JenniCam was a website which broadcasted the daily life of the eponymous Jennifer Ringley in her apartment using webcams. Every 15 minutes, viewers would see a snapshot of current happenings in Ringley’s apartment. The massively popular ’24/7′ site ran from 1996 to 2003, garnering millions of hits daily. Although Ringley has since gone off the internet grid, JenniCam is hailed as a pioneering internet performance project and phenomenon which sparked debates on privacy, surveillance, authenticity and exhibition.
JenniCam’s first image
Webcams: From Windows 95 to Physical Window
The webcam’s single camera static view distinguishes it from the finished, multi-camera style of television shows or the personal style of handheld video recordings. In JenniCam, the webcams showed Ringley’s apartment as it was for most of the day: empty as she left for work. The default absence intensifies the human presence, lending the images an almost theatric quality as Ringley (or her cats) entered the ‘set’. Described by Dixon as “digital theater”[i], in this way, JenniCam organically played with balance, contrast and anticipation, generating interest on a global scale.
“… webcam as a technology that above all provides a digital window into another real time and space, thereby conjoining the actual and the virtual.” — Steve Dixon, “Webcams: The Subversion of Surveillance” in ‘Digital Performance’ (2007)
Jennifer Ringley lying on her bed
Following Dixon’s analogy, JenniCam was plainly a window where Ringley did what everyone does — laundry, shower, sleep, sex, TV. Each image revealed the next episode in the narrative of real life.
Jennifer Ringley doing laundryJennifer Ringley nude in her room
The Appeal of Authenticity and Mundanity
“It was its serene unpretentious banality, its innocent and tedious ordinariness, which left JenniCam standing apart and which made it the idiosyncratically effective theatrical event it became…” — Steve Dixon, “Webcams: The Subversion of Surveillance” in ‘Digital Performance’ (2007)
JenniCam had a resonating normalness and mundanity that media outlets attempt to create today. Its appeal lies in the authenticity of the individual and daily life where itwas run by an (initially) unknown individual instead of a corporation or institution. Ringley also refused advertisements so the site remained as a simple window without imposing anything onto the viewer.
Furthermore, JenniCam did not separate the private and public spheres, baring both the mundane and intimate, as it was, to a global audience. Is it ironic that although technology has greatly improved since JenniCam’s days of low resolution interval images, and we can share snippets of life on-the-go, many online posts are now filtered, glamourised, and possibly less authentic?
References
[i] Dixon, S. (2007) “Webcams: The Subversion of Surveillance” (pg. 443-455), Digital Performance: A History of New Media in Theater, Dance, Performance Art, and Installation.
You sit still in the Christmas Eve of ’99, staring at me at my desk. As the years roll by, this photograph has faded along with my memory of you. I scanned in a digital copy in hopes of preservation, but that does not apply to the archive in our minds.
I’m afraid I’ll forget how you used to make porridge. I’m afraid I’ll forget the sound of your singing voice. I’m afraid I’ll forget all your sayings and quips which I laughed at growing up. Like the increasing distortion of these glitched images, everyday I forget a bit of you, and hold on dearly to photographs that can’t compare to the smell of your powder and nightly stout.
Please click here for my 2nd Facebook Live broadcast. This post has been updated to include more information about influencers and online celebrities in Singapore’s social media landscape.
Some post-broadcast thoughts
This week I wanted to experiment with performance, persona, parody, and the context of social media live streaming.
Social media influencers and online celebrity beauty and lifestyle bloggers have become ubiquitous on the Internet and pop culture landscape. In Singapore, influencers have a sizeable following on social media, especially Instagram. A large subset of influencers are good-looking young women who offer fashion inspiration, beauty advice and are sometimes ‘famous for being famous’. Companies often approach influencers for product sponsorship (marketing through individuals) which they will share with their followers. These online personalities typically build their following on multiple social media platforms and may have accompanying Youtube channels with videos like makeup tutorials, fashion hauls and Q&As.
Although there are multiple positive aspects of social media and influencers, it has been criticised as rather narcissistic and unhealthy especially for youth, if they are too invested in online fame and followers.
It was very intimidating yet refreshing to take on a persona totally different from myself and commit to it unabashedly and without breaking character. I approached strangers in the SMU campus with the absurd proposition of giving them my autograph and convincing them to become my fans.
As part of the performance, I appropriated online vernacular (e.g. #follow4follow and “subscribe to my channel”) and the way online personalities interact with their fans locally and remotely through live streaming and ‘vlogging’.
Compared to my first broadcast, the second had more views and responses. This is probably because the broadcast was humorous and relatable to users of social media. It was heartwarming and surprising to see comments and reactions from people I haven’t been in touch with for years.
