SINCE THE DEVELOPMENTS OF THE 1950S AND 1960S RECOUNTED IN the previous chapter, visual poetry has experienced a profound transformation. Like the typewriter, which helped to shape Concrete poetry, the personal computer has had a tremendous impact on contemporary visual poetry. Although some poets continue to write in the Concrete mode, many others have ventured into the virtual realm associated with recent technology. The implications of this brave new world, where visual poetry can be manipulated in a million ways, extend far beyond the domain of aesthetics. As Johanna Drucker notes, “Recent work poses profound questions about the identity of art and poetry as cultural practices and raises new questions about the processes of signification.”1 The availability of many kinds of electronic media has encouraged poets to redefine art and poetry in ways that no one could have anticipated. The numerous genres loosely classified as “media poetry” include hypertexts, kinetic poetry, video poetry, interactive poetry, animated poetry, quantum poetry, nomadic poetry, holopoetry, biopoetry, and—the subject of the present chapter—digital poetry.
Contemporary visual poems are noteworthy therefore not only for their radical vision but also for their aesthetic and intellectual sophistication. Interestingly, most are firmly grounded in critical theory. Contemporary visual poets share a fascination with electronic devices, no matter how insignificant they appear to be, and dream of creating a translinguistic language. Three of Giselle Beiguelman’s nomadic poems, for example, exploit cell phones, the Internet, and Personal Digital Assistants (PDAs) respectively. “These projects,” she explains, “investigate the possible realm of a post-phonetic, hybrid culture, crossed by printed and digital layers, where the informational and aesthetic codes are entangled through programming and produce a new semantics involving a rearrangement of signs and signification processes.”2 In point of fact, this description applies to a great many other visual poets as well. Most of her colleagues, including the Brazilian American poet examined below, possess similar goals and are embarked on similar programs.
Blessed with a fertile imagination, an impressive technical expertise, and a profound interest in the possibilities of language, Eduardo Kac has created a body of digital poetry that deserves serious attention. Since 1980 he has experimented with different media in an attempt to discover a new poetics. What made this quest so difficult, he confides, was his desire “to move beyond the limitations of the print medium and to try to think my way outside this form.”3 He not only rejected traditional poetry, in other words, but also the technology that provided it with its traditional support. Since they were the product of another age, another ethos, and another worldview, Kac felt they were hopelessly obsolete. The information age demanded a poetry that could be created and distributed over global digital networks—“an immaterial poetry” that existed only in cyber-space. Designed to be viewed either as video installations or on computers, digital poems possess a unique ontological status.4 Like holograms, with which Kac also experimented, they can be seen but not grasped. While the eyes record what appears to be a concrete artifact, the other four senses are unable to verify its existence. A virtual construct in a world of its own making, digital poetry is situated on the divide between reality and illusion. Indeed, this paradoxical allegiance to competing perceptual systems is what gives the genre much of its appeal.
Kac’s first experiment with digital poetry was entitled “Não” (“No”). Created as an ASCII composition in 1982, it was transformed into an electric signboard (LED display) two years later at the Centro Cultural Cândido Mendes in Rio de Janeiro. Passing across the screen from left to right, five blocks of letters spell out a message one by one. Consigned to a video loop, the message appears and disappears without stopping. Since by definition a loop has no end, the process could easily continue forever. Like the composition itself, the message it contains seems to be eternal. Although we normally read vertically as well as horizontally, from top to bottom and from left to right, the text is restricted to a narrow horizontal band. Three planes are superimposed on each other—or at least the illusion of three planes. Against a black background, the bright red textual blocks traverse a band of bright red dots like automobiles moving along a highway. In contrast to the message, the band itself is stationary. Composed entirely of capital letters, the five blocks are all the same length. Each possesses exactly nine letters and thus fits comfortably on the screen when it is completely assembled. Each is separated from its neighbors by two seconds as it crosses the horizontal band and occupies the screen for ten seconds from beginning to end. Among other things, the conscious symmetry and mechanical precision stress the seriousness of the poetic enterprise. This theme can be found in most, if not all, of Kac’s digital poetry. In “Não” it contrasts with the precariousness of the verbal message, which is suspended in virtual space.
