Nina Davies: It’s quite strange. Each online interaction, each click, it never seems to hold much value. How can something that I want to see be sold? We all know now how surveillance capitalism works, but I’m still amazed by the things that have become commodities and the evolving relationship with private space, which has also become a workplace. Sometimes, you don’t even realise the labor you’re doing. As I’m typing this, it dawns on me that the home used to be a workplace for most women. But now, it’s strange how cleaning my house is something I associate with a day off, and I actually kind of enjoy it. It’s a rare moment where I’m doing something for myself, that’s as far as my self-care routine goes, because that’s all the time I have. Anyway, you probably don’t want to hear me complaining about not having a self-care routine.

I find something intriguing about the commodification of our personal lives, whether they are private or social. It’s happening, and there’s no turning back now. These things have become products that can be sold. And I guess, relating this back to my research on dance as an object, the question arises: How do we own these products?

There’s a peculiar history regarding dancers trying to gain rights to their work. Many people have been prevented from owning their work based on race, gender, and always intersecting with class. What a woman did with her body used to not be considered intellectual property, and as a result, female dance practitioners could never own their own work. Even today, social dance is copyrightable, but there’s a strange question I constantly ponder: “Who gets to be professional, and whose dances remain solely in the social arena?” In the past, if you belonged to a specific community and created a dance that belonged to that community, you wouldn’t be able to copyright it, as it essentially “belonged” to the community. However, the community itself cannot legally own a dance either. On the other hand, if you’re not from that community and create a pastiche of their dance, then you’re able to copyright it. As you can imagine, this ends up benefiting white dancers and choreographers. I mention this because it feels like the issue I’m examining with dance copyright extends to broader conversations about gaining ownership over our personal lives, as many people are doing every day.

I don’t view the consumption of online content as inherently problematic. In fact, I believe that exploring art online can provide exciting insights into our present moment that traditional gallery spaces may not always offer. However, it is crucial that we develop the critical skills to engage with online content meaningfully. In my work, I draw from the critique methods taught in art school, particularly through describing what I see and stitching those descriptions together to create a unique narrative. This narrative reflects the algorithmic construction of platforms like TikTok, which I perceive as more than just a reflection of our preferences. Instead, I envision it as a conversation between the user and the algorithm, opening up possibilities for new discourses to emerge. It may sound pretentious, but considering a TikTok session as a conversation with an algorithm holds potential for unique insights.

For the videos in “For an Imaginary Page,” I aimed to gather a diverse group of participants representing the practices found on TikTok. I specifically invited three dancers, as part of my ongoing research on writing about dance. Additionally, I included Katarina Rankovic, an artist who creates character-driven videos speaking directly to the camera, which resonated well with content creators who do the same. I also invited a magician due to the popularity of magic trick trends on the platform at that time.

The online format of the workshop worked effectively. Participants had the option to turn off their Zoom cameras and microphones, allowing them to watch videos and write in privacy. Once everyone finished writing, we reconvened to share our stories. I have also conducted this workshop with a group of teenagers in person, which was an exciting opportunity to engage with individuals who may have had a different understanding of these platforms than myself. However, I found it challenging for everyone to fully immerse themselves in the TikTok experience when surrounded by others in a physical space.

Body language! I recently came across an interesting statistic that states only 5% of our social and emotional understanding comes from words, while 17% comes from body language and facial gestures. That 17% holds significant value, and without it, or without actively engaging in that form of communication, we might miss out on a wealth of emotional information in any given situation.

I’m not exactly sure how this can be fully reconciled. As technology continues to advance and become more accessible for personal use, it’s possible that we might eventually be connected to motion capture devices in the metaverse. However, until then, I’m uncertain. I’ve noticed that our understanding of body language is evolving, especially as we encounter more choreographed bodies online. On one hand, it’s exciting, and perhaps this medium is enhancing the body as a communicative tool. On the other hand, it feels like our bodies are turning into simulations of each other and of others’ emotional states. Overall, I sense that a new language is emerging around the body in the online space, but it’s evolving slowly, and it remains unclear whether it will preserve the same emotional value it once had or even amplify it.

Technology has always been gradually encroaching on our private lives. It’s hard to say where it will ultimately lead, but it definitely feels like we’re currently at a peak. Our private lives have become quite public, yet we often find ourselves physically alone even in social interactions. There’s this fascinating experiment I recently came across that observes collective behaviour in fish. It’s called the fish matrix, where a fish is placed in a tank alone, and a hologram of an animated fish swimming in a perfect circle is projected inside the tank, creating the illusion that the fish is swimming with another companion. When the hologram is not playing, the fish swims randomly, but when the hologram is active, the fish aligns its movements with the animation. Fish school together as a survival mechanism, using the way they sense each other’s movements to communicate and navigate danger as a group. By moving collectively, they can outpace and confuse predators. However, this particular fish in the experiment doesn’t need to school because the predator it’s trained to evade doesn’t exist in its setting, and even if it did, the fish remains entirely alone. In some strange way, I feel like our lives resemble those of these fish.

