Week-long music festival on the Portegueese Island of Madiera. Everyone stays in a cliff-side hotel. In the evening two buses shuttles everyone to MUDAS (Museu de Arte Contemporânea da Madeira) for two performances in a black box theater. Back at the hotel, two performances then follow.
Very sketchy landing at the airport. Yves Tumor berated everyone. Foggy hike. Lineup included HELM, Lakker, Kassel Jaeger, Marina Rosenfeld & Ben Vida, and others.
My open practice centers on perception, environment, interaction, and interface. It requires design and engineering, and often leads to creating tools for publishing and connection. I was the founding design engineer at Cargo (Collective), then Co-Founder and Head of Product at Mirror.
It is VERY IMPORTANT to feel the wind. It brings to the surface what is always true. A medium we all move with and through. Is it a headwind? A tailwind? An absence? A presence? Do you feel the resistance or the push?
Get a bike and you increase a sensitivity to air and wind and body. At first when you’re on the bike, then increasingly when you’re off the bike. A crucial shift in distance and duration uniquely through an exchange between the biological and the mechanical.
Riding as gesture towards not being one to participate in “the forgetting of the air.” Bike as tool for awareness of the air. The wind. The arch-mediator that mixes everything together. “Air never takes place in the mode of entry into presence, except in the wind.” Movement into presence. Thanks, Frank.
You find yourself in places you have no reason to be, other than the route affords good riding conditions. Less traffic, better surface. You may pass a 7-11 playing very loud classical music through cream-colored speakers mounted streetside. You might stand there listening for some time. A path terminating at the port, the scale leaving an impression of awe like the granite walls of Yosemite.
Walls of fragrance. Clouds you’d be shielded from behind the glass of the car. Blooming jacaranda. Water reclamation. It all hits. Want to pick a route? Follow the nose. Bring a friend. Bring two. Bring twenty. What’s another plate of pasta and glass of Boulay?
Sit atop the saddle and let the scene pass by.
Blink and the day has passed by too.
Are.na is teasing an RSVP app at rsvp.are.na, where you connect with Are.na to RSVP to events. I have thoughts on this.
In trying to explain Are.na, I often return to an infamous channel. “How do you describe Are.na at a party.” It’s quite funny, because like most all things good, Are.na is undefinable. Particularly at a party where no one is on Are.na.
But if you asked me, I’d say Are.na is less about the interface, or the functionality. That is all necessary in support of making Are.na possible. But it is not Are.na.
It’s the set of values, principles, and the people who connect them that makes Are.na what it is. People defining and occupying a space where they draw connections between what they love and value and care for.
So if you go to a party where the only way you can attend the party is to be on Are.na, you don’t need to answer the question of how do you describe Are.na at a party. Everyone knows. It’s in the air. There’s built-in connection and shared context.
This is in stark contrast to something like Partiful, which is for absolutely everyone and no one simultaneously, like many apps and platforms. No signal. Just utility. Just an interface.
Don’t get me twisted though. The interface for Are.na and the mobile app is critical, and has recently improved drastically. I find myself using it more often as the ergonomics fit into my life better. The updated web client optimized around speed and performance set the tone. The mobile app ran away with it. But I wouldn’t say it’s the differentiator here. That’s the utility. Are.na is the people.
But of course, examples of pure utility and interface exist which feel deeply connected to the principles and values of Are.na. The attributes that give it that quality. Single-player tools like Obsidian come to mind.
So what’s the difference?
Partiful is going about it funded by venture capital, playing the blitz-scale playbook. Are.na is supported by the people who use it through subscription. There was an early equity crowdfunding campaign, but most of the contributors were already users, and it was a pittance compared to the typical venture check.
It’s impossible for Are.na to be that venture backed blitz thing. Why? Because you can’t scale the care and the love for something in a way that you can scale the pure utility of something. Love isn’t legible to capital. It’s not a resource you can extract. Obsidian feels similar. It’s pure utility, but a sense of love keeps it focused for a specific group of people on the receiving end of the tool.
We’re at this moment where “pure utility plays” can be spun up so fast. You have a thought, and the next instant you can interact with it. This can be lighthearted play, or nefarious attention-fracking. The hard thing is defining the principles and values you hold, and sticking with them long term in the way Are.na and Obsidian have.
For them, it doesn’t matter if the user-base scales beyond a very reasonable place where sustainability is achieved. You actually don’t want everyone becoming a user. You want a narrow group of people who get it.
One of the biggest challenges for Are.na is how not to scale at a certain point. I could see Are.na getting flooded with people trying to RSVP for certain things, but it’s not very likely, as RSVP isn’t core to the utility Are.na provides.
All this makes rsvp.are.na quite interesting.
I’d be interested in seeing how the Are.na context could be used to shape the RSVP process. Allowing only those who’ve had an account longer than a certain period of time. Or a certain number of channels and blocks. Perhaps a certain number of connections from others. You can only RSVP if you attach a channel to your request, and it is reviewed to inform approval. I can see how these requirements could lead to certain social traps, too.
I’m curious to see how this may or may not continue to be developed, released, and used. The tool itself is simple. You can connect the Stripe API to a vibe-slopped version in minutes. Or simply use Partiful. So why use it at all? For that same indescribable quality that makes answering how do you describe Are.na at a party an impossible thing.
I personally want to use this for a writing/reading group I’ve wanted to begin for years and years. The focus is Trip Reports. Time spent in movement. On foot, on skis, on bikes, whatever. Looking at it with deep perceptual awareness and appreciation for environment. Often trip reports live as carousels on Instagram with a brief caption. I want to know what actually happened, and I want to be able to riff with you and ask questions. Maybe eat some snacks, too.
Make it a picnic. Some picnics are writing-oriented. Other picnics are reading-oriented. They can switch. Long live Are.na.
Sometimes you just have to sit on it. These loops were sat on for three years. Recorded in June Lake in the Eastern Sierra during the first winter storm of the season over a day or two.
Snow just starting to fall. Watching it wrap around the contours of the hillside, falling past the windows. Eddies kicking up and carrying on down the street. The single pane glass no good at insulation, but great for shaking in the gusts, sonically signaling when velocity picked up out there, giving a connection despite being in here.
Making a loop takes devotion to repetition. It goes nowhere. If it’s good it takes you somewhere, though. Doesn’t evolve or change that much. You have to sit on it. A loop can be done as soon as it starts. That’s how these settled. Pretty quickly, but they didn’t feel done until now, although nothing changed, nothing happened to them between now and then. Can’t say the same about me. I guess that’s what it took.
The sound loops are paired with visual loops. Positioned and scaled by chance. Tap to intervene. Never the same twice. Listening now, as summer sets in, looking at the San Gabriel, it sounds like winter setting a few years back, looking at the Sierra. Seasons, repetition, all that, sure enough.
You can download the tracks, the video, the source for the interactive player by tapping download. You don’t need to install anything. Just drag the index.html file into your browser. If you want to fuck around, make it your own, replace the videos, replace the tracks, drag the folder into Claude Desktop and start describing the changes you want to make, remix it, whatever.
Have it it.
300 miles, 41 hours. 6 friends on foot, 4 crew. When you get asked “want to run a relay race from the beach to Las Vegas” one possible answer is no, but then none of this would’ve happened. Gather in the lot. Heavy eyes but we snap each other out of it. Rough idea, we head out.
Cold front spilling down Newhall pass, headwind like a hurricane climbing into the desert. Sand blasted. Hop out, run, handoff, hop in, again and again and again and… a lot of movement, a little progress.
Ruffles and Electrolit never tasted so good. Pour the crumbles over me and let me bathe in it. Dirt naps never last long enough. Dogs bark as the sun dips heavy, headlights rip past while hugging the shoulder. Moonlight illuminates folding terrain as the chaparral cast dancing shadows.
Sunrise. Heavy duty trucks aren’t supposed to fly like that. Any snapped necks? Somehow not. On the feet, on the toes. The other truck tosses in the hat and I might not be far behind. Tow it in. Sleep? What sleep? Nap here, nap there.
Roasting under power lines in the mid day. Where do they lead? Doesn’t matter. Another step, might as well be for eternity. Only this, always, forever, why not? Earth spins beneath our feet as we fall eastward towards the light. Forget the plan. Whoever has legs toss yourself out of the truck bed and get moving. Sprinting or crawling, whatever way it goes.
A special serving of 50 miles for each. Exiting the void, entering the mirage. Here it is, take it. Meandering the casino floors in a daze. Casino bathing in the style of forest bathing. Let the dust settle. There is always something to Learn from Las Vegas.
How I work today looks very different than it did a year ago. Or even a month ago. I’ve always been a generalist. Design was the gateway—making visual things. Making things interactive lead to a technical proficiency and learning how to program. This is now called “design engineering,” but the motivation was to do whatever necessary to see an idea through from conception to completion.
Not thinking along discipline, but intuitively doing what is needed to see a project through, is the direct result of my schooling experience.
I stopped attending school at age ten. Fifth grade was the last of it. We tried homeschooling, and I briefly had a curriculum, but I was online, and it quickly became purely interest driven. Loosely inspired by Montessori, but effectively unschooling. Not learning as defined by topic, but by curiosity and interest.
Because of this, I feel like I’ve been doing the same thing along a continuous meandering path since that time. It was only possible by having direct access to the open internet, and the ability for anyone to self publish permissionlessly. This enabled following my nose through everything and anything.
I’ve felt a similar increased ability to run while using nascent tools for programming assisted by AI recently.
Being a generalist and generating connections across wide ranges has guided me to leading product at startups I’ve either co-founded or joined as senior leadership. It involves many parallel feedback loops of direction and review. “Prompting” in a sense. There is a lot of gluing things together into a cohesive whole. Doing it effectively requires a deep understanding of everything a product requires—ideation, research, design, engineering, positioning, operations, etc…
I’m typically involved in the early and final stages of everything. Conception, polish, and giving the thumbs up. Call it the first and final 15%.