Deciphering the actual message proves to be surprisingly difficult. A careful reading produces the following sentence, which must be read from right to left: CORODOSIM RACONTRAO REVAIDECA ECARASEMP OPOETAESS. That the blocks of text appear in the correct order is helpful, but each one still needs to be read backwards. Not only is violating the normal reading order uncomfortable, but we have only a moment to reverse the letters in our mind before they begin to disappear. A similar difficulty exists at the level of the sentence, which, like the textual blocks, must be reversed before it can be laboriously reconstructed. Each backward block threatens to slip away before it can be deciphered and linked syntactically to the other blocks. After considerable effort, one manages to recreate the original message: OPOETAESS ECARASEMP REVAIDECA RACONTRAO CORODOSIM. As this interpretive operation suggests, Kac wants the reader/viewer to earn the poem. Instead of presenting the composition on a silver platter, he expects us to become actively involved with it. In essence, the reader/viewer is forced to recreate the work.
In order to complete this operation, however, two more obstacles remain to be overcome. To begin with, the five blocks of text are not immediately intelligible. They contain thirteen different words, parts of which combine with other words to form run-on constructions. And even if we speak Portuguese, we may not be familiar with all of the vocabulary. The problem, Kac explains, is that the poem employs slang and a funky rhythm. “Its colloquial nature was meant as a counterpoint to its digital presentation,” he adds, “which, in 1982–84, felt extremely future-oriented, a building block in the creation of a digital culture.”5 The following translation, by the poet himself, gives a good idea of the effect he was trying to achieve: “THEPOETTH ISGUYALWA YSGOESAGA INSTTHECO YYESCHOIR.” In other words, however we choose to conceive the poet, he is first and foremost a rebel—someone who refuses to be bound either by tradition or by convention. Since he insists on going his own way, the poet is essentially a loner. His favorite reply when “the yes choir” asks him to join them is an emphatic “Não!”
“Reabracadabra” is a videotext animated poem that was shown in 1985 in the group exhibition “Arte On-Line” in São Paulo. In contrast to the previous composition, which was concerned with words, it is obsessed with letters. Superimposed on a black background, a small, green equilateral triangle gradually takes shape, descending from top to bottom. This figure is gradually enclosed by a larger green triangle that descends the page in the same manner; following a green rectangle then appears toward the bottom of the large triangle. Next, a yellow wave of color washes over the entire structure. As the green lines are replaced by yellow lines, descending from top to bottom, the structure suddenly becomes three-dimensional and is transformed into a large capital A. Thereafter a number of white dots surround the monumental letter and slowly become tiny letters. The sequence ERCDDBY is repeated twice before the letters disappear, one by one, leaving the dots shimmering against the black background. As they begin to vanish, a black curtain descends and covers everything.
The question that naturally arises at this point is how to interpret this intriguing composition. Like “Não,” “Reabracadabra” is concerned with the way things suddenly appear and disappear. Also like “Não,” it proceeds with mechanical precision from start to finish but does not continue. The final curtain is precisely that—final. The progression from green to yellow to red, the reverse of their order in the spectrum, appears to be significant. Like a traffic light, it reflects the three stages of the present journey: its beginning, middle, and end. However, what are we to make of all the letters in the poem? And what role does the large A play? Kac’s explanation is succinct and to the point: “An incantatory word of Kabalistic resonance is rendered as a cosmic monolith following the atomic model (the vowel as nucleus and the consonants as orbiting particles)” (EKAC). In the beginning, it seems, was the vowel, which occupies the center of the alphabetic universe, according to the poet. The large A is so powerful that it functions as an “incantatory word”—like the biblical word made flesh. By comparison, the consonants are merely attendants, assigned to care for this central figure.
The word “abracadabra,” one should add, is a magical incantation dating from the second century AD. “It was usually inscribed inside an inverted triangle,” one authority explains, “or was set out so that it formed [an inverted triangle].”6 In “Reabracadabra,” of course, it assumes the form of an upright triangle. Added to the original incantation, the prefix “re-” suggests that the poem contains a double transformation. The title may allude to the triangle’s magical appearance and disappearance. Or, more likely, to the triangle’s appearance and subsequent transformation into a capital A. Some specialists maintain that “abracadabra” originally meant “I will create, as I say,” others that it signifies “What was said has been done.” In either case, the expression retains its original sense today. To a prestidigitator it means the same thing as “presto change-o.” Interestingly, an implicit parallel exists between the magician and Kac himself in this poem. Both individuals are concerned with the world of illusion; both seem able to perform miracles.