I’ll answer this question quickly as it’s something I’m currently exploring, but I don’t want to sound definitive about it. There are numerous discussions taking place regarding blockchain and its potential to decentralise and address many of these issues. I’m actively considering this in collaboration with my research partner, Jorge Poveda Yanez, specifically in relation to dance, particularly socially and collectively owned dances. We’re organising a course called “Dance and the Blockchain” where we’ve invited dancers and artists, whether they critique blockchain or not, to come together and delve deeper into what this future might hold. However, it’s important to note that we’re not techno-solutionists, and I’m cautious about the promises of blockchain since web 2.0 was initially touted as decentralised.

To be honest, I’m quite intrigued to see how things unfold. I’m particularly interested in the potential transformation of our relationship with the moving body. With the advent of the metaverse, movements will likely become more codified, and consequently, meaning will be attributed to these movements. However, there is a concern that we might move away from the body as an emotional communicative tool, which I find a bit strange. It’s like when you have to make a mess in your room before you do a deep clean.

I believe there will be a phase where emotional meaning in these virtual spaces diminishes, and words become the predominant form of expression. Everything might seem like a chaotic mess, and life will turn into a complete disaster (LOL). Just kidding! But seriously, as time goes on and we become more adept at communicating through our digital bodies or avatars, coded movements will start functioning just like words, carrying direct meaning. And hopefully, that direct meaning will give rise to emotions that haven’t been adequately expressed through everyday language.

Our understanding of labor is continuously shifting and becoming more complex. It could be argued that it has reached its peak level of complexity. Through my project “Express Yourself on the Battlefield,” I aimed to demonstrate how performance has transformed into a valuable digital commodity. These dances are essentially made available for purchase, displayed as options for users to select and buy within the game. I do think that if this system continues, there are potential ways to compensate the creators of these products. However, it may not be sustainable to expect users to pay for something that could eventually become an integral part of our communication system. It would be akin to charging people for words. Ideally, the metaverse should function like the real world, where everyone has the opportunity to receive fair compensation for their work. Yet, the thought of such a scenario can also be disheartening. In reflecting on my response, I realise that I have opened up a topic for which I don’t possess definite answers.

There is a chance that people could become detached or alienated from certain forms of expression, which could be seen as a form of disembodiment. The main issue at hand is that if the metaverse were to resemble platforms like Fortnite, it is plausible that individuals might have to pay for these products while the creators remain uncompensated, mirroring the current situation.

Bionic Step is a project I created, a fictional dance that serves as a test subject for me and my research partner. Our goal is to explore how dancers can reclaim agency within the evolving digital dance economies. To test our speculative ideas, we wanted to work with a dance that carries some form of knowledge. However, to ensure ethical testing, we didn’t want to use someone’s real dance. That’s when the concept of a fictional dance, Bionic Step, came into play.

Creating a fictional dance required me to construct a fictional world to accompany it. The work is rooted in extensive research that extends beyond the realm of topics explored in Express Yourself on the Battlefield. The setting of this world revolves around a scenario where people start losing office jobs due to the rise of cognitive-automation services, which take over both governmental positions and regular administrative roles. As a result, people find themselves unable to effectively communicate with these highly efficient technical systems, leading them to develop a spiritual connection with these technologies.

The story of Bionic Step draws inspiration from two historical events: the dancing plague in Strasbourg in 1518 and the emergence of techno music in post-industrial Detroit.

I’m not sure if I believe that a dystopia or a utopia can exist independently of each other. It seems that we are constantly navigating between both, and what may be someone’s utopia could be another person’s dystopia. In a book I recently read called “The Silent History” (FSG Original, 2014), a future unfolds where children start losing their ability to communicate through language. The book is composed of reports by adults, including parents, teachers, and doctors, who are grappling with this issue. For most characters, this loss of language is seen as a dystopia, and many parents are searching for solutions. However, there are a few characters and these children who, as they grow up, find themselves living in a sort of utopia. They are able to interpret emotions from people’s facial expressions and communicate on deeper emotional levels than most.

I believe that the future will involve a multifaceted approach to communication, which is already taking shape. Our relationship with meaning will gradually transform, and within this shift, both dystopian and utopian possibilities may arise. We could risk losing what defines us as human and start thinking in more mechanical and binary ways. On the other hand, we have the opportunity to embrace the idea that meaning is not finite and continue to evolve within its multiplicity.

It’s a natural tendency for people to imagine futures, illustrating how abstract our consciousness can be. Katherine Hayles provides a great example of how only humans can look at an empty road and instead of simply crossing it, we first envision all the potential scenarios and weigh the risks before making a decision. So, in a way, we constantly imagine possible futures. I don’t think this is unique to artists alone. However, artists have the ability to scale up and delve deeper into imagining futures, making them more intricate.

Margaret Atwood follows a strict code when envisioning possible futures in her stories. She draws inspiration from real events that have occurred throughout history in different parts of the world. I find this approach fascinating because it allows us to imagine futures grounded in reality. Going back to the road-crossing example, in order for us to determine if it’s safe to cross, we consider realistic scenarios based on what we already know can go wrong or right. For instance, the chances of a plane landing in the street while crossing are extremely slim. By blending the past and present, we can gain a deeper understanding of what is yet to come when imagining possible futures.

Unthought by Katherine Hayles.
Choreographing Copyright: Race, Gender, and Intellectual Property Rights in American Dance by Anthea Kraut.
Fiction as Method, Sternberg Press.
Silent History FSG Original Editions.
Nervous States: How Feeling Took Over the World by William Davies.
Hello Avatar by William Davies.
Can the Left Learn to Meme by Mike Watson.