Finding myself in this position is a reflection of being a generalist with a slight “T” shape for design. Everything is driven by the idea, and I do whatever is necessary to enable the idea’s existence.
I love working with a team. A strong collaborative partnership that clicks is a gift. AI is not going to replace that.
But there is a kind of magic when you’re in the zone. Trying to keep up with an idea and holding on for the ride. AI tooling has recently gained the ability to do that middle 70% of execution remarkably well. Of course you have to lay the groundwork and follow it up with polish. But it’s exceptionally good at high velocity work with someone leading the product with care.
Working in this way has become known as “vibe coding.” A term that checks out. It’s very intuition based. Kind of like sailing. You’re at the helm, and you set the direction, but how the AI responds influences the path you take, just like the sea. It reveals things along the way you may not have stumbled into otherwise.
Currently I’m using Cursor, Claude Code, and Devin to work on Cycle. I’m not a great backend engineer, so I’m using it to write database migrations and API endpoints. I can pull down generated types from Supabase and reference the schema when using Claude Code to make a pull request with entirely new surfaces. Yes, it often takes a few hours of finesse to get it where I’d want it to be, but compare that to a week or two working with a team and the latency of revisions.
To my unschooled brain the ability to observe the AI is my greatest excitement. When working with a team you often must delegate. Many find this difficult. There aren’t enough hours in the day for you to do it all, and it’d drive anyone mad being on the receiving end of someone hovering the entire process in order to sponge it up, or asking for a detailed explanation of each decision to satisfy curiosity.
When prompting AI you see the process dictated in real time and are able to follow along. You see the logic playing out. You can ask for detailed explanations after a result has been generated. You can zero in on specific areas of personal confusion. It helps you better understand and think about the product you’re creating.
There is a misconception that the primary affordance of AI is increasing velocity. Of speeding up arriving at an output. In a sense this is true, in the same way a pencil speeds up your ability to make a legible mark on paper. But it is also a remarkable learning tool. You can ask limitless numbers of questions to satisfy your curiosity without, well, driving it nuts.
None of this is without contention. I have no idea the implications of what this means for labor, creative or otherwise. I don’t believe being a cog in the machine is sustainable. That detached phone it in mentality. The places where it’s possible will not exist much longer. Maybe that is ok. I don’t think it’s good to feel detachment from what you’re doing. It’s good to care. It may be difficult, and you may experience disappointment and pain by doing that, but it’s real. It’s important to be hopeful, and that involves risk, as does anything good.
For now, I’m continuing to follow my nose.
This was a once in a lifetime evening in the local mountains of Los Angeles. Sometimes it all lines up. This was one of those times. Two days of snowing in the San Gabriel with a weather window during a clear night. Turns out there was also a total lunar eclipse. What! @_alex_reed and I drove up with the hope of skiing powder turns with the city lights beneath us. We aimed it at Crystal Lake not knowing how coverage truly was going to be, and a looping route covering 16mi and 3.5k vert drawn up the night before.
We began, skins on (no joke), at Crystal Lake at 9pm. Climbing up to Windy Gap was illuminated by the still full moon. No headlamps needed. The manzanita falling over the trail due to the weight of the snow and rime ice. Just had to power through. Some wind board firmness on exposed sections left us wanting ski crampons. The celestial event began as the earth’s shadow became visibile overhead.
Just as we gained Windy Gap the eclipse entered totality. Deep deep red. The glow of Los Angeles below us, the snow reflecting the distant street lamps. No words, truly. We climb and summit Mount Islip. The wind picks up and temperature greatly drops. Can’t feel the hands, feet are drenched from the uphill pace. We duck into the remains of a cabin and transition for the downhill.
I can’t believe we are getting powder turns under a full moon in the San Gabriel. It’s good. Really good. We stay high and aim for Islip Saddle. This is magic. The chaparral begins to poke out of the snowpack as we descend, and just as it begins feeling a little precarious the Silver Moccasin Trail emerges beneath us. We hop on and descend continuously along a perfect ribbon of pow through the brush as the moon re-emerges overhead. It feels like an out of body experience.
Ducking the road closed sign, we hop on the 39—a closed stretch of road continuously eroding along the angle of repose and no longer maintained by Caltrans. The snow is a little grabby at this elevation, and the grade not quite steep enough. We go into pseudo-tele mode. We settle into a zone and crank with massive views of a sleepy Los Angeles basin ahead of us and the most remote corners of the San Gabriel blanketed in white behind us.
We drop our packs and skis at the gate, which comes to bite us after 1.5mi of road walking where we reach another gate. We walk another 2mi to the car, grab it, drive to the lower gate, and walk 1.5mi up to grab the gear and another 1.5mi back to the car. I was mildly frustrated at the mishap as it was about 4am when we realized the mistake. But we warmed up in the car for a few minutes, popped some caffeine pills, and really charged up the road with all the energy and gratitude of the experience we just had. It felt like a victory lap. Back to the house at 7am.
No documentation of the descent because my hands were frozen and I was blissed out. Once in a life-time tour. Words can’t describe. Feeling so fortunate to live here and have a friend in Alex up for so eager to take on the unknown and share peak experiences with.
This may seem like just the beginning, but there’s a long history. The latest cycle of an ongoing idea. Using time as interface to adjust the drip-rate of things we want to remember.
Specifically, things with links.
It could be an Instagram profile, side-stepping their algorithmic feed that often hides what you follow, and showing ads more frequently than what you truly want to see.
Or it could be a personal homepage. An artist, or writer, or someone generous enough to publish archival knowledge. These aren’t frequently updated, but are beautiful and expressive representations of someone’s practice. The type of thing that may sit in a bookmarks folder for years and never get any attention, even though a brief glance may bring some joy.
Some apps like Twitter provide a chronological feed. These work if you don’t follow to many profiles, and inherently reward profiles that post the most frequently, leading to a lot of noise from the same suspects, and quieter voices being drowned out. Early testers of Cycle love following social profiles for these reasons.
Some things you may check too often, like the news, and simply adding your usual sources set to once every day or two helps to reduce fomo, as you know it’s only accessible in your daily digest once until visited, then hidden for the duration of the cycle, and will re-appear when that time passes based on how you’ve prioritized time relative your attention.
Some of us may have a massive archive of favorites, research, or otherwise. Things get lost in the expanse. Add a few of them, like some Are.na Channels—your own, or those of others—and set it to a few months. What a nice little treat one morning!
If you want to join the fun, feel free to request an invitation.
The first iteration of the idea was called Hardly Everything. In-fact, after not being touched in five years, it’s still humming along, with a modest number of dedicated users.
Part of the stability is due to there being no services. This is going to get a little technical. Data is managed by the user using Local Storage—a browser API that enables your data to live with you.
Or more specifically, your browser.
This decision was made in response to centralized platforms owning your data. Your data, in a sense, is you. This also simplified the engineering, as no databases or backend services were required.
However, this introduced friction. A recent conversation with someone who continues to use Hardly Everything on a daily basis mentioned his weekly habit of manually backing up all of the data to a text file! A poetic gesture, maybe, but not a common solution.
This had the additional disadvantage of data only being accessible in the browser used to create it. You couldn’t access your data from desktop on your phone, or vice versa.
One critical feature—a reminder—was not possible, as there was no way for a backend service to query user data and send a friendly notification or email on days when fresh links were resurfaced. A notification is critical—the idea fundamentally does not compete for your attention, and instead hands it back to you.
Despite all the friction, people still found it handy, and it continue to recommend it.
Some years later, the idea cycled back around, ripe for revisiting. The core focus was to address mobile. Hardly Everything worked fine in a browser, but did not particularly excel on the phone.
This was due to issues of data portability as mentioned before, along with the interface. Creating a native app would ensure the interface felt great to use, with fluid gestures and the affordances of (then new) SwiftUI.
Building natively also enabled sending a push notification on days with fresh links.
Data ownership remained a priority, as did enabling synchronizing across devices. This was built on Apple’s CoreData API. It worked well for native apps, but the javascript browser API and documentation was a mess, and does not see much (any?) use.
This was all great—if you owned an Apple device. Specifically, an iPhone. Creating a desktop app out of the iPhone app wouldn’t require a total rewrite, but would have been substantial work.
Another set of compromises. And another name. This time, it was called Kawara, after the artist On Kawara who is regarded for the “Today” series of date paintings; canvases simply containing the date.
After these two iterations of the idea a few areas of improvement became clear with time.
The first being awkward names. That was an easy fix. Cycle is self describing. Bookmarks that cycle back around.
The second was a series of technical decisions made with the technology front of mind and convenience of implementation, both at the expense of user experience.
Prioritizing data ownership was (and still is) a great thing, and a tool for doing so is planned. But when it comes to sequencing, the first priority is creating a frictionless user experience for saving and accessing links across all devices. Simple as that.
With these observations in mind, the third (lucky number) iteration on the idea is Cycle. Basically, it fixes all that shit mentioned above!
It just works, everywhere. Your browser, on desktop or phone, and as an app on every device by simply tapping “add to homescreen” or “add to dock”, depending upon where you’re at. It works really, really well. More on this in future Discover entries.
Login and connection is drop dead simple. Your data is in a database, yes, but it’s accessible everywhere, and export and a basic API are planned.
HardlyEverything will live on in perpetuity, so long as browsers continue to render it correctly. Kawara has not been accessible for some time, as Apple’s App Store requires continuous builds and approval requests with incremental versions of iOS.
There’s a lot of wisdom to find in nature. And nature is full of cycles. Night turns to day, with a period of rest between the two, where your mind and body recover. Imagine never sleeping!
Summer turns to winter, the old falls away and the new emerges. A micro expression of of solar cycles, the Earth around the Sun, the Sun orbiting the galactic core. It’s wild stuff.
Time is the only truly scarce thing. We’re all familiar with attention economics. So it seems there’s a lot to explore interacting with time, and timescales, and loops and rhythm.
Tools that involve time are, dare we say… timeless. There’s too much to write about here. Plans for future Discover entries will expand on the expanse.