The next work to emerge from the poet’s fertile brain was entitled “OCO” (“HOLLOW”). Conceived as an interactive holopoem in 1985, it was recreated five years later as an interactive digital poem. Although the latter utilizes capital letters like the two previous works, it bears no resemblance to them. A wholly original creation, it marks a brand new departure. The letters in question, which fill most of the screen, are large, gray, and three-dimensional. Spelling out the title, O, C, and O are arranged to form an imaginary tube, imaginary because they are separated from each other by the same distance as their width. Despite their tubular construction, they could never hold gas or water. As the imaginary creation whirls this way and that, the letter I appears from time to time and enters the tube. Once again, the poet’s commentary proves to be invaluable. “ ‘OCO’ explores the three-dimensional architecture of these letters,” Kac confides, “and the multiple meanings that emerge when the letter I appears and disappears rhythmically in virtual space” (MP, 54). “OCIO,” he goes on to explain, means “leisure” but also “immobility” and “laziness.” O basically serves as an article. “CIO” means something like “rut” or “arousal.” And besides “hollow,” “OCO” can signify “futile,” “vain,” or “insignificant.” Slowly a picture begins to emerge that is supported by the crude sexual symbolism depicted visually. The composition evokes an indolent, vain, and superficial couple engaged in sexual intercourse. The rhythm of the gyrating letters matches the rhythm of their lovemaking, pausing once or twice and then accelerating toward the end.
Another animated videotext, “Tesão,” was shown in 1986 at the group exhibition Brazil High-Tech in São Paulo. Compared to the previous works, which are relatively sedate, “Tesão” seems positively flashy. Not only does the composition make use of six different colors, but the colors are constantly changing. A red line is followed by a green line that is followed by a yellow line, and so forth. By far the most colorful of Kac’s digital experiments, it is divided into three distinct movements. While each of these possesses its own unique characteristics, each advances at the same deliberate pace and lasts the same amount of time (approximately sixty-five seconds). The first movement incorporates three up-and-down motions: from the top of the screen to the bottom, from the bottom back to the top, and from the top back to the bottom. A red inverted V descends the screen, acquiring a yellow crossbar in the process. A vertical green line sprouts from each of its two extremities and rises straight up. A V descends from each of the green extremities and acquires a pink crossbar. Following the appearance of a large yellow square, which is superimposed on the previous figures, a black curtain descends and covers everything. While this is both entertaining and technically accomplished, one wonders what it all signifies. Fortunately, Kac provides the missing key. “Words emerge and disappear through layers of lines and color masses,” he declares, “forming an ephemeral digital graffiti” (EKAC). And sure enough, upon (re) examination, the movement turns out to contain three letters: A, M, and O.
Now that we know what to look for, we are prepared to investigate the second movement, which resembles the first in several respects. It begins with a large red V, for example, which gradually descends to the bottom of the screen. Next, a green square is superimposed on the capital V, which, as we have seen, represents the letter O. Finally, a blue curved line inscribes itself within the square, followed by a large orange E that is positioned in the center. According to all indications, the second movement contains four letters: V, O, C, and Ê. The final section is characterized by a veritable explosion of color. Whereas the first two movements are linear constructions, these are replaced by the subtle play of volumes. Somewhat unexpectedly, Kac abandons drawing in favor of painting. Because he proceeds by superimposing blocks of color, this makes the letters more difficult to detect. Each of the blocks fills most of the (black) screen and descends from top to bottom until it is complete. Since each is a little smaller than its predecessor, the latter is never completely effaced. Beginning with a large orange block, the poet superimposes blue, yellow, pink, and green blocks, in that order. Since the process is cumulative, traces of each step are still visible at the end.
