Scrolling Utopia: Internet Interaction Design and the Posthistorical Subject
Halsey Hazzard, fall 2018
for a class on German media theory
Writing just before the internet threatened to take over the world, philosopher and communicologist Vilem Flusser has often been called a prophet of the digital age, based on his concern with then-nascent internet technology and the applicability of his theories to the so-called digital age. Certainly he did dream of a utopian society in which communications technology would engender a more egalitarian global society, but his optimism was far from idealistic. Rather, Flusser’s work contains a demand that we understand the way technology shapes human consciousness so that we might develop and use it responsibly. A sense of urgency underlies Flusser’s calls for responsibility, and this call has grown only more crucial as the internet has grown more pervasive and social networks have ascended to global near-hegemony.
In many of his essays, Flusser argued that historical consciousness, engendered by linear writing, was giving way to a new, posthistorical consciousness as a result of changing technology. Now, nearly thirty years after his death, it would appear the new consciousness Flusser both dreamed and warned of has arrived, ushered in by the digital technology we call, not insignificantly, “social media.” In this paper I hope to deploy Flusser’s theory of humanization to understand one of social media’s most quietly pervasive design elements—infinite scrolling—and its relationship to the so-called posthistorical consciousness. Infinite scroll, I argue, is a key example of how technology shapes human consciousness and how its effects demand that we pay attention and take responsibility for the ways we are constructing ourselves as human subjects.
Throughout his work, Flusser articulates a definition of “human” that depends heavily on technology, and communication technology in particular. He is concerned with an apparent shift that took place with the appearance of apparatuses, which he defines in Toward a Philosophy of Photography as something that mimics a human capability and which merges with a human operator. The human is profoundly affected by its interaction with the apparatus, and because technology is constantly changing (being changed by humans), what is “human” is constantly in flux. What is constant, however, is communication. Humans distinguish ourselves from the “non-human” by our need to store and use “information,” defined as negative entropy. Flusser makes frequent reference to the second law of thermodynamics, arguing that humanization is thus the process of fighting against inevitable entropy through the creation of information technologies. He puts it succinctly in a 2003 interview with Patrik Tschudin: “a person becomes human to the extent to which he figures out which of one’s functions can be mechanized and then delegates those to machines. What remains, that which cannot be mechanized (for the moment, anyway), is that which becomes human” (“The Lens is to Blame”, 6). Taken together, these statements define humanity as a process of endless becoming, driven by the human drive to communicate and the responsibility to one another (and, as a result, agency) communication entails.
If humanization is a process of endless becoming, one should probably wonder what the human is becoming now. In “Humanizations,” Flusser illustrates the status of the human with reference to the “little brain man,” a model for how the brain perceives the body borrowed from neurology. In the linear era, the little brain man is a “tongue-thumb man,” but Flusser hypothesizes that in the telomatic future, “The fingertips, which will touch the keyboard, will doubtless be the most important organs, and it will become apparent that the purpose of the Brain Man’s entire body will be to support the fingertips” (“Humanizations” 190). While he is certainly right that technology has shifted the focus from the tongue, he was perhaps too quick to predict the shrinking of the thumbs.
In recent years, so-called “social media” has saturated Western culture, with Instagram in particular reaching one billion users worldwide (Carman). Much of this growth has occurred concurrently with the rise of smartphones, expected to be in 2.5 billion hands by 2019. While much attention has been given to the content on such platforms, this impending ubiquity demands an analysis of how the material apparati of apps like Instagram are shaping what it currently means to be human. In 2013, at the dawn of Vine, writer Chris Baraniuk situated the then-new (now defunct) video-sharing service in a long history of visual loops. Like the gif before it, the Vine video takes a moment—no more than six seconds long—and repeats it ad infinitum. Hypnotic and without a true beginning or end, digital loops are “uncanny” and “disturbing,” for, according to Baraniuk, ‘the complete absence of teleology and catharsis within the loop destroyers our sense of self, our idea of progress, our intention to accomplish anything.” (Baraniuk). The logic of the loop, he claims, is built into the very languages that make up the digital world. A similar “narrative dissonance” can be found in in “infinite scrolling,” a design element that, alongside the rise of digital visual loops, has quietly achieved near ubiquity as a feature of websites, in particular those considered to be “social media.” Infinite scrolling might at first appear to be the anti-loop. Where gifs only have one frozen moment to offer up for eternity, the infinite scroll seems to promise endless variety. Yet it shares with the visual loop a lack of teleology thanks to its lack of a clear beginning, middle, and end.
