Negative Dialectics in the Google Era: - 麻省理工学院人工智能研究专业

Negative Dialectics in the Google Era:
A Conversation with Trevor Paglen

JULIAN STALLABRASS

In the last seven years, in a series of performances, 出版物, exhibitions,
and installations, Trevor Paglen has explored the world of hidden military pro-
jects and infrastructure. One of his best-known series is Limit Telephotography, 为了
which he trained lenses designed for astronomical photography on secret military
bases in the U.S., using their very-long-range photographic capabilities to capture
images that would otherwise be hidden to civilian eyes. These are the “limits” that
lie at the heart of Paglen’s project: the limits of democracy, secrecy, visibility, 和
the knowable. He is one of many artists who have evolved new and various ways of
engaging with the military and the secret state in the years following the declara-
tion of the “War on Terror.” The work of these artists remains as apposite as ever,
as the U.S. and its allies continue to bomb suspected enemies (and anyone else
who gets “too close”) and to run “black” sites and secret gulags in which people
举行 (and tortured) beyond the reach of the law. Paglen has made works that
raise fundamental questions about what can be known and seen, while simultane-
ously writing investigative exposés of the shadow state. This interview explores
some of the relations and tensions between the two practices.

Julian Stallabrass: Artists making photographs now have to send their work out into
a world that is replete with networked cameras, in which publishing a picture
online can be done with a few presses of a touchscreen. Tourists at any rea-
sonably well-known spot can be sure that they will find dozens or hundreds
of decent photographic records of the place online, so taking their own pic-
tures has become a performative token act. How do artists working in the
medium place themselves in and/or against this remarkable proliferation of
public images?

Trevor Paglen: That is a great question, and it’s something I spend a lot of time think-
ing about. There have been a number of discussions about the “future of pho-
tography” among fine-art people, and I think that conversation has to do with
the question you’re posing here. It seems to me that photography is at a bit of a

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OCTOBER

crossroads. I believe there’s still a place for fine-art/gallery work. When you
make a nice print and put it on a wall, you’re creating a space where people can
devote a certain kind of attention to an image or idea. Viewing a photograph in
an institution is a much slower process than looking at a Flickr page or a
Facebook attachment. The space for paying slow attention is becoming more
relevant and significant as our forms of everyday communicating, 成像, 和
viewing increasingly speed up. As a corollary to this, I’ve been thinking about
photographic materials in a much more “sculptural” way—thinking about how
imaging and printing processes can help form the critical “text” of a photo-
图形. I’ve recently been taking materiality of photography much more seri-
乌斯, thinking about different processes, the lifetimes of various media, 和
different printing processes as they relate to socio-historical processes. 我有
been working with everything from albumen prints to the satellite feeds of
Predator drones. The point, 为我, is to propose and develop forms of post-
representationalist photography and imaging wherein both the materiality of a
work and its “relations of photography” are intrinsic to what that work is. 在
也就是说, I want photography that doesn’t just point to something; it actually
is that something.

The other part of my answer has everything to do with what you called the
“performative” act of photography. I’m sure we both agree that the twenty-first
century has been characterized by the huge expansion of photographic
machines, imaging systems, and the means of networking them. Here I mean
things like digital point-and-shoot cameras and Flickr accounts; local police
vehicles outfitted with cameras designed to take a picture of every single
license plate that passes by and then to “run” the plates in a police database;
Predator drones over Pakistan flown via video by pilots in Nevada, with intelli-
gence analysts in Virginia and commanders in Florida, all part of the same
real-time “network.” There are an incredible number of examples. These new
“geographies” of seeing-machines haven’t been dealt with that much by pho-
tographers yet, but there’s a lot to engage with critically. 当然, what it
means to “do” photography in relation to this larger geography of machine-
seeing might not look like sheet film shot with a view camera. So I think there
are a lot of opportunities for photographers to take the “relational” aspects of
what they do far more seriously. This is what I was alluding to earlier when I
mentioned this idea of “sculptural” or “relational” photography.

Stallabrass: There’s a self-conscious tension in your answer between valuing the
slowness that comes with the display of the fine-art print in the gallery and
practices that embrace the flow of imagery through networked imaging sys-
特姆斯. The latter reminds me of the controversy surrounding an Honourable
Mention given to Michael Wolff in this year’s World Photo Press awards for
re-photographing what he called “unfortunate events”—accidents, 人们
collapsing, fires—that happened to be caught on Google Street View cam-
eras. I think the controversy was generated because such acts of appropria-
tion have far less of a history in photojournalism than they do in fine art.