Not until we have finished viewing the third movement, perhaps, do we notice that each of the blocks forms a highly stylized letter. The visual clues tend to be fairly subtle. In retrospect, however, the section contains the following five letters: T, E, S, Ã, and O. At last we are in a position to reconstruct the fragmentary sentence that lies just beneath the composition’s surface: “AMO VOCÊ TESÃO.” As Kac pointed out in a conversation with the author, this expression can be translated in two different ways. First of all, it can be understood as an expression of affection: “I LOVE YOU” followed by what the speaker feels, which he chooses to translate as “HORNINESS” (“tesão” is the common Brazilian word for “erection”). Secondly, the term can represent a passionate compliment blurted out during lovemaking. In either case, the woman to whom the message was addressed clearly aroused strong feelings in the poet. The decision to incorporate this sentence into the composition was risky, to say the least. In transgressing the boundary between private and public, Kac exposed himself to possible public ridicule and worse. “Any-body could see it,” he recalls, “as these online terminals were available in shopping malls, libraries, schools, etc., and the exhibition was highly publicized.” But of course it would be a mistake to focus exclusively on the verbal message. After all, this is primarily a visual composition. Much of what the poem communicates stems from its rhythm, its animation, its visual transitions, and the contrast between line and volume.
Like the previous poem, “Recaos” (“Re-chaos”) was shown at the Brazil High-Tech exhibition in 1986. Another videotext animation, it presents an apocalyptic vision of the end of the world. More precisely, it evokes a return to chaos, to the primordial soup from which the universe was formed. Materializing in the lower right-hand corner, the letter C generates an A and then a string of O’s that are projected diagonally, one after the other, toward the top left-hand corner. Striking the upper edge of the screen, they ricochet downward and encounter the left edge, where they rebound once again. Transformed into a string of S’s, they rocket across the screen horizontally, traverse the initial stream of letters, and halt at the right edge. Up to this point all of the letters have been red. As soon as the S’s reach the right margin, however, three letters turn blue where the two strings intersect and spell out “SOS.” Unfortunately, it is far too late for anyone to come to our rescue; the universe is already disintegrating. Like the letters forming the word “caos,” which are trapped in a cosmic pinball game, we are no longer masters of our destiny. As the composition evolves, Kac points out, it leaves “a mnemonic trace of other words such as ‘so’ (‘alone’) and ‘ossos’ (‘bones’)” ( MP, 52). While the first word describes our deplorable situation, the second evokes our ultimate fate. In addition, the composition concludes with two poignant icons. Kac identifies the final visual configuration as both a bottomless hour-glass and the symbol of infinity. The first image stresses the fact that time is running out; the second that we will return to the vacant and infinite space that preceded the birth of the universe.
Like the previous two works, “Deus” (“God”) was exhibited at the Brazil High-Tech show in 1986. And like them, it is a videotext animation. To be sure, a great many poems exist that celebrate the glory of God. There are even visual poems, such as George Herbert’s “Easter Wings,” that fit this description. Although the title “Deus” leads one to expect something similar, the composition is far from a religious experience. Initially, a large white rectangle descends from top to bottom, covering much of the black screen. Next, seventeen vertical bars of varying thicknesses descend from the top of the horizontal rectangle to the bottom. Thereafter, apparently random letters and numbers appear in the narrow space beneath the bars. They do not all appear at the same time, however, but in four stages. First “19” appears on the left and “86” on the right. Then a 6 is added to the first group: “19 6” and a 4 to the second group: “4 86.” Next, each of the vacant spaces receives a letter: “19D6” and “4S86.” And finally an additional letter appears: “19D6E” and “U4S86.” Disguised as a bar code, the composition looks perfectly convincing. Upon closer inspection, however, one discovers that it contains two “mistakes.” Real bar codes do not have letters at the bottom, only numbers. And some of the letters in Kac’s version spell recognizable words. In its final form, the alphanumeric sequence contains a proper noun and a pronoun: “DEUS” and “EU” (“I”). Because of his ability to create an (aesthetic) object ex nihilo, the poet seems to be saying, he resembles God. Within the confines of a specific work of art, his power is absolute. Interestingly, the numbers at the bottom of the “bar code” are not random, either. The first numbers to appear—“19 86”—indicate the date that the work was produced. Like a true artist, Kac has dated and signed his composition.