The focus is to keep the focus, but there are some clear improvements to make. For now take a look over here. And of course if you have any ideas or feedback, please feel free to reach out.
I intended to write this after the snow had melted. Until the winter felt truly over. But sitting here now on my couch, writing this in late October, I can see snow almost a year old out my window on surrounding peaks.
I’d been living over the summer in June Lake, an alpine town of four-hundred in the Eastern Sierra, and knew the winters could get intense. About three-hundred inches is the average—it sounded astronomical. Talking to neighbors after moving in calmed the nerves.
“Yeah, it’s hard for maybe a week total each year, after big storms move through, but generally easy.”
The house cantilevers off a forty-five degree slope. A door at street level leads to a dark storage area beneath the primary floor. Cords of wood are stacked floor to ceiling, enough to heat the place through the winter.
The first snow system of substance drops several inches the evening of November 2nd. Every few days a few more inches accumulate. The ski resort twenty minutes south, Mammoth, opens a week early on the 7th.
Having never skied before, now seems the time to learn. Backcountry ski touring is goal—a way of staying active when snow blankets the trails, and means of gaining access to fresh snow each day.
This winter is unique. Warm, wet tropical air moves in off the coast and hits the Sierra crest. Atmospheric rivers. Rain is rare in the winter. Temperatures are cold, but these pockets of air are relatively hot. Sometimes it rains when the leading edge passes through, creating an upside-down, unstable snow pack.
When this happens I get a call in the morning from my new friend, Chris, who works for Mono County. “Hey bud, things are looking pretty unstable and loaded. We’re issuing a mandatory evacuation.”
My street, line with around ten houses, is one of only three streets in Mono County to receive mandatory evacuations. Last week a few houses were taken out down in Aspendell in similar conditions.
Not wanting to be the ultimate kook and die of an avalanche asleep in bed, evacuating seems reasonable. A neighbor down the street mentions sleeping with their avalanche transceiver strapped to their chest, backcountry snow shovel next to their bed.
“If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, start digging.”
When evacuations are ordered I call up a few friends who work at local hotels. My favorite is located across the main drag of the 158. From the couch on the second floor rooms I can see my house, and the bald sloped snowy face behind it. Not wanting to be in the house if it goes, I sure would want to watch from relative safety from across the street. What a show.
In total, I evacuate five times over the winter—the longest period for almost a full week.
The 158 leads from the 395 and through the horseshoe shaped glacial moraine called the June Lake Loop. Driving westbound into town, the road passes Mount Downs. It’s not particularly astounding compared to the jagged fourteen-thousand foot peaks ahead. But there is one avalanche prone steep gulley.
Thankfully, the California Department of Transportation has placed a series of Gazex systems within the gulley. Metal tubes jut out of the mountainside, fill with natural gas, and are then ignited. The blast produces an acoustic shockwave, triggering unconsolidated snow to slide and stabilizing the chute.
Sitting on my couch one night, snow falling outside the windows, the entire loop lit up like the afternoon sun was out. Massive booms shook the house a few minutes later. Impressive.
This process prevents a naturally occurring slide from potentially sweeping a car, carrying a powder hungry family, down a cliff and onto the ice-covered surface of June Lake—thank heavens.
Once a week over a three week period an atmospheric river system would bring rain and heavy, wet snow. With another system only a few days out, and the hassle of clearing the road after each storm, CalTrans simply left the 158 unplowed, blocked at the east and west gates.
When this happened in the past the town became entirely cut-off. There is no hospital. Emergency vehicles were stranded either inside or outside, along with everyone else.
A road was proposed, and then constructed in the late 1990s, leading around the north shore of June Lake from the entrance to the ski resort and bypassing the Gazex closures.
This makes life easier, but doesn’t solve all the problems.
While the North Shore route around the avalanche chute off Mount Down helps, it transportation challenges remain. Large systems also tend to shut down the primary north-south artery of the eastern Sierra—El Camino Sierra, also known as the 395. On these days the North Shore leads to a dead end, and the June Lake Loop is again entirely cut-off.
These were some of my favorite days of the winter.
Snow is unstable after a storm. It doesn’t like rapid loading. That could be a person skiing, natural rockfall, or simply rapidly deposited snow. It needs time to settle, discouraging skiing immediately after a big dump.
Waking up on mornings when the highway is closed is the best. Your eyes open to the sun peaking up over the ridgeline, bombs echoing off cliffs at the ski resort—only a quarter-mile from doorstep to lift for me.
June mountain is unique. Only a small ticket office sits adjacent the parking lot. A single chair—wooden, with room for only two—takes you from the parking lot to the main chalet, where the rest of the mountain is accessed. Something more common in Europe, but unheard of in the states.
The ride takes about 13 minutes—anything but high-speed—giving you plenty of time to take in the scene, and make small talk when sharing the open seat.
On the biggest days, only this first chair at June Mountain spins. But this is fine by me. The terrain is all steep stuff, double black, and endless fun.
These days are spent lapping the first chair with maybe 10 other June locals, and a handful of tourists who make it out of the hotel room. 4:00pm rolls around and there’s still plenty of undisturbed lines to be had the next morning. It’s magic.
After each snow storm, and handful of snow plows begin clearing roads. Some are pickups fitted with plow attachments for clearing parking lots at hotels. The county brought in a few smaller wheel loaders.
But the biggest, baddest loader is a bright orange Hitachi ZW-310, driven by a kid who goes by Murt. He absolutely rips up and down main street, both forward and in reverse, in white-out blizzards, neck craned backward to reduce the chance of crushing any cars, or at least get a good look at them if he does.
I ran outside when I saw him shutting down the loader for the day. A Mercedes S Class, parked in front of the post office, had the entire side ripped off. It’d been sitting tarped up for about a week. “Did you see that car that got torn up on main?” I asked. “Oh, yeah.” “It was a Mercedes S Class!” “Wait, that was a Mercedes?”
He looks like he just got his driving permit. Fresh face, rosy cheeks. The dinosaur of a machine makes him look even smaller.
Some kids have a dog, but Murt has a Hitachi ZW-310.
The road the house sits on hadn’t been plowed in over a week. The slope in the backyard was too unstable to plow, the county was afraid it’d set off a slide.
Walking to the coffee shop at the end of the street, head down to ensure stable steps in the fresh snow, walking became more difficult. I was walking uphill. Looking up, it became clear the hill had slid overnight. Not a huge slide, but enough to leave a runout across the road.
Looking around, the slide managed to take out a neighbor’s gate, and push all the trashcans quite a ways down the hill. A berm piled up almost past the second floor of the their house.
Later that evening some friends came over.
“Right, park at the end of the street, because my road isn’t plowed. Climb over the berm, it’s pretty tall, maybe 16ft. Walk about 100 yards and then you’ll climb up and over the avalanche runout. A little ways further and you’ll have to duck through a snow tunnel and up the stairs to my door.”
There’s an abundance of resources available on any topic. It’s easy to stumble into paralysis. When I was planning for the Pacific Crest Trail, the question of what to bring with me felt heavy in a literal sense. Each gram counts when you’re carrying it on your back for a few thousand miles.
Like any beginner, all I knew was I didn’t know.
One afternoon I scrolled across Ray and Jenny Jardine. Together they are true OGs of ultralight backpacking equipment. Packs were once heavy canvas bags with metal frames and chunky hip belts. The Jardines began creating their own packs that answered to their personal requirements.
Essentially trash bags with straps.
Single volume, silnylon, no hipbelts, or any other fuss. Ray often wore his pack slung over a single shoulder.
I could go on about the Jardines. There is a page on Ray’s site with highlights including:
To recap… He was the first to do a thing, then created a foundation for the thing, created an award for the thing, and presented the award to the first person to do the thing: himself. Truly a visionary.
What excited me when running across Ray were the backpack kits. You can order the material, patterns, and instructions from Ray to create a Ray Way ™ Pack. I was convinced to give it a shot after reading an endearing essay, “Why Sew?”
Ray Jardine observed: “People will spend hours studying commercial gear in magazines and online. What do they get? Heads full of hype, closets full of superfluous gear, and depleted savings. But if they spent a fraction of that time making their own gear, they would spare themselves the hype and monetary loss, and would produce gear that is serviceable, satisfying and rewarding.”
This reminded me of Enzo Mari’s Autoprogettazione, a project created to encourage understanding of what makes furniture good furniture. You’d mail order a booklet, find a piece of furniture, and build it using cheap and common lengths of wood, a hammer, and nails. There are no instructions; only self-describing illustrations.
The pieces are not only functional, but beautiful in their focused simplicity and modest material use. For several years I furnished each of my apartments with pieces built from Autoprogettazione. Each time I moved, to avoid the hassle of moving furniture, I’d list everything for free on Craigslist. “Free Midcentury Italian Table.” It’d be gone in seconds. And I’d start from scratch and iterate at the next spot.
After a few years I became pretty good at making simple furniture. Building pieces from memory, and adapting them to my personal domestic requirements.
And so I ordered for the Ray Way kit. It arrived within a few days, and I got to sewing. As promised, it was easier than anticipated. I learned what makes a good pack good, felt liberated to modify it, and capable of fixing it in the future. There was no pressure to baby it on trail, having flaws right out of the gate.
I carried it with me the first 700 miles of the trail, until entering the alpine Sierra Nevada. This stretch requires a bear can, ice axe, and some extra clothing. I also brought along a stove for morning motivation to warm up get moving, something I didn’t fuss with the rest of the trip.
It was easier to make a decision on what pack to grab for this heavier carry—now I knew what I was looking at.
Hands on experience is priceless. Critical understanding through practice. The knowledge is carried with you, and applied when making future decisions. Recognizing when and why something is good.
It’s not possible to build every tool in your box, but there are similarities between tools that make an experience relevant beyond an immediate application. Packs, bags, shelters—even clothing. Using silnylon once makes you more confident to repair other gear. But having a set of instructions, and working on something you crafted helps relieve the pressure of farming your first more demanding repair job.