When one loads a page on a website that employs infinite scrolling, one is dropped into a seemingly-endless stream of modular pieces of content, known frequently as posts. These can be images, short texts, video clips, or a combination thereof. Scrolling is particularly popular in app design for smartphones which, with their small, vertical screens, replace the horizontal thrust of traditional text with a relentless vertical pull. The promise of new content just beyond the bottom of the screen draws the eyes down and the thumb up. Pagination, a holdover from the pre-internet days of bound paper books, presupposes a hierarchy of information, an order that requires a linear progression. Page one must come before page two, page four follows page three, and so on. Entries on sites like the search engine Google that still use this skeuomorphic setup, when not bound to a linear progression, are often algorithmically sorted by relevance. Posts on infinite scrolling sites, however, are typically arranged chronologically, which gives them all the same importance. Yet the constant updates endemic to social media mean the chronology of the infinite scroll is essentially an eternal present. It is impractical, if not impossible, to reach the end of the scroll, yet if even one were successful, one would have to find one’s way to the ever-extending beginning, and start the process all over again. The only way to read everything is in real-time. The infinite scroll thus begs to be constantly checked, foreclosing any possibility of action.
According to Baraniuk, this process--or, rather, lack of process--threatens our sense of self. He may be right, if what we mean by the self is the form of human consciousness that has for so long been constructed in and by linear writing: “historical consciousness”. In “The Future of Writing,” Flusser writes
“Writing is an important gesture, because it both articulates and produces that state of mind which is called “historical consciousness.” History began with the invention of writing, not for the banal reason often advanced that written texts permit us to reconstruct the past, but for the more pertinent reason that the world is not perceived as a process, “historically,” unless one signifies it by successive symbols, by writing” (Future 63)
For Flusser, writing is associated with logic and reason, with the sort of scientific thought that thinks of things in terms of cause and effect. History takes a narrative form, with a beginning, a middle, and an end. The consciousness created by this kind of thinking is historical. The posthistorical consciousness, on the other hand, begins with the photograph. In contrast to the linear, logical thinking of alphabetic writing, images encourage formal thinking, and make it impossible to understand the world as “becoming.” Linear reading “has the sense of going somewhere, whereas, while reading pictures, we need to go nowhere” (Line 23). Images contain denser messages than linear writing, and demand to be thought of structurally rather than linearly. Images preceded writing, yet in their current iteration as photographs serve to explain written text, hence their post-historicity. This begs the question: if “[n]arratives make history” (On the End of History 143), does the narrative-less infinite scroll and its attendant digital consciousness make posthistory?
The infinite scroll, lacking finitude, has no historical sense of causality. In the scroll, things simply occur. The infinite scroll, then, with its lack of teleology, would seem to be a departure from linear, historical thought. Yet Flusser explains in “The Future of Writing” that in a world dominated by lines, “everything...follows from something, time flows irreversibly from the past toward the future, each instant is lost forever, and there is no repetition” (64). This sounds awfully like the endless streams of content on social media, signalling that the shift between history and post-history is not so cut-and-dried. In fact, the infinite scroll could perhaps best be compared to films, which, according to Flusser, “incorporate the temporality of the written line into the picture, by lifting the linear historical time of written lines onto the level of the surface” (Line 26). We still fail to grasp the posthistorical surface quality of films and TV programs, reading them as we would written lines. But Flusser suggests that “for those who think in films, it will mean the possibility of acting upon history from without” (25). This will become key, particularly if we understand the infinite scroll as a technology that allows us to step outside the procession of history.
Shortly after making this claim, Flusser calls attention to the distinction between immediate experience and the necessarily mediatized fictions of images and concepts, and further, the distinction between conceptual fiction (“line thought”) and imaginal fiction (“surface thought”). The relationship between these two forms of thought is at stake for our understanding of how media shape thought and thus impact humanization. Surface fictions, he claims, are not only advancing due to technological developments, but becoming more and more indistinguishable from reality, which linear fictions are becoming more and more abstract. Ultimately Flusser claims that “[t]he synthesis of linear and surface media may result in a new civilization” (31). The infinite scroll, by extending surfaces indefinitely so that lines may be followed forever, might perhaps be the very technological development that ushers in this new civilization.
This new civilization could ostensibly take two forms. The first, in which imaginal thinking fails to incorporate conceptual thinking, would lead to “the totalitarianism of the mass media” (34). If imaginal thinking does succeed, however, leading “to new types of communication in which man consciously assumes the structural position,” “a new sense of reality would articulate itself, within the existential climate of a new religiosity” (34). Flusser concedes that neither outcome is inevitable, and that the shape of the posthistorical future depends on choices made in the present. The infinite scroll could be a harbinger of either outcome. It is easy to see how the mass distraction and loss of teleology engendered by the technique could lead to totalitarianism.
On the other hand, the destruction of hierarchies it seems to encourage gestures toward a much more egalitarian future. Flusser, who often wrote urgently of the need for dialogue, might see this as a welcome step toward a classless, networked society.