One of the poet’s most beguiling compositions is entitled “IO.” A three-dimensional navigational poem created in 1990, it was translated into VRML (Virtual Reality Mark-Up Language) five years later. On the one hand, as Kac states, the work is devoted to the “exploration of the virtual architecture of the letter.” On the other hand, since “IO” means “I” in Italian, it is also concerned with the exploration of the self. These twin goals are not irreconcilable, the poet adds, because “the self is presented as an inexhaustible navigational field.” Although one of Jupiter’s moons is also named Io, neither it nor the mythological character whose name it bears appear to figure in the poem. Instead, Kac explains that the letters I and O, which also represent the numbers one and zero, function as elements of an imaginary landscape. In addition, they stand for “reconciled differences” between such conceptual antagonists as one and zero, line and circle, and so forth. Like the Surrealists before him, Kac invokes the ancient alchemical principle of coincidencia oppositorum, that is to say, the union of opposites. Readers are invited, he concludes, “to explore the space (up/down, left/right, forward/backward) created by the stylized letters and experience it both as an abstract environment and as a visual text” (MP, 55).
In contrast to their normal existence on the printed page, the letters/ numbers in the composition are solidly three-dimensional. One is reminded of the advent of 3-D movies in the 1950s. Like the filmmakers of that period, Kac goes to considerable lengths to show what his marvelous new medium can do. Projected against the utter blackness of outer space, the I becomes a long pink ribbon which, in contrast to the letter (or number) itself, is amazingly supple. Rippling and curling as it moves through space, it describes a series of arabesques. Pirouetting about the first figure, the somewhat smaller O is rendered as a blue doughnut. Like its companion, it is surprisingly agile. From the beginning, the two figures are accompanied by a tiny yellow dot—apparently taken from a lower case “i”—that represents the sun shining millions of miles away. All three figures are extraordinarily mobile—twisting and turning as the virtual camera zooms in on, or pulls back from, a particular shape. Halfway through the performance, for example, it zooms in on the sun so close that the picture is too large for the screen. Elegantly choreographed from beginning to end, the performance concludes with the principal dancers positioned side by side and the sun once again reduced to the size of a dot.
Created in 1994, “Accident” is the first of the digital poems to be endowed with a sound track. “An investigation of the infinite loop as a poetic rhythm,” Kac explains, “this poem is about accidents of language, possible misunderstandings, and the lack of need of language when two lovers meet in their embrace” (MP, 57). As such, it repeats a single, haunting phrase over and over: “The words won’t come out right.” The composition not only describes the problem in question, therefore, but performs it before our very eyes. In theory, the repetition is supposed to take place at both the sonic and the iconic levels, both of which are subject to violent distortions. However, the sound track consists entirely of mysterious gurgles and rasping noises, none of which resemble human speech. Thus it falls to the visual message, printed in white against a black background, to carry the semantic load. The latter consists of three attempts to reproduce the phrase, only two of which are successful. As the distortion increases, the words on the screen are buffeted about as if by gusts of wind. The first attempt to communicate the message encounters no resistance. Warped by mysterious forces, the second is barely successful. The third attempt only manages to reproduce a few letters and syllables before dissolving into a fine mist. Although this scenario can be repeated again and again, the words will never come out right. By contrast, Kac declares, people in love do not need words to express themselves. “A lover’s discourse,” he observes, “is made of physical contact, gazes and gestures” (MP, 57). For that matter, he adds, the visual image might even depict two people vigorously making love. “Accident” does not proclaim the failure of language, in any case, but rather its inadequacy to express certain things. As such, it dramatizes the limitations of speech.
“UPC” was created the same year as the preceding poem. At first, it seems to have been a video installation in which seven-foot letters were projected against the wall. At some point, however, Kac decided to combine video projection with an electronic signboard. As orange lights flash a continuous message, a band of letters emerges from the right rear, crosses the black screen diagonally, and disappears at the front left. Although the band is two-dimensional, like that in “Não,” it seems to pass through three-dimensional space. Taller than the spectators, the letters traverse the screen at a brisk pace and are gone almost before we can make out the words: “NOTHING ABOVE TO LEFT OR RIGHT NOTHING BELOW.”