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A Conversation with Trevor Paglen

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Trevor Paglen. Drone Vision. 2010.

But I wonder about the basic contention that digital images are necessarily
consumed rapidly, especially since at galleries now you sometimes see HD-
screen displays of photographs. Given the screen technology and the resolution
with which digital images are now displayed, there seems no reason why they
should not be the subject of sustained attention (and do we know for certain
that they are not?). It is true that Facebook (and perhaps Flickr) encourages
shorter attention spans, as do all social-media sites that are focused on the flow
of images and events. Do we need the physical photographic print and gallery
space to slow viewers down? And if so, why does that work?

This is related to an interesting discussion at a recent conference on con-
flict and photography at University College Dublin at which David Campbell
asked why there had been so few deep, textured, complex online works tying
together words and images in sophisticated data structures of the type that
had been held out as models in the age of hypertext.1 One answer, 它似乎
to me, is that engagement with digital and social media concerns the captur-
ing of both attention and an ongoing current of material (Twitter is the obvi-
ous example of this). Such a process does not seem compatible with the very
laborious construction of multiple branching data structures that the hyper-
text model once promised. So my question is: can you square that circle?

1.
Clinton Institute, 可能 2011.

“Medium and Message: Conflict Photography in the Digital Era,” University College Dublin

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OCTOBER

Paglen: 出色地, to be honest, I haven’t thought about the question of viewing as
much as you have. It definitely seems to me that the “space” of the museum
or gallery or what-have-you has more to do with the kind of attention we pay
to artworks than the medium itself. We don’t necessarily need the “print” if
we want to ask people to slow down, but we do need some sort of space
(gallery, museum, ETC。) that asks us to pay closer attention to what we’re
looking at than we might otherwise do (在线的, 例如).

But the overall question of the cultural politics of “viewing” art is some-
thing I just haven’t spent that much time working out. I have a sense of what
works for my own art, but don’t really have a meta-theory of it. I’m much
more interested in the cultural politics of producing art than the conditions
of “consuming” it. I have long understood artworks as congealed social,
政治的, and cultural relations, and that is what I’m interested in exploring.
If I have anything to contribute to how we understand cultural production,
it probably comes more from a “geographic” perspective than a traditional
cultural-studies perspective. In a lot of my works, I try to set up various rela-
tions of seeing from which the artwork emerges. If I go out in the desert and
spend a week photographing covert military operations, 例如, it’s
quite likely that I’ll ultimately end up with something quite formal or

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Paglen. Black Site: Kabul, 阿富汗. 2006.

A Conversation with Trevor Paglen

abstract-looking. But the means by which I got to that particular abstraction
are crucial to the work. They imply a politics of seeing and of relations of
seeing and so forth. I think that there are tremendous and largely unex-
plored critical possibilities in this approach.

Stallabrass: That’s something that intrigues me about your work, the apparent dis-
junction between process and visual result. When you photograph secret
military installations or black sites from very long distances, using extreme
telephoto lenses, in one sense you seem to be spying for citizens against
unaccountable power; 然而, softened and distorted by heat haze, the results
evoke painting or pictorialist art photography in a range of “styles,” from
Edward Hopper to color-field painting. How do the apparent art-historical
references and the process of producing the work come together, and do
such art-historical references work towards bringing out the politics and rela-
tions of seeing that you talk about?

Paglen: You’re bringing up two really important aspects of my work. On the one
手, we have what we might call the politics of production. By this I mean
the kinds of relational practices that are behind the work and go into its
制作. 另一方面, we have things like the visual rhetoric and aes-
thetics of an image: here we find more of the questions about spectatorship,
art history, 等等. Taking both sides of this seriously is fundamental to
what I do. If we’re talking about the politics of production, there are a lot of
things going on. 一方面, I might be camping out on a mountain-
top taking photos of a secret military base, determining the location of CIA
“black sites” so I can go photograph them, researching front companies used
in covert operations, or working with amateur astronomers to track classified
spacecraft in Earth orbit. These are all relational practices and they all have
various sorts of politics to them. Photographing a secret military base means
insisting on the right to do it, and enacting that right. 因此, we have a sort
of political performance. Finding CIA black sites means, 出色地, finding secret
black sites. Working with amateur astronomers has a politics of collaboration
to it, as well as something I think of as “minoritarian empiricism,” which has
to do with experimenting with radical possibilities of classical empiricism.
All this happens long before I even think about making a piece of “art” and
putting it in front of other people to see.

