Tennessee Valley Authority decided to install fog systems on its four dozen gas turbines to improve their efficiency. Similar orders followed and the company expanded into other areas such as providing cooling for data server installations for companies like Facebook. As of 2014, some 80 people work for the company.

Fujiko Nakaya and Tom Mee maintained a working relationship, with his company providing hardware for her art installations. Since Expo ’70, she has created a variety of fog works – gardens, geysers, falls – at sites around the world including the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao in Spain. Besides the “Fog Bridge” at the Exploratorium, she recently crafted an immersive environmental piece called “Veil” for the Glass House, a work of modern architecture by Philip Johnson from 1949. At the Glass House, Nakaya’s fog appears every 15 minutes or so, obscuring the house (as it did with Pavilion) and making it appear to vanish.

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Nakaya’s fog sculpture at the Glass House, 2014.

As a young artist, Nakaya painted clouds. But, as she told The New York Timesthe activism of the 1960s made her want to interact more directly with the environment and society. Where the elder Nakaya wanted to control and classify the creation of ice crystals, his daughter’s approach is orthogonal – change, chance, and contingency dominate. Both are united, however, in combining physics with an aesthetic sensibility.

  1. Over $7 million in today’s currency. []
  2. This choice stemmed, in part, from the fact that Klüver and the other E.A.T. members disliked the Pavilion’s architecture, which Pepsi selected and a Japanese firm produced. Nakaya’s fog offered a way to obscure it. []
  3. I find Nakaya’s snow research just fascinating;there’s a good graduate student project here… []
  4. This company was started in 1951 by Paul MacCready (1925-2007), a Caltech graduate who later became famous for designing and building the Gossamer Condor, a human-powered aircraft. MacCready later started another southern California company, AeroVironment, which today is one of the largest manufacturers of unmanned aerial vehicles (“drones”). []