Screenshot of ‘Jodi.org’ by Jodi (Joan Heemskerk and Dirk Paesmans)
At First Glance…
Jodi.org is a web-based work by the art duo Jodi comprising Joan Heemskerk and Dirk Paesmans. Upon launching the site, users are immediately disoriented, unable to find an overall structure or familiar elements like ‘Menu’ or ‘About’ which we habitually use to navigate sites. Instead, the user encounters a chaotic mass of green on black ASCII code. From prior experience with the Internet, users will suspect that this is an error in the computerised system —
a glitch.
Screenshot of ‘Jodi.org’ by Jodi (Joan Heemskerk and Dirk Paesmans)
A New Aesthetic of Imperfection
Jodi.org deconstructs and draws to the surface lines of code usually hidden and obscured by designers. By stripping away the superficial appearance and revealing the workings of websites, code becomes the visual focus and content instead of a purely functional device.
“Find catharsis in disintegration, ruptures and cracks; manipulate, bend and break any medium towards the point where it becomes something new.” — Rosa Menkman, “Glitch Studies Manifesto” from “Glitch Moment(um)” (2011)
Embodying the spirit of glitch as articulated in Menkman’s Glitch Studies Manifesto[i], Heemskerk and Paesmans were pioneers of using code in a painterly way; they created an unexpected and beautiful disarray of elements by incorporating inevitable imperfections. Glitches, typically seen as erroneous, here
engender experimentation. Although not traditionally ‘aesthetic’, Jodi.org’s site deconstruction has created a new type of beauty and visual medium which has been assimilated into modern aesthetics.
Disrupting Flow & Subverting Expectations
Screenshot of ‘Jodi.org’ by Jodi (Joan Heemskerk and Dirk Paesmans)Screenshot of ‘Jodi.org’ showing unexpected file downloads
The disruption of internet conventions subverts expectation and leads users to question the functionality of their browser. Has our computer malfunctioned and gone haywire? The work also unexpectedly downloads files and logs information such as current time and date, possibly making some users feel compromised and uncomfortable. As we typically have omnipotence over our browsing experience, this infringement of one’s privacy and browsing space makes users question the agency of their actions. Furthermore, each launch of Jodi.org brings the users to different websites, creating near-infinite variations of dynamic, non-linear narratives.
In this way, while fascinating and enthralling, the work is more than an aesthetic exercise and seeks to destabilise and deconstruct our understanding of the online medium.
References
[i] Menkman, R. (2011) “Glitch Moment(um),” Institute of Network Cultures.
More Screenshots of Jodi.org
Screenshot of ‘Jodi.org’ by Jodi (Joan Heemskerk and Dirk Paesmans)
Screenshot of ‘Jodi.org’ by Jodi (Joan Heemskerk and Dirk Paesmans)
Screenshot of ‘Jodi.org’ by Jodi (Joan Heemskerk and Dirk Paesmans)
Screenshot of ‘Jodi.org’ by Jodi (Joan Heemskerk and Dirk Paesmans)
I was slightly nervous during the broadcast, not unlike the feeling of going up on stage. The ‘live’ medium initially creates a sense of performance and self-consciousness but that will likely disappear after getting used to the medium. I was surprised and really felt the immediacy of the medium when my friends commented and reacted during my live broadcast.
This was my second time using Facebook Live, the first was a few days prior at my friend’s birthday party. In comparison with my second broadcast, the first came out more as a comedic personal home-video filled with chatter and giggles. I’ve realised that being a reporter is challenging as it requires us to be aware of our environment and the events unfolding before us. I find that it’s also slightly different from capturing personal memories. It can be personal but I do feel compelled to offer something to the audience; be it something interesting, humorous, informative or insightful. What do you guys think?
Paul Sermon‘s Telematic Dreaming (1992) is an interactive video installation connecting two separate locations via ISDN video conferencing. A double bed is set up in both spaces for participants to lie on and interact with each other remotely through video projection, cameras and monitors.
Still showing the darker room from ‘Telematic Dreaming’ (1993) documentation video, V2 October 1993Still showing the well lit room from ‘Telematic Dreaming’ (1993) documentation video, V2 October 1993
A New Reality and Way of Seeing
The work goes beyond bridging the local and remote, creating a new reality in the third space. Participants are only together in this third space, visible in the monitor or telepresent projected image. Although video-calling is now ubiquitous, Sermon’s work is groundbreaking for its time. It presents the co-creation of narrative and experience through remote interaction in a third space, which has become an integral aspect of today’s Internet.
“And from this ubiquitous state of shared presence we have come to inhabit an entirely new way of seeing via a fracturing of perception.” — Randall Packer, “The Third Space” (2014)
Similarly, Telematic Dreaming alters perception and reality through sensory replacement. As participants lie on the bed and encounter each other as telepresent images, the seeing eye replaces the feeling hand. The third space rejects conventional ideas of time and space, and engenders new modes of navigation, creating a synesthetic experience.