One of my favorite packs is the Pa’lante Joey. It uses nylon ripstop to create a single volume and has vest-style straps. While I could’ve made something similar myself, I recognize the craft that went into the Joey, and what Pa’lante is trying to do.
There’s a satisfaction in supporting people going out on a limb and doing good work. In purchasing a pack from a cottage company like Pa’lante. Helping to sustain a small business making good gear accessible more to people. They’re generally more nimble than larger manufactures, and experimenting on the edge.
Or grabbing a bit of kit from a larger manufacturer who funds experimental projects, like Goldwin and their Goldwin 0 series of campaigns by OK-RM.
According to Goldwin 0: “A garment is made from materials and energy. An intergenerational garment is made from all the materials and energy it has saved; by rendering their production unnecessary. Functionality and performance are not incompatible with ethics and responsibility.”
The clothes come at a premium, but ultimately a purchase goes to funding experimentation and new material use. The hope is, as process is refined, these techniques make their way into more common offerings.
My Goldwin jacket got a cut from the edge of a ski when shouldering them to the car. My familiarity with repairing technical fabric from fixing my Ray Way pack freed me up to make a simple patch repair with confidence.
Goldwin isn’t required to do the research, or fund interesting projects like the OK-RM campaign. The gesture goes a long way towards motivating me to support the effort by making a purchase.
So in thinking about gear, all of this leads to a loose manifesto:
The water of Mono Lake is unlike other bodies of water. It’s hypersaline and alkaline, thick and viscous. On days with calm wind, the amplitude of each wave stretches like elastic. Elongated and skewed towards horizon. Like the oceanic planet in Tarkovsky’s Solaris.
The Mono Basin might be the closest you can get to standing on an alien planet without the hassle of actually traveling to one.
Last week my good friend Ethan hosted a pizza topping potluck. I brought oyster mushrooms, ricotta and basil. We tossed ideas around while tossing toppings on the pies.
“…could be fun to run Mono Lake, you know?”
“Sand… a lot of sand… ”
“40 something miles, right?”
We glanced around…
“Sign me up!”
As the date approaches there’s a hint of hesitation on my part. The Bishop Ultra is a week after our planned date to run Mono Lake. I’ve signed up for the 50k. My performance in the ultra would be affected.
Running mono and running the race are goals of a different type, and surfaces questions of motivation.
“What is my focus?”
I decide to run the first half (20 miles) of Mono Lake, and leave the question of “do I complete this, or prioritize the ultra?” up to the moment.
Here we are, standing at the north shore on a crisp early May morning.
Lucas’ dog, Spot, is running laps around the three of us as we do that awkward pre-run dance. Stuffing running vests with snacks, and swinging our legs around like we’re fighting off some invisible Force of the Lake.
Lucas placed the final piece of his kit on his dome, an oversized cowboy hat.
And just like that, we get moving.
About that sand mentioned a few weeks back. It’s no joke, and all consuming within the first few minutes of running.
This isn’t sand you run at the beach, compacted by waves lapping. These are loose dunes, not doing any of us any favors.
Stakes in the sand mark where the road should be. The dunes drift season to season, wandering with breeze. Occasional gale force easterly winds, spilling over alpine passes, blow shoreline alkaline dust clear into Nevada.
The loose grains turn to bone-dry hexagonal clay plates. They collapse when stepped on, and emit a satisfying hollow timbred ting sound.
The full width of the Sierra between Bloody and Lundy canyons reflects in the Lake. Only within the past week did winter thaw out at our elevation. A unique perspective not many see from the north-eastern shore. Particularly on foot.
As the sun climbs higher in the sky the water’s tone becomes a deeper blue.
Lucas’ dog, Spot, takes off running after a herd of wild horses in the distance. There was nothing we could do to catch him.
About four-hundred wild horses live on the eastside of the lake. This winter was rough on them, with the record amount of snow making access to food difficult. There were rumors of a mountain lion stalking the herd. All of this has driven the horses closer to the lake, and has become a big interagency political project for wildlife and land management resources.
We’re still waiting for Spot, but after maybe ten minutes, he comes running back to us. Kicking up a cloud of dust and looking a little more tired.
A sense of progress isn’t obvious. We’ve been running for some time along this line of sand you could say resembles a road. The scale is becoming clearer through perception shaped by movement—not just what we see in-front of us.
We choose to drop down to the actual shoreline to break things up, contouring and gradually heading more westerly.
The turf becomes swampy, muddy, and surprisingly lush. Immense amounts of water from the record winter snowmelt remains at the surface. Wet feet progressively saturate with each step.
White columns of calcium carbonate, tufa tower, dot the expansive green ahead of us. They form when warm spring water percolates upwards from the lake bottom, and are only visible due to the receding volume of water in the endorheic basin lake.
The water is thick and slimy to the touch. Alkaline. The hues shift between burnt orange, azure blue, and emerald green. Narrow sandbars parellel the shoreline, the sand providing stable support one moment and swallowing your entire foot the very next.
It’s unclear if they lead to dead-ends, but we follow them anyway.
Ethan stops in his tracks, pointing towards what looks like a mummified mountain lion… or is it a polar bear? Reason tells you it’s not, but it sure looks like one. After a few minutes of debate we agree it’s an unlucky black bear who didn’t make it through winter.
Looking ahead, there’s speculation about what point on the horizon is the south tufa parking area. We’re getting close, but I find that never makes the distance go faster. Better to keep cruising and delay thoughts of snacks and stretching.
We step off the sand and onto asphalt, arriving at the van just past noon. Snacks sprawled out and foam mats on the ground. The first half went by surprisingly fast.
Lucas and Spot are planning to meet us again in another ten miles with more water and snacks. Ethan and I set back off down a dirt road paralleling the shoreline.
After a mile or so we begin settling into a focused cadence. Step after step becomes a drone of muscle movement. Steps syncopating with the heartbeat.
It’s beginning to get hot in the midday sun. A mirage appears; a stream of cold fresh snow melt crossing perpendicular to our path. Ethan hops in and dunks his head—an alpine baptism of sorts.
The water is incredibly refreshing, and we freeze for a few minutes before completing the last few miles of the leg. Within a mile we’re bone dry again.
The Mono Lake Visitor Center comes into view, and a beat later Spot is running our direction, leading us to the van.
We plant ourselves at a Picnic table and Lucas serves up fresh grilled cheese. Incredible. I stretch out and camel up. It’s nice to take little breaks, but each stop requires overcoming more inertia to get moving again.
This next stretch requires running a few miles of the 395. Semi-trucks barrel past us, and vans packed with families scream by. Necks turn to rubber while looking at us, in a “what the hell are they doing?” kind of way.
This is the mental crux of the day, but the views to the east over Paoha Island make up for it.
We pass the Mono Lake Inn and hook a right onto cemetery road. At this point we’re feeling increasingly sun fatigued. Pulling up to a fence, we lay down to stretch our legs.
It’s a good thing we did.
A few miles sit between us and reaching the 167—back to the start. The sand in the distance is a darker hue, and it becomes clear why;
Mud. Miles of mud.
Thick, gloppy, knee deep. The snow in the hills to the north is rapidly melting and cascading into the basin. I try to avoid it for a few hundred feet, but accept the inevitability that this is going to be messy and slow.
In a way, it’s a nice reprieve from the running. There’s no chance of efficient movement in this mud. A good excuse. Each step requires as much—if not more—energy than the pace we’ve been at, although the impact sure is reduced.
The cadence slows down the sense of time, and it drags on until finally Pole Line Road is underfoot.
It’s the final stretch, and excitement is high. After a few miles the hard pavement begins taking its toll on my feet. I slow to a walk.
So close!
With only a mile left I rally, while Ethan seemingly breaks into a sprint up ahead. Just like that, we’ve arrived back at our start, the loop now complete.
We take a moment to appreciate it, then hop in the car and head straight to Mono Cone where I order two large milkshakes. Oreo. I feel more haggard after annihilating them than I did at the end of the run!
This one was incredibly special. It’s a great line, and I relive moments of it each time Mono is in view. Either by car driving the 395 North, on an afternoon run around the south shore, skiing over at June Mountain, or when panning around the area scanning topo maps while thinking of what to do next.
The Mono Basin is an incredibly special place. If planning to be in the area, set aside a day for Mono. If not, plan a trip. Stop by the visitor center. And stop by the Mono Lake Committee. They have the best bookstore on the east side, and the history of advocacy for the lake is remarkable.
Huge thanks to Ethan for the camaraderie. Music in the video is In Gleam by Nadia Khan.
“Alright, 2:45 a.m. See you there.” The weather has been warm, creating an isothermal snowpack by late afternoon. Instead of exhibiting a temperature gradient forming cohesion, the snow becomes a sludgy soup. Unpleasant for skiing, and increasing the risk of wet loose avalanches. Spring skiing is all about chasing good timing.
The Eastern Sierra has an abundance of classic winter alpine traverses. One particular route stands out, as it connects my hometown of June Lake to the nearest town featuring a well-stocked grocery store—Mammoth. Ask any Southern Californian about Mammoth, and they will likely describe it as a premier winter sports destination. Being gratefully spoiled in June Lake with prime lift access to arguably the finest slack-country in America, my thoughts often gravitate toward avocados and kale.
Driving south on the 395 toward the town, the horizon begins to radiate a warm glow. A brilliant orange orb gradually ascends, and though only half-illuminated during its third quarter, it casts striking shadows from the Jeffrey Pine trees.
Our designated drop-off location is Mammoth Main Lodge. In a matter of hours, it will be inundated with visitors from the south; however, for the time being, it is solely occupied by us. We swiftly attach the skins to the skis, double-check all the essential gear, and skillfully dodge a snowcat grooming the flat terrain. Only then do we embark on our journey into the darkness at 4 a.m., precisely as planned.