When we get into the question of what the image actually looks like, I use
a lot of art-historical references as a way to suggest how contemporary forms
of seeing (and not seeing) rhyme with other historical circumstances that
artists have responded to. I look at a lot of abstract painting as a response to
its historical moment. In someone like Turner, we find a vision of what the
nineteenth century’s “annihilation of space with time” looked like; in Dada
or in some of the smarter Abstract Expressionists, we can find responses to
some of the twentieth century’s greatest horrors suggesting the utter failure

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of representation in relation to the bomb or the Holocaust, 例如.
There was something radical and profound—at those historical moments—
in the kinds of abstractions some of those artists came up with. We’ve moved
way beyond that, 然而. Some contemporary artists have retreated into a
sort of pseudo-Greenbergian abstraction, and I find that really disingenuous.
All in all, I think we’re right to be suspicious of representation right now.
The days of believing that there’s something out there in the word that can be
transparently represented by a photograph or image are over. Certainly that
notion has been over in philosophy pretty much from the start, but it has
taken popular culture and vernacular forms of seeing a long time to catch up.
Artists and photographers have always “manipulated” images—there’s no way
to make a photograph or image without manipulating it, partly because
there’s no “it” prior to the image. This poses a useful challenge to cultural pro-
ducers: how to work with images or visual material in a critical way, given a
lack of faith in representation. Some folks are talking about affect and nonrep-
resentational theory (Nigel Thrift, 例如, in human geography) as one
way of moving beyond representation, and others are taking up different fla-
vors of “speculative realism” and ontology. I’ve certainly learned a lot from
these thinkers, but I often find my thought drifting towards contemporary
variations on old-fashioned Frankfurt School critical theory.

I’m obviously interested in, and simultaneously very suspicious of, abstrac-
的. 一方面, I do see the value of abstraction as a critical refusal to
speak sensibly. This refusal can be a radical gesture, but it’s far more com-
mon to encounter abstraction-for-its-own-sake, which is usually a kind of
reactionary fetishism or decoration. 为我, the difference between the two
has something to do with the politics of production I mentioned earlier,
namely the means through which a particular abstraction is produced.

Stallabrass: So it seems that the radical aspect
of your work lies in the disjunct ion
between the gallery print (说, of a spy-
satellite trail in a starry night sky, 哪个
yields information only to the small
minority of people with specialist knowl-
边缘) and the social and technical
process that goes into making it. I find it
interesting that the models you mention
for the way the work looks, and for get-
ting at a critique or a refusal of repre-
sentation, are avant-gardist. Each also
deals with waves of technological change
and the profound consequences they’ve
had for the experience of the every-
day—whether it be steam power, mecha-

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Paglen. Nine
Reconnaissance
Satellites over the
Sonora Pass. 2008.

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A Conversation with Trevor Paglen

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Paglen. Large Hangars and Fuel
Storage; Tonopah Test Range, NV
Distance ~ 18 miles, 10:44 a.m. 2005.

nized warfare and its transformation of commercial road and air travel, 或者
technologically advanced genocide and the bomb. It could be argued that all
established a relation to the technological sublime—an awe in the face of vast-
ly complex systems and their uncontrollable consequences (though in Dada,
this was taken parodically). 明显地, the postmodern period often thought
of itself as a time of exhaustion and perhaps decadence in which the passive
consumption of reproductive technologies (首先, 电视) appeared to
dominate over the romance and fears attached to innovative productive ones.
So this is my first question: is your reference back to these older forms a way of
saying that we no longer live in such times?

I have a second question. Conventionally, critics have looked at documen-
tary photography and film and bemoaned their inadequacy as means of
describing their subjects. But one consequence of the ubiquity of photo and

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v ideo recording would
seem to be that sometimes
we get documents that are
as adequate as one could
reasonably want :
t he
WikiLeaks v ideo of t he
Apache helicopter mur-
dering Iraqi civilians is a
case in point . The docu-
ment gives context , dia-
logue, and direct evidence
of t he slaughter, all of
which allow the viewer to
see not just the fact of the
killings but the operation
of the military mechanism
that brought them about
and the enjoyment of the
crew in t he exercise of
their deadly power.2 What
relat ion does your suspi-
cion of represent at ion
have to that kind of “docu-
mentary” image?

Paglen. Keyhole 12-3/Improved Crystal
Optical Reconnaissance Satellite Near
Scorpio (USA-129). 2007.

Paglen: The short answer to your
fir st quest ion is “yes.” I
think most people agree
that any sort of classic avant-gardism is over, but I think there’s an underly-
ing impulse in the avant-garde that I find especially relevant today. 什么
I’m interested in isn’t really even the critical impulse so much as the pro-
ductive impulse animating much avant-gardist practice. But again, I want to
look at that paradigm of cultural production from a contemporary, 邮政-
post-modern perspective.