Allowances of the Third Space
The double bed has psychological and cultural associations as an intimate, private space. Sermon subverts this by bringing together strangers who readily share this space and test the limits of this new reality and relationship. Their interactions suggest that people are open to intimacy in the third space and even boldly seek it, perhaps because it is “a space of invention and possibility… where participants might assume their avatar identities”.[i]
Although the third space has become our reality and can bridge vast cultural and geographical chasms, it nonetheless begs the question: Is it enough? The common expression ‘the human touch’ typically refers to some intangible quality of care and emotion. However, could it be as simple as warm, damp, physical contact?
References
[i] Packer R. “The Third Space,” (2014) in Reportage from the Aesthetic Edge
In his classic dystopian novel, George Orwell presented a grim vision of 1984 with total surveillance, oppression and the tyranny of technology. Good Morning, Mr. Orwell (1984) is a refutation of this vision and instead shows the positive reality of 1984 where new media artistic collaboration between artists, musicians and dancers in a networked third space can bridge the chasm between different locations and cultures. The work was an hour long, cross-country performance televised live on New Year’s Day.
“[Video collectives during the 1970s and 1980s] attempted to democratize the media by facilitating people-to-people communication, altering the themes and aesthetics of commercial television.” — Randall Packer, “The Third Space Network” (2016)
Similarly, Paik — a pioneer and visionary of video art — used video effects to create a new aesthetic, and challenged viewer perceptions of the commonplace television and its potential as an artistic medium. Some segments of the performance distorted temporal progression and spatial limitations by uniting asynchronous elements into the same plane.
For example, in Merce Cunningham’s segment, delayed footage of the dance was underlaid, creating an illusion of dancing with himself and being in two ‘time frames’ simultaneously. The reenactment of TV Cello by Charlotte Moorman also distorts space when we see the host George Plimpton appearing in both our television screens and in the TV Cello at the same time, forming a new composite image.
Still of Merce Cunningham dancing
Still of TV Cello recreated by Charlotte Moorman
Still of TV Cello recreated by Charlotte Moorman
Furthermore, Paik’s work was an ambitious collaborative project and arguably an early form of the ‘Do-It-With-Others’ approach with its “collective organization”[i] of artists from “geographically dispersed locations and situations”[i]. It enabled cross-cultural interaction and brought various artistic visions together in a single third space, which was then broadcasted live around the world. The technical difficulties faced during broadcast would become part of the work, lending it a sense of immediacy and equality as viewer’s watch the work unfold at the same time as the artists.
Jenny Holzer’s work largely revolves around text in public spaces. Her iconic Truisms (1978-87) have been displayed in public spaces through a variety of means such as photocopied posters, storefronts, billboards, electronic signs and even T-shirts.
List of truisms from Please Change Beliefs (1997) by Jenny Holzer
Jenny Holzer ‘Truism’ printed shirts from Uniqlo & MoMA
Please Change Beliefs (1997) is a development of Holzer’s earlier work in physical public spaces. She sets up her truisms in a publicly accessible virtual space where visibility is not limited by geographical locations or proximity, demonstrating the “collapse of the local and remote into a networked space or ‘third space’.”[i]
Holzer further expands on this idea of accessibility, which is intrinsic to open source, by allowing anyone to alter and add to the work. The title itself is an invitation to reconsider and rewrite these notions of truth. The altered truisms are a mix bag of insightful, ludicrous, dark, humorous, skeptical and optimistic. We inevitably identify with some of these appended truisms, destabilizing the seemingly fixed and timeless definition of ‘truth’.
Please Change Beliefs (1997) by Jenny Holzer
Although it is facilitated by Holzer, the work moves away from the conventional ‘artist-audience’ model to the “collaborative, many-to-many systems of writing [and] media-making”.[i] By partaking in this editing of truisms, the users are converted from audience to participant to contributor. Furthermore, the work functions as an expanding database of collective thoughts and ideas. It exemplifies the notion of a collective narrative created with a potentially infinite number of minds, coming together in a single ‘third space’.
Screenshot of entry for Please Change Beliefs (1997) by Jenny Holzer
Text as Medium
As highlighted by Galloway and Rabinowitz, the “virtual space creates social situations without traditional rules of etiquette [and] diminishes our fears of interaction”.[ii] Contributors can proclaim these truisms, without attaching authorship or receiving backlash. Furthermore, the use of text instead of image makes it less intimidating as anyone connected to the web has an equal say.
This, coupled with the sense of anonymity, are important factors in maintaining the rawness and authenticity of these altered personal ‘truisms’. Overall, I believe that Holzer’s work is effective in writing a global collective narrative, and does illustrate the following concept:
“This dramatically alters the act of writing and narrative, from the singular activity of a very personal form of individual expression, to a collective activity that is highly collaborative: all publishable instantaneously to a global audience.”