The route traces Minaret Vista Road, leading to a well-visited summertime overlook of the Ansel Adams Wilderness. Our group settles into a steady rhythm, with one foot consistently gliding past the other, reminiscent of socks on a kitchen floor, as toes pivot around ultralight pin bindings. Deep breath. Slide. Turning off the headlamp, we watch the moon rise above the summit of Mammoth Peak.
Scarcely any time elapses before we pass the gate leading to Devils Postpile, a striking geological curiosity characterized by columnar-jointed basalt formations. These mostly hexagonal pillars were shaped approximately 100,000 years ago, when lava cooled and fractured—a relatively recent occurrence on a grander scale. Rather than descending to Postpile, the route takes a right turn and begins its ascent along the San Joaquin Ridge.
Reside in the Eastern Sierra for an extended period, and the vista of Mount Ritter and Banner Peak becomes a constant, yet it continues to evoke a sense of awe. The unusual abundance of snow this late in the season causes the moonlight to disperse in every direction, magnifying the spectacle. Our group momentarily pauses to absorb the view and settle in to the ridge.
The ridge is infamous for its windy conditions, and due to the Venturi effect, which compresses the air and lowers temperatures, a cold night can become bitterly frigid. This frequently results in the ridge transforming into a sleek ice rink—sufficient reason to carry ski crampons. Fortunately for us, the wind remains tranquil for the time being, as the incline gradually becomes steeper with crampons securely stored.
Approximately two miles into the journey, we find ourselves fully immersed in the experience. However, our focus is momentarily disrupted by something reflecting the moonlight in our peripheral vision, only for it to vanish abruptly. We feel as though we are being watched, and then a pair of eyes materializes. A coyote dashes past us and lingers up ahead, seemingly curious about one aspect or another. It must be hungry, as this winter has been particularly challenging.
As the ridge grows increasingly exposed, the wind intensifies. The cold sets in, prompting us to grab the mitts. Glancing upward, we notice a faint dot gradually brightening as it steadily moves across the sky, its azimuth passing directly overhead before continuing toward the horizon. “Look, a satellite!” In just a few moments, another one appears, followed by yet another, and then another. An entire procession of Starlink satellites travel at a consistent speed in a perfectly straight line. Observing human intervention on such a planetary scale in this setting creates a truly hyper-real experience.
To the east, above the White Mountains, a faint glow starts to spread across the horizon. This sight is undoubtedly welcome. The silhouette of the coyote appears, maintaining pace with us, most likely eager for a morsel from a Snickers bar.
Up ahead, the ridge dips no more than a few hundred feet to a corniced saddle. Removing skins would be an inconvenience, as there are no turns to be had here. Instead, our group begins side-skinning downhill. After a couple minutes, Nick pivots and straight-lines it down the remaining half! I have never seen anyone move downhill fast on skins! The flat dawn light conceals the wind-sculpted sastrugi at the base of the saddle, causing Nick to go flying, toes locked and all. With broken glasses, blood, and a grin on his face, we are all slightly stunned and laughing.
Speed record? Likely!
The day’s first direct sunlight illuminates Ritter and Banner in the distance, then the ridge ahead as it continues its ascent. The temperature rises a few degrees, prompting the group to pause and take in the view, warmth, a few sips of water, and a snack. Nick seizes the opportunity to insert the remnants of his glasses into his goggles to keep everything intact. Meanwhile, Agnew Pass, situated to the east, gradually fills with sunlight.
When attempting to describe these moments, I find myself reaching for phrases like “unreal” or “another planet.” It’s ironic, considering they are often the most real and entirely unique to our home planet.
This ridge was once slated to become part of a mega-resort, connecting the Mammoth and June ski areas with a series of nearly 20 lifts. These plans were discussed for decades, until Congress designated the area as the Owens River Headwaters Wilderness under the Omnibus Public Land Management Act of 2009—a decision I’m grateful of. It’s a reminder of the interconnectedness of things. This drainage system, feeding the same Owens water supply that has long provided Los Angeles with water.
As we reach the top of the climb, our first view of “Two Teats” comes into focus. It’s easy to guess the general area referred to here. Yeah—we intend to navigate right between them. When looking back at the distance covered, it’s evident we’ve made good progress. We’re now more than halfway there.
Over the past week, there has been significant solar activity, as springtime tries breaking through. Bald patches of ground appear on the climb ahead, and surprisingly, for a moment, an actual dirt trail becomes visible—the first of the season. But for now, it’s very much still winter. As the incline steepens and the snow hardens, the ski crampons come on, just incase.
It ends up being mild, and before long the planks come off and the group starts booting up gravel. This provides a pleasant change of pace after months of sliding around.
Upon reaching the saddle between The Teats, our first view of San Joaquin Peak comes into sight. The sunlight, now noticeably stronger, gently invites us to take a break in this sheltered alcove, and we are eager to oblige.
With feet propped up, the group discusses various exit strategies. Numerous routes lie ahead, and given the cold temperatures and stable snow, we decide to pursue a more ambitious option.
As you drive into June Lake along the 158, your gaze is immediately drawn to Carson Peak and settles directly on its north face, featuring a perfectly carved bowl—the very bowl we decide to ski. Having been a primary objective since moving to June, I am incredibly eager to drop in.
As we descend from The Teats, looking back reveals an impressive headwall. There are countless potential routes, and everyone agrees to return at a future date for further exploration. The final ascent to the summit begins, with some members of the group choosing to hike, while I decide to practice my kick-turns.
In no time, the summit is reached. This is my third visit within the past few weeks, and the view never loses its charm. We take it all in. With no real rush, we slowly remove our skins, transitioning between relaxation and preparation for a brief downhill traverse to Carson.
As the group traverses a bowl beneath San Joaquin, we ascend and cross a cornice to follow its lip toward a plateau leading to Carson. During the summer, I jogged along this same route towards Spooky Meadow after a big climb to the summit via Fern drainage. I remember thinking “whoa nelly” and imagining how incredible it would be to glide through here on skis. What took me 30 minutes to jog now takes only minutes to slide across. Winter travel has its perks.
Sufficient uphill terrain between our current location and the drop for Carson’s north bowl warrants skinning up. A large white hare darts across the alpine tundra—an incredible sight! This ascent feels more like a leisurely cruise, with the mind drifting on the gentle breeze.
Upon reaching the top of the bowl, a perfectly symmetrical view of the June Lake Loop emerges, with Carson dividing the two halves. “Wow… Wow…” From this vantage point, it’s impossible to see beyond the rollover and fully observe a route down the bowl. The snow is surprisingly firm, probably due to the strong wind from the previous evening and the subsequent low temperatures. Consequently, the group boots around, examining the area.
We agree to drop towards the right side of the bowl. After chatting with a friend who skied the line last week, we know that the exit is through some trees on the right. The bottom of the bowl cliffs out, and the firm snow means that falling is risky. Our plan is to link up with Devil’s Slide—a feature so filled in during this record snow year that it’s like a halfpipe with a 2000 foot descent.
After waiting for the better part of half an hour, it becomes apparent that the snow is not softening beyond its present condition. Nevertheless, it is edge-able, and we decide to drop.
Despite the firm conditions, skiing down the bowl is too good to pass up. Being here, skiing a line I’ve stared at so many times, fills me with immense joy and pride, even though it may not be the biggest or most exceptional by any metrics. “Here I am!”
After reaching the bottom of the bowl and above the cliff exposure, we begin our traverse through the trees towards Fern Lake. We make a few corrections along the way since the group is initially higher than necessary, but before long we pick our way through the trees and rocks to arrive at the top of Devil’s Slide.
Skiing down the slide has become almost routine for me, as this is my third time here in the past few weeks. Still, the descent never gets old. The heat of the past few days has deposited debris from several loose wet slides throughout the descent that have now firmed up and made for somewhat technical skiing. Nevertheless, we ski with all smiles the entire way down.
Reaching the runout, the group ducks into a notch in the trees and zips the flats towards my car, having staged it there several hours earlier. A series of creeks run through this zone, and the snow bridges that existed only days earlier have now collapsed. We carefully pick our way up and over a berm for a brief walk back to the car.
It was a personally monumental day, and completing the long standing objective was satisfying. I have a sierra-sized amount of gratitude to Nick and Kim for letting me link up for the tour.
In the eastern Sierra, the places are second only to the people.
This entry was written in 2020, at the start of the pandemic, and reposted here for archival purposes. Anyway, I’m not here to make a point. Just meandering after going down a TikTok hole.
This is a quick ramble about Parametric TikTok — a pattern shaped by the recommendation algorithm where creators make viral formats and bombard them w/ variation, not unlike processes seen w/ GANs and style transfer.
My favorite instance of this is Little Durag, who created a viral dance and proceeded to feed it input sourced from comments. There are plenty of other instances, including imjoeyreed. Durag stands out for how the comments are literally weighted.
“Dance at 10% with 100% emotion.” “0% dance, 0% emotion, 100% far away.” “100% dance and 100% sadness.” “10% emotion, 100% dance.” “100% right arm, 10% left arm.”
What’s interesting is the feedback loop between how parametric the creation of these videos are and the TikTok algorithm—itself a weighted system.
The killer feature on TikTok is the algorithm. The sauce determining what appears in For You, the primary surface. It’s noticeably better than anything similar, like Instagram Discover. Apps are mediums of their own. What is appropriate for one platform may feel out of place on another. The context shapes the content.
Parametric TikTok is truly native to the platform.
Parametric TikTok is a symptom of its parent platform, similar to early Mr Beast on Youtube. Let’s call it Analytic Youtube. My absolute favorite is the 2017 durational work (lol) “Saying Logan Paul 100,000 Times” in which he says Logan Paul 100,000 times over 17 hours.
Youtube is a platform aggressively shaped by numbers. Big numbers. No surprise this performed well. Today the work has 16,492,195 views. Hear me out; this shit is profound. He takes the aggregate behavior of 100,000 Youtubers and performs it in one go. Call it “The User is Present” or whatever.
We live in an increasingly parametric world. One easily consumed and shaped by models. It’s funny to think about how these TikTokers are normalizing “parametric design” in a sense.