This message is repeated three times, with a brief black space between the repetitions. As the third repetition ends, the message reappears in a subdued black-and-white video and crosses the screen at a different angle. Although it is displayed on the same electronic sign, the lights have become blurry pastels. The virtual camera zooms in so far that everything is out of focus. Following a brief blackout, the camera zooms back out, reversing the sequence we have just witnessed. The original orange message reappears, followed by the subdued black-and-white video again, which is followed by the orange message once more. All of a sudden, the scene changes, and a smaller black-and-white video projects the familiar message onto a movie screen in a room somewhere. A man and a woman are watching it with their backs turned toward us. For a moment, an excerpt from the subdued black-and-white version is superimposed on their backs. As the movie screen message is about to conclude, the original black-and-white video returns, the virtual camera zooms in again, and the composition ends in a flurry of hazy pastels.
Since “UPC” is also equipped with a sound track, it operates on two levels simultaneously. While our eyes are following the complex visual scenario, our ears are attuned to its sonic dimension. In contrast to the former, which is highly structured, the sound track consists of random sounds presumably recorded at the original exhibition. Numerous spectators can be heard making all the little sounds normally associated with a crowd, including talking, walking, and occasional coughing. The constant background echo suggests that the installation is in a cavernous hall. A few voices are loud, but all of them are muffled. Although we are aware of the visitors, we cannot see them or understand them. Like us, who are spectators too, they participate in the composition but remain invisible throughout. Since the poem seems to be about space, or rather about the illusion of space, this makes a certain amount of sense.
To be sure, the mysterious message is hopelessly ambiguous. It could be a judgment, a preference, or an evaluation. It could refer to the market-place, to politics, or to aesthetics. Or it could simply describe the message’s spatial orientation. Suspended in space, the words are completely isolated. There is nothing above, below, or on either side of it except darkness. The message bears an eerie resemblance to the earth itself which is surrounded by the vast inky blackness of space. And that brings us to a related theme: the difficulty of situating oneself without reference to external coordinates. Like Russian dolls that fit one inside the other, the composition employs a nesting structure. The two people watching the video on the movie screen are in a video themselves, and we are watching it. In this role, they mirror our own position as spectators, and vice versa. Perhaps we are the subjects of a video as well—there is no way of knowing.
Composed in 1995, “Insect. Desperto” (“Insect. Awake”) is a run-time animation, like several of the previous poems. As the title implies, it is a bilingual composition, combining an English text with a Portuguese sound track. While the visual and sonic elements complement each other, each track is essentially independent. The text consists of twenty-three words repeated over and over according to several patterns. Printed in large, white letters on a black background, they appear at different places on the screen and last for only a fraction of a second. The first word appears in the upper left-hand corner, for example, the second at the lower left, the third at the upper right, and the fourth at the lower right. “The elusive movements of the words on the screen,” Kac declares, “can be seen as unresolved hesitations concerning the construction of syntagms. They can also be seen as reflecting the fleeting behavior of flying insects. In either case, both are meant to evoke inconsistencies and undecided aspects of life” (MP, 57–58). In either case, the frenetic visual rhythm contrasts with the calm, soothing rhythm of the spoken words, which sound as if they were recorded in an echo chamber. Some visual sequences progress in a clockwise direction, some move counterclockwise, and some choose different paths altogether. As soon as a recognizable pattern is established, it immediately changes. Each of the eight sequences begins with the same word, which appears in the upper left-hand corner: “close up.” The first three sequences are identical:
The fourth series, twice as long, follows the same progression, and then reverses it when it reaches the end. The next three sequences adopt the backward version, regressing from “abysm” to “unclear.” As Kac points out, these reversals open new possibilities of signification (MP, 57), but the final series returns to the initial model. The text concludes with the word “abysm” centered in the middle of the screen, which then fades away. Whereas many of the other compositions begin all over again, “Insect. Desperto” simply ends. “This is meant to stress the linearity of the experience,” Kac explains, “and at the same time to undermine it” (MP, 57). The text itself is extremely fragmented. Words follow words with no punctuation and no appreciable syntax to tie them together. And yet, they seem to follow a certain nightmarish logic—at least in the initial sequence. Indeed, with a little effort one can reconstruct a plausible scenario. The narrator is suddenly awakened in the middle of the night by some horrible insects. Perhaps hungry mosquitoes have invaded the room, or perhaps cockroaches are crawling on the bed. For reasons that are unclear (but no less terrifying), it is not possible to get rid of them. The narrator is completely helpless. At this point, the initial sense of desperation is replaced by another, calmer mood. Hoping to be saved, in the double sense of the word, the narrator turns his eyes toward heaven. Since everyone wants to go there when they die, he compares heaven to a celestial target. Entering paradise, he adds, is like entering a divine abyss, which opens to admit the chosen few but whose depths are shrouded in mist.