— Randall Packer, from “Collective Narrative” in the essay Open Source Studio (2015)
References
[i] Randall Packer (2015). “Collective Narrative” from the essay Open Source Studio.
[ii] Galloway, K. & Rabinowitz, S. “Welcome to Electronic Café International,” (1992) in Packer, R., & Jordan, K. (Eds.). Multimedia : from Wagner to Virtual Reality ([Expanded ed.). New York: Norton, 2002.
We left our service apartment in a hurry, lacing up our boots in the lift. My friend, Lin, and I were making a day trip to a wildlife park in a Ballarat, a town 110 kilometres north-west of Melbourne. We arrived at Southern Cross station, only to find out that the train service had been disrupted, and we had two minutes to catch the only outbound bus to Ballarat. Thankfully, we did.
View from our bus window on the way to Ballarat, Victoria
Our journey to the west was very pleasant. We passed pastoral scenes of cows, trees, hills and farms. Lin and I were beaming with anticipation about meeting kangaroos up close.
Two hours later, we arrived in the town of Ballarat which looked particularly empty that day. Having dozed off on the ride, we were the last of five passengers to alight. As we walked toward the rustic station doors, we heard a low voice call out from behind in Aussie-inflected Mandarin:
The man’s first question in Mandarin
Surprised, we turned around and saw a man in his early 30s. Before we could squeak out a response, he shot another question, this time in English: “Where are you from? Beijing? Shen Zhen?”
We courteously replied, Singapore. “Oh, Singapore,” he said, walking toward us and speaking enthusiastically about how lovely he thought our country was, except for our strict gum laws.
“Don’t people get caned for chewin’ gum?” he asked again. This seemed to be a common misconception so we assured him that chewing gum is allowed. However, selling gum might land one a hefty fine or a staycation at Changi prison.
“If you guys don’t chew gum, how d’you keep your teeth so white?” he asked with a deep smile.
“Dentists,” I replied, with a look of caution.
By then he had sat himself down on the bench by the station doors, closer than necessary, and we noticed that he had bandages on his right fist and forearm. While we were bundled up as thick as sheep in layers of fleece and wool, he was wearing nothing more than a shirt, bermuda shorts, socks and sandals. He continued his questioning, asking about our ages and what we were doing back home. Being a pair of non-confrontational Asian girls, we obliged, and he seemed a tad too happy upon hearing we were 21.
“So, what are you girls doing in Ballarat?” he asked, staring intently. With growing hesitation, we explained that we were on a day trip from Melbourne to visit the Ballarat Wildlife Park.
“I have a wildlife park. In my home.”
He replied in a serious tone. He proceeded to roll up his shorts, exposing even more of his legs to the chilly winter wind. Are crazy people usually climate-resistant? Lin glanced at me, trying to convey with her eyes that we should make an exit, however the man continued,
“You girls ought to be careful. There are many bad people in Ballarat… Why don’t you come to my place. I’m on the way to pick up my car.”
Upon hearing this proposition, we thanked him, declined and excused ourselves, insisting that we were late for our bus and were only in town to visit the (real) wildlife park. We left the station, debating the man’s intentions till we stopped at a map signboard outside, trying to orientate ourselves using our trusty Google Maps application. Panic set in when we noticed a lightly dressed sandalled figure approaching us from the periphery.
Google Street View of Ballarat Station
The man from the station had reappeared. “I’m going to pick up my car now, so I can show you around.” Gesturing at my mobile phone, he ordered, “Take down my number. O, FOUR, FOUR…”
Stunned, I only managed a vague “umm…” for a comeback before he continued, “Go on, O, FOUR, FOUR, TWO, SIX, TWO — ”
I interrupted him, maintaining that we were late. We thanked him, said a curt goodbye, and walked as fast as our short legs could take us without looking too obviously like we were running away. We glanced behind and saw that he was following us.
Born and raised catholic, my faith miraculously grows in proportion to fear. Barely religious, I started mumbling Hail Marys and making the sign of the cross every road junction.
I like to think that it was due to our masterful manoeuvring through side roads and alleys that he lost our trail. But, more likely, he got bored of following us after several blocks.
Despite getting lost once more, the Ballarat Wildlife Park was thoroughly enjoyable. At dusk, we left the town with two discoveries — firstly, kangaroos had surprisingly sharp genitalia; and secondly, perhaps we shouldn’t speak to strangers so indiscriminately.
Back on the virtual grid after nearly three years of being an online hermit who shunned all social media. This rebirth signifies an exciting new beginning. Things are strange and new, but I’m ready to become one with the Interweb.