The society Flusser has in mind is one where “dialogue and discourse balance each other out. If, as we see today, a discursive form dominates, which prevents dialogues from taking place, then society is dangerously close to decomposing into an amorphous crowd” (Stroehl, xvii). Media that encourages discourse imparts information from the top down, such as mass broadcast media like television or radio, whereas media like telephones encourage “[d]ialogue as a noncoercive relationship of mutual respect” (xviii). According to Andreas Stroehl, Flusser “believes that dialogue is the purpose of existence. The sense of responsibility inherent in the dialogic relationship between speaker and addressee offers the speaker an opportunity to give his or her own life meaning in the face of entropy and death” (xviii). To be human is to act on this responsibility to the other by communicating, and the technologies humans design to communicate impact the ways in which we become human.
Digital interfaces are no exception. Social media, by virtue of its “social” nature, can perhaps be seen as a step toward this telomatic networked society of mutual responsibility. Still, infinite scrolling is a key example of how it is not free from being determined by the political and economic contexts in which it was developed, contexts which impact the very interaction design of the internet. According to Chadwick Smith, for Flusser, “since objects impact the lives of others...and are a projection of some designer’s decisions, they are thus situated in a relational field, encompassing not just aesthetic and political dimensions but, given their infinitely intimate scale, ethical ones as well” (“The Butterfly and the Potato” 48). The infinite scroll, though a feature more than an object, is a prime example of this dynamic. In 2006, software engineer Aza Raskin developed infinite scroll as a way to maximize the time users spend on websites, eliminating the natural stopping points at the end of pages that inspired users to navigate away. This habit-forming tendency was conceived in the service of websites and advertisers that depend on keeping eyes on screens, indicating a motivation behind the design choice other than intersubjective goodwill. Even Raskin is critical of the scroll’s anti-human tendencies: “It's as if they're taking behavioral cocaine and just sprinkling it all over your interface. And that's the thing that keeps you like coming back and back and back” (Hamilton). When we situate the scroll in the context of the rise of technocratic totalitarianism with which Flusser was concerned, it becomes part of the tradition whereby “The Enlightenment has overshot its mark,” causing extreme rationalism to turn irrational, thus barbaric.
If that is the case, what can we do to rescue humanity from this path? Flusser may give us, if not a plan, then at least a set of guiding principles. If being human is about communicating with each other to stave off impending entropy, and if humans have the agency to create technology to do so, then it is imperative that we take seriously our responsibility to each other in our efforts to design the future, especially considering the anti-human tendencies in what we’ve already built. As Smith writes, “Flusser’s concept of design is not about building a better world, but rather of eradicating from it everything that makes it worse” (“The Butterfly and the Potato” 53). That may not necessarily mean doing away with infinite scrolling, but taking seriously the dialogic potential within it when considering the effects it will have and is already having on collective human consciousness.
Luckily, if Flusser is to be believed, the posthistorical consciousness is giving humanity the means to step out of the stream of progress and look at structures, to critically assess our own history in order to fully take advantage of the opportunities the present presents. As long as technology like infinite scrolling threatens to pull us further into our future selves, we owe it to each other to know who those selves are, and who we will become.
Works Cited
Baraniuk, Chris. “‘The Wheel of the Devil’: On Vine, Gifs and the Power of the Loop.” The Machine Starts, www.themachinestarts.com/read/2013-01-the-wheel-of-the-devil-vine-gifs-idea-of-loop.
Carman, Ashley. “Instagram Now Has 1 Billion Users Worldwide.” The Verge, The Verge, 20 June 2018, www.theverge.com/2018/6/20/17484420/instagram-users-one-billion-count.
Flusser Vilém, and Ströhl Andreas. Vilém Flusser - Writings. University of Minnesota Press, 2005.
Hamilton, Isobel Asher. “Silicon Valley Insiders Say Facebook, Snapchat, and Twitter Are Using 'Behavioral Cocaine' to Turn People into Addicts.” Business Insider, Business Insider, 4 July 2018.
“Number of Smartphone Users Worldwide 2014-2020.” Statista, www.statista.com/statistics/330695/number-of-smartphone-users-worldwide/.
Smith, Chadwick T. ““The Butterfly and the Potato: Vilém Flusser and Design”. artUS. issue 26, 2009-1, 46-53.
Smith, Chadwick T. “The Lens is to Blame”: Three Remarks on Black Boxes, Digital Humanities, and The Necessities of Vilém Flusser’s “New Humanism” Flusser Studies, vol. 18, http://www.flusserstudies.net/sites/www.flusserstudies.net/files/media/attachments/smith-the-lens-is-to-blame.pdf . Accessed 18 December 2018
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