For instance, within architecture, a site condition is established and permutations in form are generated. The design processes becomes curatorial. Many practices today are centered around these principles of parametricism in response to advances in fabrication; the tools and materials at hand.
We can say this is nothing new or novel. It’s just more evenly distributed now. In other words, fuck your process, I’m just making TikToks.
In the near future I expect to see way more ML video processing beyond face filters. The emergent behavior of TikTokers feels like a warm up for this super automated future. A convergence between inevitable functionality and what creators are making today.
Snap has shipped filters which map your face on to animations that make you dance… this is not what I’m trying to point out here. It has more to do w/ creative process and how the platforms shape the work created and shared within them.
I wonder how much of Parametric TikTok’s novelty is thanks to interpretation. If we had trained a model on Little Durag’s dance and curated the best 10 out of 100,000 permutations would it hit the same? Even assuming they were indistinguishable from the originals?
By the time it’s possible I assume the novelty will have worn off. Similar to how anyone who has grown up with the artificiality of facetune can see right through it. I am curious to see the unexpected ways these future applications of ML on platforms will continue to shape what users create and share.
I contributed drums to Nick Malkin’s A Typical Night in the Pit, released on SODA GONG in January 2020. A set of blue-lit, nocturnal compositions tracing the density and chaos of the city. Moving from skewed MIDI-jazz to skulking menace across nine pieces, with a revolving cast of LA experimentalists.
Mexico to Canada on foot. Roughly 2,650 miles, five months walking north: out of the desert, up over the high Sierra, down through Oregon and on into the Cascades. Wake, walk, eat, sleep, repeat. The trail narrows the whole day down to a single task, then a single step, and you keep taking it until there’s no more north left to walk.
Performing under Tony Smith’s Smoke as part of Dublab’s summer music programming.
Peer-to-Peer Web was a series of relaxed afternoons of talks and workshops centered on decentralized publishing, creative practice, and digital archival.
Three instances were held between Los Angeles, New York, and Berlin.
Jon-Kyle Mohr, Louis Center, Callil Capuozzo, Tara Vancil, Jon Gacnik, Paul Frazee, Grace Kredell, Sam Hart, Hugh Isaacs, Laurel Schwulst, Lai Yi Ohlsen, Alejandro Matamala, Seth Thompson, Kei Kreutler, Jay Springett, Yoshua Wuyts, Cory Levinson, Georgia Hansford, Arthur Röing Baer, Calum Bowden, Mathias Buus Madsen, Cade Diehm, Harry Lachenmayer, Joe Hand, Olly Bromham, Lily Clark, Danielle Robinson, Exonemo, NYC Mesh, Bail Bloc, Los Angeles Contemporary Archive, School for Poetic Computation, Trust, Folder Studio, Are.na, unMonastery, Mazi Project, FOAM, Resonate, Liberate Science, Code for Science and Society.
Yale School of Architecture/Art
This conversation with Seth Thompson and Willis Kingery was originally published in Paprika!, the broadsheet of the Yale School of Architecture and Art, in November 2018. Reposted here for archival purposes.
Jon-Kyle Mohr is a designer, programmer, and musician from Los Angeles. His work is methodical, technically rigorous, and at turns provocative or philosophical. In the past year, he has developed a tool to archive Soundcloud music on the distributed web, a bookmarking site, a blogging platform, and an interactive map of thoughts, images, and geospatial data generated from a walk through the Los Angeles Arroyo. Each project embodies an approach to radical transparency that includes open-sourcing code, hosting sites peer-to-peer, and broadcasting live question-and-answer sessions to share context and background.
Seth Thompson: We’ve been talking about the idea of producing a rendering by individually selecting the color of each pixel one by one in Microsoft Paint. This is a provocative idea as a piece of performance art … or at least process art. Why is this idea so compelling and what are the implications for all of the ways we otherwise produce digital images? Why is Microsoft Paint always a piece of software that gets referenced in relation to this kind of idea?
Jon-Kyle Mohr: I think about this from a place of consumption and creation. I grew up looking at images on screens, and have spent much of my adult life doing the same. At a certain point the image breaks down for me and I see it as abstract individual pixels. I find it difficult to design something, or take a photograph (forms of image making) without feeling those individual pixels on a screen. Same with audio. It’s difficult to record and process audio without seeing the audio as an image: a waveform. This affects my process in a certain way. This has more to do with biology and how the eye processes the environment, and less about a distinction between analog and digital methods or something of another epoch that existed maybe fifty years or five minutes ago. Microsoft Paint is jurassic in position relative to the sequence of consumer electronics and the graphical user interface. It’s a rock.
ST: I think, if I can make a generalization, that when you say you see abstract individual pixels, you’re also talking about a certain facility with signal processing? Like the ability to see a low pass filter on an audio waveform and envision what it will sound like, or the ability to see a photograph and recognize a certain desaturation in the highlights that you can intuit how to recreate with a set of curves or tone mapping. Or is there something else at play?
JKM: It’s less granular than that. Just raw perception. I know I’m looking at a grid of pixels and most of the time my brain couldn’t care less as it just sees an image, but every once in a while an awareness floats to the surface, usually when making something. It’s hard to bridge the gap between the nothingness of initiating a project and knowing its ultimate place on the screen. Why not skip the process and draw in the individual pixels, or just draw the waveform? This is of course a ridiculous idea, but a personal hangup nonetheless, and it overlaps with a semantic tripping point between “process” and “processing.”
ST: [Responding] as someone who makes websites, what is the substrate for a website? The site is not (usually) expressed in terms of pixels. Is there another unit of “raw perception” that comes into play? Is the HTML tag an equivalent? Or to put it differently, if you had to “draw” a website without any process (no wireframes or moodboards) and were forced to just output it to the screen what would that look like?
JKM: That’s sort of what I do. I don’t consider myself a designer, but I do design a lot of things, including websites. When I do, I’m always in the browser working with the native material at hand. In this case, the Document Object Model. There are never wireframes, or project-specific moodboards. So in that sense, my process is very direct from brain activity to final form. This is not particularly efficient; there are a lot of redundant motions, but it feels like imposing methodology on individual gesture is artificial. Working like this is closer to hand building, whereas wireframes/moodboards are more like creating a mold and casting the form.
ST: You’ve built a number of tools for others (I’m thinking about Cargo, Enoki, and some of the internal authoring tools you’ve built for institutions). Do you think about designing interfaces that encourage the same directness of intent from impulse to execution? To go back to Microsoft Paint, is there anything to be mined from its primitive simplicity? Or to put it differently, to what extent do you believe that your process (or we could even say nonprocess) is a personal artifact vs. a pedagogical tool.
JKM: In order to create a useful tool conducive to a range of possible forms it is necessary for the design process to center around defining brokenness. Consider the visual flow of a deep neural network and try to design a “user experience” around that. Untraceable chaos. My work on Cargo was never directed by any imposing methodology. It was extremely lucid. This is because I was not creating something for a specific user but creating a flexible authoring environment for a multitude of possible applications that we could never know from the onset. This is a symptom of working in the future. Creating interface for a specific client is a more focused challenge based on the experience that client brings to the table, or the context of that particular institution. I personally find that far more of a challenge than following my nose.
ST: When people talk about image consumption they are quick to jump on the idea of the “feed” as a kind of universal interface (sometimes Pinterest is mentioned, but the reference is usually used as a stand-in for every online image stream). It strikes me that Pinterest, Instagram, Tumblr, and of course Are.na are very different kinds of image repositories. How does the interface itself, the technology underlying the interface, and the community around the interface affect the experience of browsing images on any given site?
JKM: It is interesting that all of the platforms you mention share the feed in common, yet have distinctly different patterns of use and communities. There is of course no clear answer, as these are organic and emergent qualities that seem clear in retrospect but are often unknown in the moment. I guess it’s always possible to point to style. Pinterest looks lame, and that makes me uncomfortable, so I’m not going to use it. Are.na looks “lame” in a very specific way (default sans-serif typography, desaturated UI, etc.) that aligns with my sensibilities, so I will use it, and that will connect me with certain other people, and now there is a community. These things don’t just happen (a lot of work goes into it) but I question how much one can know in the moment exactly what something is. At least I don’t.
Willis Kingery: Your point makes me ask a basic question: what would healthy image consumption online even look like? The platforms you mentioned occupy incommensurate worlds in terms of content and organization, but the mode of consumption they offer is largely the same. People lament the “feed” and feel that supposedly better alternatives exist, yet every platform offers essentially the same model for looking at images.
JKM: Right now we wake up in the morning and take a hit of fresh content. Something healthier is less like getting a fix and more like something ambient. “Oh, that’s nice. Goodbye now!” The screen is a difficult interface to work with.
WK: In the life of the image-based platforms mentioned above, each seems to start as a somewhat peripheral community, but as its user base grows, they inevitably reach a kind of saturation point, where eventually the repository goes from being a rich site of discovery to a more mainstream mood-boarding tool. Can image-based platforms scale without propagating a certain sameness of content? In relation to fringe platforms I’m thinking of some comments you made to my classmate, Steven Rodriguez, about the ongoing suburbanization of the internet as a reaction to the centralization of the Valley’s platforms, how people have been seeking online “property” outside of the center of activity, and I wonder if you still see this as a trend?
Has that movement possibly opened pockets of possibility within the “urban core” of the image economy/ecology?
JKM: And just look at how well suburbia played out! Imagine the commute to your Facebook feed every morning. Yeah, I think this is also where metaphor breaks down and it’s important to abandon the analog as its core meaning fades away. The decentralization thing is really simple: you are your data, you do not own your data, you should own your data, you should not have to be constantly aware of this. To your point about community scalability, it is important to be skeptical of the growth chart. Capitalism loves a good growth chart. It’s hard to do things within capitalism without them. Looking towards urbanisation to understand this is useful but should not be taken literally.