Throughout my life, I’ve found much of canonical postmodern art to be very
愤世嫉俗的, an artistic echo of Thatcher’s “there is no alternative.” On the other
手, I’m profoundly influenced by artists such as Gregg Bordowitz, Gran Fury,
Group Material, Paper Tiger, and other “postmodern” cultural producers
whose work didn’t abandon itself to a complacent version of unlimited semio-
姐姐, but sought instead to develop forms of radical humanism from postmod-
ernism’s critical insights. All in all, I’m not interested in a return to modernism,
but I find some of modernism’s underlying impulses to be particularly relevant

2.
article/0,8599,1978017,00.html (六月访问 13, 2011).

The video may be found in many places online, 包括: www.time.com/time/nation/

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A Conversation with Trevor Paglen

今天, which is a histor ical
moment where it’s hard to
imagine, let alone find, 考试-
ples of how society might be dif-
ferent. In terms of art making, 我
sympathize with a revised form
of negat ive dialect ics as a
response to an image-saturated
社会.

Paglen. Workers Gold Coast Terminal Las
Vegas, NV Distance ~ 1 mile. 2007.

On your second question, 我
definitely agree with you that
the WikiLeaks gunship footage
is as good as we could reason-
ably want. But if there were a
wrongful- death lawsuit with
that video as a primary piece
of evidence, I wonder whether it would hold up in a courtroom. I’m think-
ing here of the Rodney King footage—when you repeatedly scrutinize any
kind of documentarian media, you can capitalize on the fact that representa-
tions don’t transparently represent reality-as-it-is. We’ve seen something
broadly similar to the Rodney King footage in the Abu Ghraib photos. 那些
photos undeniably showed horrible abuse, but the logic of photography is
such that the photos couldn’t show systemic torture and abuse as political
政策. 因此, Donald Rumsfeld could plausibly dismiss what was in the pho-
tos as the work of a “few bad apples.” We all know this. And yet some forms of
documentary constitute, as you say, the best kind of images we could ask for,
but the best we can ask for has clear limits to what it can show. 尽管如此,
“documentary” images can still become social facts regardless of their ability
or inability to reproduce reality.

I take all of this as a starting point. In terms of my own aesthetic vocabu-
lary, I tend towards images that manifest this dialectic. Images that 1) 制作
a truth claim (“here’s X secret satellite moving through X constellation,”
例如); 2) immediately and obviously contradict that truth claim
(“your believing that this white streak against a starry backdrop is actually a
secret satellite instead of a scratch on the film negative is a matter of
belief”); 3) suggest a form of practice that could give rise to such an image
(“if it’s true that this is a secret satellite, then there’s a whole lot more
going on behind this image”); 4) suggest all of the above as an allegory for
something about twenty-first-century images, 知识, 实践, aesthet-
集成电路, and politics. Not all of the work I produce fits all of this—it’s just a
loose way I use to think about what it is I’m doing.

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3

Paglen. Code Names. C. 2001–.

Stallabrass: That’s a fascinating answer, and picks up on many of the issues that
came to mind as I look at your work. I notice that you write in your Aperture
monograph of a dialectical opposition between an image’s claim to repre-
sent and the undermining of that claim. It’s good you specify that further
here.3 It’s easy to see that Adorno’s concentration on the specificity of the
目的, and the instrumental and contradictory social forces that bring about
its misdescription, has an affinity with your work. Beyond that, I wonder: 是
there something about the military (and the most secretive aspects of the
军队) that has a further affinity with negative dialectics? Is this part of the
point of your listing of hundreds of code names of secret projects?

To make a point that may be less in the spirit of Adorno—for whom immer-
sion in the specificity of an object through immanent critique engages the
dialectic—these days artistic focus on the full detail of the object often leads in
the direction of the sublime. We see this in a lot of large-scale museum pho-
tographs, in which the viewer is overwhelmed by a mass of data that they lack
the conceptual tools to make sense of: the “data sublime,” we might call it. 你的
work plays with this feeling brought to another level, because of course much of
the point is that we are denied the information to make sense of it. You evoke
both the mathematical and the dynamic sublime in your satellite imagery, par-

3.
2010), p. 151.

Trevor Paglen, Invisible: Covert Operations and Classified Landscapes (纽约: Aperture,

A Conversation with Trevor Paglen

ticularly in images of the night sky and of trails over pristine landscapes that
evoke nineteenth-century landscape photographs of the American West. 这
sublime is often used for conservative purposes: to frame or manage a common
social fear (of the masses, quite often, but also more recently of data itself) 和
offer it up for consumption. How do the sublime and negative dialectics come
together in your work?