These concerns are reflected in the spoken narrative that accompanies the visual text:
de perto nada é tão certo
dentro tudo é escuro
desperto mas insensato
indefeso feito inseto indefeso
resguardo o que é tão caro
descobro aquilo que espero
ao longe onde o céu é tão claro
claro
como se o nada
fosse o alvo
o alvo abismo aberto
[nearby nothing is so certain / within everything is dark / awake but unclear / helpless done insect helpless / protection that which is so dear / I discover that which I hope for / far away where the sky is so clear / clear / as if nothingness / were the target / the target open abysm]
The composition “addresses the differences between spoken and written languages,” Kac explains, “exploring distinct possibilities unique to these semiotic systems” (MP, 57). The Portuguese version not only benefits from the language’s sonorous qualities but also from several internal rhymes. Although there are obvious differences between the spoken and the written texts, the similarities are rather striking. The sound track possesses the same structure and the same themes as the visual track. Some of the words are even identical, including the Portuguese terms for “awake,” “unclear,” “dark,” “helpless,” “insect,” “sky,” “far away,” “clear,” “targets,” “open,” and “abysm.” While we don’t know which served as the original model, the two versions are clearly closely related. Although the spoken and the written texts develop in quite different ways, they coincide briefly toward the end of the poem. As the word “abysm” flashes on the screen, we hear the Brazilian speaker say “abismo.” As the English term fades away, he adds one more word: “aberto.”
As Kac declares, “Wine” (1996) is a delicate and silent animation poem. “It suggests an inebriate mental state,” he adds, “in which foreground and background blend in almost undifferentiated fashion” (MP, 62). In keeping with his oenological agenda, the poet chose an appropriate color scheme. Superimposed on a bright red background, the (handwritten) words are the color of burgundy. As in the previous poem, they appear in unexpected places, linger briefly, then vanish. Words even give birth to other words, which emerge full-blown from their verbal chrysalis. In general, they conform to the following scenario: entering from the right, the expression “at times” appears in the lower right-hand corner, followed by “the wind” at the upper left, which suddenly materializes. Then “at times” disappears, and “the wind” replicates itself below. Moving toward the right, each of the twin expressions expands to read “through the wind,” with the upper words superimposed on the lower ones. Changing places with each other, each of the two expressions is transformed into “the window.” Next, the word “blows” enters from the lower left, generates “i look,” and disappears. Superimposed on “i look,” “i go” moves toward the right and vanishes. Gradually materializing in the center of the screen, four identical instances of “at times” overlap and then disappear. Entering from the lower right, the words “but ages ago” appear and then fade away. Thus the basic text appears to read:
“The word ‘window’ acts as a central metaphor,” Kac explains, “as it suggests the separation between internal and external spaces (both on mental and physical levels). It alludes both to the physical and the computer window. The ‘verbal wind’ penetrates both spaces and flows in both directions. The poem communicates as much through the verbal apparitions as it does through their carefully orchestrated evanescence” (MP, 62).
Two remaining digital compositions are not only ingenious but surprisingly sophisticated. Created in 1996, “Letter” is a 3-D interactive poem that resembles a tapered beer glass. Like a twelve-ounce pilsner glass, it consists of a flat, round base (a two-dimensional spiral) attached to a cone (a three-dimensional spiral). Both portions are composed of strings of words. Since the reader/viewer can manipulate the poem at will, he or she can view it from every conceivable angle. One can even fly through the composition, if one wishes, or circle it like a bird. Although the cone may seem alternatively to converge on and to emerge from the flat disc, the words tell a different story. The stream of sentences begins at the bottom of the cone and spirals up to the top. Seen upside down and backwards, the sentences are admittedly difficult to reconstruct. With a little effort, however, one can make out the last two sentences: “Last year when she visited I asked her to bring an old album of photographs. I could remember stories of joy, of pain, of aging, of survival.” Similarly, the flat spiral forming the base reads: “When she came out it was the most incredible moment. I ran to make sure she was OK and brought her back as soon as possible. I have never been the same since then.” Like these examples, Kac confides, the other sentences are supposedly fragments of letters written to the same person. In addition, the different subjects are conflated into a single addressee (MP, 62). If one devoted enough time and energy to the project, one could presumably decipher the entire composition. However, there really is little point in recording every single sentence. What matters is not the details but rather Kac’s broader mission. Containing poignant memories of his grandmother, his mother, and his daughter, “Letter” celebrates their existence, past and present.