ST: In the past year, you’ve broadcast a number of “hangs,” or livestream updates, to a community of programmers, designers, and distributed web enthusiasts who are interested in your work. In one of them, you constructed an Enzo Mari Autoprogettazione table in your backyard. What is the significance of sharing the artifacts of your working process with such an audience? Does Enzo Mari’s notion of sincerity in individual creation have relevance in an era when code, ideas, images, and even websites can be so easily copied, modified, altered, and combined?
JKM: Yeah, these are awkward for me but the feedback is good, so I keep doing them. I see Autoprogettazione as less about the sincerity of an individual and more about a critique of production. Enzo is not saying, “everyone should build their own furniture to truly know it.” He’s saying, “Look, build this table. Now when you look at tables you know when one is shit and why.” Not only this, he uses plain language to communicate the ideas. A similar critique on the production of the internet would be challenging considering the difference in materiality. I have difficulty imagining what this would be if not reductionistic.
ST: It’s been said that prediction is a low form of journalism, but do you have any guesses or aspirational ideas about what images we will be viewing in the future and how we will be making or viewing them?
JKM: Prediction is the ability to know the future, but exists squarely within the past. The work being done with GANs are producing entirely new forms, but the output is a hallucination of those that exist. The future of image making will probably be variations on Deepfakes, content substitution ad infinitum. The audience and the author will continue to become one and the same.
WK: In relation to future modes of viewing and the earlier conversation about pixels and having an atomized view of every image, I wonder how we’ll navigate these shifting image worlds offered by digital platforms. Is there a direct visual parallel to this condition in some of your Are.na channels, [‘Array’, ‘Aesthetics’] and Deep Field, for example? We’ll certainly be engulfed by an ever-expanding constellation of images, but perhaps its ubiquity and banality should be embraced as a generative force. It’s overwhelming, but is there value in becoming adept at searching for anomalies in an infinite field?
JKM: For me, a lot of this comes down to who owns the data? If it all continues to centralize and we’re just using Instagram, there is very little room for speculation about possible form because it will all be dictated by them. They own the land as it were. In this era of data ubiquity you mention there is room for the truly personal “artificial intelligence” or a formalized mode of augmented cognition. We already all do this “offload your brain to the cloud” kind of thing but it’s not articulated as such. Perhaps this will manifest less as decentralization vis-a-vis localization … a continuation of today’s antiglobalist sentiment as it makes its way online. As I type I begin to care less and less about this and more about finding a good snack to eat.
I was the founding design engineer at Cargo Collective, now known simply as Cargo.
Cargo is a personal publishing tool for creative practice. As the first full-time hire, I contributed to everything — conceptualization, interface design, front-end programming — and wore many other hats, as you might imagine.
I joined at age 19 and moved to Los Angeles. Memories of getting kicked out of bars when trying to grab a post-work drink come to mind. We worked out of a room in a craftsman house in Angelino Heights, and later a studio along the Los Angeles river in Frogtown.
For a number of years, joining Cargo required an invitation or an application: a single open-ended textarea prompting a description of your practice. Some people wrote a sentence, others wrote paragraphs. Each one I personally reviewed, and most I responded to. I would generate an invitation, copy a template in the macOS Mail app, paste the link in, and occasionally write something personal about the work. I sent tens of thousands of invites by hand over several years.
These years were personally foundational in many ways, greatly informing how I see the world, and where I find motivation and meaning within it.
Very nice black box theater. Good sound. Koreless set was great. Backline DW set sounded very good.
Shared the bill with GoGo Penguin (ECM Records.) Brian got terrible food poisoning. Was unsure if he was going to be in shape to play the set. Ended up being the best one of this run.
Performed in the Oculus room. Lineup included Sky Ferreira, Richard Hell, Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith, Haxan Cloak, and Ryan Heffington.
I collaborated with Hassan Rahim on his website. He led the art direction and design, and my contribution was the engineering.
I played drums on Petrol. It started as a series of improvised sessions with Brian. He took those recordings, sampled them, manipulated them, ran them through his process. What emerged was this record. We then played a series of shows around it, weaving in and out of improvisation and the tracks.
Music video for Body (Premiered on Nowness)
Monument was a series of in-gallery performances organized by Nick Malkin and Brian Simon from 2016–2017 at MOCA in Los Angeles. Performances included Celia Hollander, Palmbomen II, Metal Rouge, Anna Homler, Sean McCann and Matthew Sullivan, Gregg Kowalsky, Damon Eliza Palermo, Visible Cloaks, Patrick Shiroishi with Paco Casanova and Dylan Fujioka, as well as this Anenon set.
All performances interfaced with work from MOCA’s Permanent Collection. The name references Dan Flavin’s Monument for V.Talin.
This performance took place inside the Black Mountain College gallery.
Recording by Santi Vernetti
A set for dublab.jp’s Radio Collective #117, broadcast live from Malmö Café in Tokyo on November 25, 2015.
Lineup included Teebs and Kamasi Washington.
The Atlantic
This interview was conducted by Geoff Manaugh and Nicola Twilley, originally published to Venue in 2012 and republished by The Atlantic in September 2013. Reposted here for archival purposes.
At the risk of seeming recursive, Venue stopped by Superfamous, the Los Angeles-based design studio behind our own graphic identity and website, to discuss the architecture of the Internet and the process of exploring and expanding its potential with Dutch interaction designer Folkert Gorter and developer Jon-Kyle Mohr.
As the co-founder of online networks and creative communities, such as Space Collective, Cargo, and but does it float, Gorter’s perspective on the Internet is deeply influenced by the sixties-era counter-culture in which the early web’s artist-engineers were immersed. The design projects he regularly features on but does it float, in addition to his own quite stunning photographs, often feature other-worldly landscapes, surreal geological forms, computer-generated geometries, and more, as if part of a visual quest to uncover the programming and code beneath the forms of the world, the frustratingly inaccessible HTML behind planets, continents, oceans, and skies.
Mohr, meanwhile, comes to programming from a lifelong background in drumming and sound art; he pointed out, after our interview, that he had more or less grown up inside a recording studio. Like Gorter’s formal interest in extreme landscapes, Mohr’s musical tastes veer toward patterns, mathematics, and code, finding unexpected polyrhythms through experiments with wires, electricity, and back-of-envelope calculations.
Our conversation ranged from psychedelic science fiction to scroll bars and the future of skeumorphism, all the while asking what it means to inhabit virtual space.
Geoff Manaugh: Folkert, we were joking on the way here about something you said in an interview once on Los Angeles, I’m Yours. Back in 1994, apparently, you had the realization that you were going to dedicate your life to the Internet.
Folkert Gorter: [laughter] I can’t believe you read that!
Manaugh: Where did that realization come from? What made you want to work in online design?
Gorter: I was at the School of Art, Media and Technology in Utrecht, one of the first schools in Europe that took the virtual, digital revolution kind of seriously, although it wasn’t a revolution yet, but its emergence. They brought in a lot of conceptual thinkers to talk about, well, it was not really the Internet back then. It was more like CD-ROMs, multiple-ending films, parallel storylines, and so on.
It was interactive thinking: where information technology meets interface design meets art and education. The more conceptually inclined people who were professors at these schools were almost psychedelic, I think. They came straight out of the sixties and seventies counterculture in California.
As interactive design went online, these people who I really identified with, these artist-engineers, were the ones who were asking how they could put their stuff online. And they started making art specifically for what was possible: the basic things that you could do in the rudimentary browsers at the time, like Shockwave and animated GIFs and trying to figure out how you can scroll more than the height of a browser to show more content.
I think that group of people, who first came to the Internet as artist-engineers, completely set the tone for what the web is now. For example, browser standards are totally based on what was being pushed back then, in terms of multimedia content.
Nicola Twilley: Are you implying that the Internet could be quite different today, if different kinds of people had been experimenting with it at the start?
Gorter: Right. That’s what I think. Take, for example, blogging. I think blogging probably became popular simply because it became possible to scroll vertically in web pages.
Before blogging, before vertical scrolling, there was a 640-by-480 screen, and everything that didn’t fit had to go below the fold. That was a disaster, because people couldn’t scroll, which meant you had to make all sorts of new interface artifacts (“previous” and “next” buttons, page folding, and God knows what else) until people finally said, “Screw it. We need scroll bars.”
That’s why I call them artist-engineers, because they were making a medium that was able to carry what they wanted to express.
Of course, scroll bars already existed. They were carried over from all the other OS technologies like Windows, which is why they also get really high system priority: the mouse and scroll never lag because they’re driven directly by the operating system. It wasn’t that the concept of scrolling was new, but it was definitely one of the innovations that was necessary at the beginning of the web in order to push the amount of content that you could show on sites.
Gorter: The scroll bar is a great device: I have always been most excited about it as my main user interface device. Way back, I started experimenting, along with a whole bunch of other people, with making scrolling interfaces. I would put up a ton of content, but you couldn’t see all of it. It was as if the browser was the viewfinder of a camera, and, instead of moving the viewfinder, you could just scroll the page.
Manaugh: Based on some of the images and quotations that you put on but does it float and Space Collective, from people like Timothy Leary and Terence McKenna, as well some of the things you’ve said in the past about wanting to see how human culture could move online, there seems to be an overlap between your interest in information technology and an almost psychedelic interest in things like the “Singularity.” I’m curious as to how those two strands weave together for you, if one led to the other.
Gorter: I’m really glad that you picked those things out. Those are the peaks of the landscape that I try to hang out in, pretty much. The web is a space of infinite potential, especially when I first met it, and it has not been charted. We can only go as far as our current interfaces and technologies let us go, in the same way that human language gives us a territory in which we can dwell, and it’s almost impossible to get outside of that.
I’m really excited about trying to make that space bigger: to create more land, as it were, the way the Dutch use ever more sophisticated technologies to pump out water and now we can live on the sea floor.
To bring that back to the psychedelia thing: for me, that feeling when you dive below or beyond or above language, when you’re in that zone, that is very much akin to being on the Internet. You can be somebody else. You don’t even have to be a human. You can speak using media.