In another register, your work has a definite performative and subversive
边: the reproduction of secret code names is presumably illegal; your Limit
Telephotography series offers not just evocative images of the operations of
secret bases but data—for example, the tail numbers on aircraft. 相同
could be said of the remarkable mission patches and challenge coins, 参考-
ring to secret units and operations, that you have collected and pho-
tographed. Rebecca Solnit points out that invisibility is a type of shield, 尽管
democracy is founded upon visibility4—and your work does something to
peer under the rock. Surely there are conservatives in the U.S. who would
accuse you of treason. Do the sublime and negative dialectics protect you
from arrest? How do you decide how much information to offer the viewer,
and how much to hold them in awed suspense before the spectacle of the
military apparatus?

最后, Adorno held out a faint hope that negative dialectics contained a
transformative and utopian vision of society no longer divided by conflict
and domination. Is there an element of your work that contains such a seed?
Paglen: I think there are definite ways that negative dialectics resonates with mili-
tary and intelligence activities. I’ve looked at a lot of things that are secret
but that have profound effects on culture and politics. Most of the time, 我
don’t exactly know what I’m looking at, photographing, or researching. So I
quickly end up in situations where the question is, How do I point to, engage
和, and represent something that I don’t quite understand? The answer
often has to do with trying to represent that epistemological-political gap or
in-between space, or that moment of incomprehension. The Code Names
片 (a list of classified military operations and organizations) is an exam-
ple of that. 顺便, this isn’t just particular to the military. Some pro-
jects I’m working on now have very little to do with the military, but are still
centrally concerned with this question. The epistemological-political “gap”
I’m talking about here relates to Jean-Luc Nancy’s definition of the sublime
as the “sensibility of the fading of the sensible.”

As for how the sublime and negative dialectics come together, 出色地, I’m
sorry but I have to say I’m not quite sure. I’m not sure I’m the person who
can really theorize this—I’m extremely influenced by both concepts, but at
the risk of sounding like a stereotypical artist, it’s really something I “feel”
more than something I can articulate in a cogent philosophical manner.

Solnit, quoted in Paglen, Invisible, p. 10.

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OCTOBER

Do the sublime and negative dialectics shield me from arrest!? Ha-ha . . .
not at all! I’m quite careful about how I go about my work. When dealing
with authority, I’m polite but firm. But I’ve gotten plenty of death threats
along with angry military and intelligence officers. That’s just the nature of
工作, I suppose. In terms of deciding how much to offer the viewer, it’s a
strange thing. I really think that the materials I research and explore actually
tell me how they want to be represented. I know that’s an odd thing to say,
but it’s really been my experience. When I was doing my Ph.D. in geography,
I went into the office of my adviser, a really wonderful and incredibly smart
man named Allan Pred, who really liked that I was also an artist. I was com-
plaining that I hadn’t taken any classes on methodology and didn’t have a
clue as to what I was doing in that regard. He told me that cookie-cutter
methodologies were nonsense and that I should just keep doing my research
until my materials told me how to study them. At the time, I probably
thought he was a crazy old man, but I think he was absolutely right. Having
said that, I’ve written a couple of books about some of the same things that
my artwork is about, and they’re pretty standard nonfiction in terms of style
and argumentation.5 Art can show the world in a particular way—that’s
what’s powerful about it—and the same is true for prose. But they’re incom-
mensurate. With my visual work, I try to focus on what visuality does well.

The utopian aspect is the not-so-secret secret of negative dialectics, as I
understand it. I think it points in the direction of unfulfilled forms of freedom
and justice, but only indirectly and obscurely. This is related to what we were
talking about when the subject of avant-gardism came up in our conversation. 我
really do want to believe in a more just world. I often think of Fanon, who insist-
ed on a “new humanism” without ever really articulating what that might look
喜欢. I’m not sure even what it might mean to articulate that as a meta-theory.
Perhaps that’s the whole point of it—which leaves us again in the space of nega-
tive dialectics, 不? 为我, this is what art can do—orient our seeing and sug-
gest practices in ways that suggest (even negatively) liberatory forms of being—
but it’s really hard to say what those forms might be.

5.
Trevor Paglen and A.C. 汤普森, Torture Taxi: On the Trail of the CIA’s Rendition Flights (新的
约克: Melville House Publishing, 2006); Trevor Paglen, Blank Spots on the Map: The Dark Geography of the
Pentagon’s Secret World (纽约: Dutton, 2009).

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