With “Reversed Mirror” (1997), Kac entered a very different domain, one that presented brand-new challenges to his digital imagination. This was the domain of trance poetry. Conceived as a digital videopoem, the composition records “the subtle dissolution and reconfiguration of verbal particles, [and] is charged with a feeling that is at once calm and vibrant” (MP, 62). The source of this contradictory feeling is not hard to locate. The musical sound track that accompanies the poem is slow and fast at the same time. Played on an electric piano, or perhaps a harmonium, eight notes are calmly repeated over and over. Each repetition consists of five notes followed by a pause and then by three more notes. The effect is extremely hypnotic. At the same time, a percussion instrument maintains a rapid beat that both complements and conflicts with this hypnotic style. During the first half, this role is played by a drum that sounds something like a tabla. During the remainder of the composition, the first instrument is replaced by vague accordionlike sounds and the second by another drum and rapid brushwork. As before, the music is highly repetitive, and the tension continues to exist between the two tempos.
At first, the visual images are hopelessly indistinct. Gray shadows against a white background vibrate up and down in time to the rapid beat. Gradually growing larger and larger, they eventually metamorphose into individual letters, which are superimposed on abstract shapes. Since the letters only approximate their true forms, and since they continue to vibrate up and down, they are difficult to identify. The same is true of the words they spell out. As soon as each word reaches its full size, the process is reversed, and it begins to grow smaller and smaller. All that remains after it has disappeared is a series of abstract shapes vibrating in time with the music. This process continues until all the words have materialized, have been recorded, and have vanished. “Through its peculiar rhythm,” Kac declares, the work “articulates the notion that language (particularly written language) is in fact nothing but a transitional moment in a much more complex semiological continuum” (MP, 62). Language comprises not just marks on the page, or sounds in the mouth, but the process of signification itself. Words inhabit a whole spectrum of possibilities from the moment they are conceived to the moment they are formed and the moment they cease to exist. Even then, they are preserved as virtual constructs in our memory. Thus language resembles a living organism whose traces remain with us indefinitely.
“Reversed Mirror” is not just concerned with how words behave, however, but also with what they say. While the poem demonstrates language in action, it also comments on the world around us. Or rather, it comments on our perception of the world around us. Once again, as the title reveals, reality is contrasted with illusion, and vice versa. Turning our attention to the words that have gradually emerged in the course of the poem, we encounter the message:
The first two words appear initially to describe a glass or a bowl that has been turned upside down. After a certain amount of delay, however, one realizes they refer to something entirely different. Comparing the two words to the poem’s title, one suddenly realizes the vessel is a metaphor for the mirror. Since the latter can be said to contain an image, it is portrayed here as a container. The reversed vessel is a reversed mirror, and vice versa. But what exactly is a reversed mirror? How are we to understand this curious reference? Since a mirror normally presents a reversed image, a reversed mirror would seem to be one in which the image is not reversed. But how does one reverse an image in a mirror? Is such a thing even possible? And what is a transverse universe? Since the universe radiates out in every direction simultaneously, it is difficult to see how it could extend crosswise. Be that as it may, the remainder of the message contains the answer to the previous question. The way to reverse an image in a mirror is to incorporate a second mirror into the first. Or rather to incorporate the image of a second mirror into the first. The trick is to place the second mirror so that it reflects the original image back into the original mirror, where the reversed image will be reversed again and will thus appear normal. The infinite regression that Kac envisages could theoretically extend forever. Placed opposite each other, two mirrors with unreversed images would present reversed images of each other, which according to the same operation would be transformed into unreversed images, then reversed images, and so forth, ad infinitem. Like reality, it turns out, truth is hard to separate from illusion. The virtual world is a complicated place, where nothing is necessarily what it seems.