Gorter: Do you know the book Starmaker, by Olaf Stapledon? At one point, the narrator has evolved so far that he’s using the brains of different organisms as hosts. He’s sharing the minds of a flock of birds sitting on some mountainside, describing the amazing sensation of feeling an entire mountainside through a collective, distributed mind. He says (and I’m paraphrasing) that it was almost as though a blind race, through technology, could have invented organs of sight.
Manaugh: He was using the birds as a browser.
Gorter: Right. The Internet is a sensorium in the same way. Thinking about it as a biological, technological extension makes a lot of sense to me. What’s mainly interesting to me, at least right now, is that you don’t carry the limitations of the body with you in the virtual domain.
Twilley: So the limitations of this virtual world come from our interfaces: both the hardware and the software. Can you give some examples of things you’d like to do but can’t because of these kinds of technological limitations?
Jon-Kyle Mohr: Some of the stuff that we’re starting to explore right now is only possible because today’s browsers are capable of enabling it. Before, there were technological obstacles like latency. Latency is the bane of my existence. If you do something, you want to feel as though you’re affecting it, and not that there is a 15-millisecond lag: that there is latency. That’s what’s so great about your phone: you flick it and it responds immediately. It feels like you are actually manipulating it.
To give another example: right now, everything uses the metaphor of a page. We’ve been playing around with Z-space, that is, breaking out of the metaphor of a page and moving into three dimensions, the X, Y, and Z axes, but still within a browser. People have been playing around with how to represent three dimensions forever, but figuring out how to do that within the interaction history of the browser is particularly interesting.
Gorter: Virtual reality has been the frontier forever, and people have thought about it as if you were walking into a big sphere or you were wearing goggles and all of that. But, to me, thinking about virtualizing ourselves is much more interesting if you think about expanding what is possible online.
True Names, by Vernor Vinge, is a really great book to read on this subject. He lays down a lot of amazing metaphors for inhabiting cyberspace.
I mention that because what we’re trying to do with a Z-space interface is reintroduce the whole notion of the peripheral. Part of it is to do with the Tumblr and Pinterest thing: all these people posting millions of images and the way that styles seem to emerge from that stream.
If we compare vertical scrolling in blogs to driving in your car in a landscape, what we want to do now is lift off and be able to see all these image feeds, for example, as geological strata. If you’re flying above the landscape at 30,000 feet, there’s stuff to see, stuff you can’t see from your car window. That’s how we want to enlarge or expand the interface.
Gorter: What we’re talking about now is really more of an actual environment, in which everything you see informs how you see the things around it. That’s one thing we want to accomplish with this interface, so that when you’re looking at one visual, you can also see it as part of a pattern: you can see all of its connections.
Back in the early days of the Internet, these artist-engineers I was talking about pushed for browsers to be able to handle what they wanted to do. We still have that power. Whatever the W3C sets as its standards is just based on what people want. With the whole web 2.0 fiasco, let’s be honest, it’s as if people stopped really pushing new things, because everyone was just happy together, using Facebook and Twitter and pushing their shiny social buttons.
But we need to keep pushing new stuff. It’s a really delicate process, because if you push too far, then it’s going to be clunky and no one’s going to be able to use it; but, if you don’t push far enough, there’s not going to be any change and it will never catch on.
Mohr: It’s an accessibility thing. You have to make sure that you’re still innovating, but that you’re not excluding everybody from that innovation.
Gorter: Because if you’re excluding everybody, then there’s no critical mass.
Mohr: Degradation in digital design is also really interesting: it’s almost like time-travel, in a way. If you try to look at the Wired website on a browser that was last updated four years ago, it’s going to look like hieroglyphics.
Manaugh: Jon-Kyle, you’ve done a lot of sound-related work. How does that relate to your online design?
Mohr: There’s a lot of overlap. A lot of sound design is just designing space, and directing the ear’s attention to certain things: how you use one rhythm to offset something else, for example. Then, all the looping and cloning translates to pagination and scrolling really well. It’s all math.
Gorter: I remember you saying that you credit being able to program to being a drummer.
Mohr: Totally. They’re both additive and subtractive processes. They use the same metaphors. They loop and repeat in similar ways. It’s actually kind of funny, because, ever since I started to do a lot of the programming with Cargo, it’s influenced how I perceive music now, as being much more programmatic.
Twilley: I love this idea of useful metaphors. If the browser is to be more than just a “window” and the web is to be made of more than just “pages,” where else might you go to find new metaphors that could expand what we can do online?
Mohr: Those are great questions. Skeumorphism was such a hot topic last year, and it was that exact same question, asking about the extent to which you need to be literal with your references versus the extent to which you can be more free and abstract.
Gorter: I think the way we get around this is that we try to not make a specific interface. Instead, we always use the content as the interface. This is how we always design. In Cargo, there’s no design, there’s just content. You click on a thumbnail, but the thumbnail is just a smaller representation of the project.
Essentially the browser is the canvas, it is the design, whereas, with a lot of web design, you see people making designs inside the browser, like a box inside a box, and then shading here, adding a bar there.
But we don’t do that. We try to disappear.
Twilley: You’ve described Cargo as not social but rather collaborative. That difference between closed and open, complete and unfinished, is really interesting. There are actually not a lot of middle spaces on the Internet that manage to straddle that division, whereas Cargo is populated by user content but still feels aesthetically coherent.
Gorter: I think, again, that’s because the design is the way the interface works, rather than being some kind of overlay.
Even if you completely disassociate your personal site from the platform, the brand is the interface. We care so much about the feel and the behavior of the interface (when you click something, something happens to bridge the waiting time between the click and the response, and the typography is always properly in proportion) that it still feels like Cargo, at the end of the day, no matter what it looks like.
Gorter: You’re in a structure, but the only things you see are content.
Twilley: Most of the time, when you enter a social network on the Internet, the structure is very visible. If you’re on Facebook, for example…
Gorter: Everything is a dull blue. [laughter]
Twilley: It seems to me that you could maybe split the Internet between broadcast and community. Those two different kinds of platforms have very different design aesthetics.
Gorter: I think that’s true. We are always trying to find out where we are, between those two poles.
We’re now working on something called trace-marking. It essentially started as favoriting images across the Cargo platform. It’s one of a few attempts we’ve made to go a bit more into the community direction. The thing about Cargo is that, although our community is definitely there, it’s built on people digging how we do stuff, then trusting us with their material.
We have implemented a few community things, though: you can follow people, and there’s internal commenting. We built that functionality for student networks that we’re now running with UCLA and Art Center College of Design, and a few other places.
This new trace-marking thing is a way to visually connect. If you see an image you really like, you can save it in your own space and you can create categories for how you want to save it, whether it’s for reference or simply to tell somebody that you love their image. It becomes a visual collection tool mixed with a book-marking functionality.
Gorter: But this is really early days. We always let the process determine the outcome. Today, Jon-Kyle made the first steps: you drag an image, a little shelf opens up, you put it there… So now we have to figure out: what’s next?
Twilley: It seems as though images are the quickest thing to get detached from their source online.
Gorter: Exactly. That’s always bothered me! Tumblr does a great job of showing the thread of reblogs, but then no one gives a fuck about who made the original image. Creating that kind of trace for images is important.
Manaugh: Our final question, just to bring it full circle, is about the process of working on the Venue website, and whether that allowed you to explore any new territory. Perhaps it did, perhaps it didn’t.
Mohr: The integration with Google Maps for Venue was really fun. I had never used their API. We’re actually starting to work on an API for Cargo, and working with Google Maps’ API for Venue really influenced how I’m approaching that.
It was also really fun to play with spatiality. Google Maps is already interesting in terms of its Z-space functionality: the way that you can zoom in and out in satellite view, and we spent a long time playing around to find a comfortable zoom level for Venue, and so on.
Gorter: It was a great project for us, I think, because we’re always looking for excuses to extend Cargo’s functionality. The only reason we make new stuff for Cargo is in response to a specific request. We never say, “Hypothetically, people would love such-and-such new feature. Let’s make it!”
And, because we don’t design websites (we don’t make layouts, we just put content in), the Google Maps integration is not simply decoration. It’s actually integral to how the site works. What I really love about what we accomplished was that we put the Google Maps in there, but we imposed the Venue aesthetic over top of it.
We’ve done projects with Flash before where we work the same way. The problem with Flash is that it’s like an aquarium: all the content sits behind a thick layer of glass. You can’t touch it; you can only look at it. It’s imprisoned. What we’ve done is use Flash in a new kind of way, as a background environment, and then put a flat HTML layer over top of it so that you can interact with as if you were interacting with any website.
Now, if you guys do another iteration of Venue, we can imagine even more integration. Come back in 2014, and we’ll talk!
Futura was a residency at the Eagle Rock Center for the Arts, put together by Kev, who also ran Low End Theory. I’d sometimes sit in on drums with Ryan.
One night that stands out is playing with Carsten McWittier, the guitarist for Hella. People came up to me afterwards convinced I was Zach Hill, Hella’s drummer (and the drummer for Death Grips, too). I’m definitely not.
My open practice centers on perception, environment, interaction, and interface. It requires design and engineering, and often leads to creating tools for publishing and connection.
I was the founding design engineer at Cargo Collective, a personal publishing platform for creative work. I was then Co-founder and Head of Product at Mirror, a long-form publishing platform enabling new ways of funding and sustaining writing practices.
Last summer I worked on Assemblage, a publishing platform assembling pages of work contextually around visitors using natural language. I’m currently collaborating with an author on the design of a series of books, and engineering an interactive companion.
My open practice centers on perception, environment, interaction, and interface. It requires design and engineering, and often leads to creating tools for publishing and connection. I was the founding design engineer at Cargo (Collective), then Co-Founder and Head of Product at Mirror.
The world as seen through my phone. Through the screen. On the screen. Framed by the phone. For the phone. For the screen. For the photo.
Updated with an Are.na Channel.
(MPE) Movement Perception Environment
(FTW) Feel The Wind
Reading Writing
Right Here Right Now
