A Monday Ode to Fests
On festivals as sheltering skies for innovation, Immersive as a hobo movement, and the elusive nature of what we build only to find out that silence is the most valuable commodity
A fellow programmer from another festival asked me about the relationship between Immersive art and film festivals — and, of course, about the future of XR. I love how future questions never bore us. We enjoy asking them almost as much as answering them. Discussing the future is like talking about dreams, or gods: we both know these phenomena are constructs of our imagination, and yet we put so much passion into debating them.
Anyway — Immersive and film festivals! Great question.
It’s hard to predict where new creative movements will arise. Art history is full of unexpected discoveries and fusions that happened in various spaces that allowed them to grow (think NFTs — an ephemeral avant-garde born in the heart of libertarian Silicon Valley; what are the odds?). The fin de siècle Paris melting pot happened in cafes and bars because artists who were going against the current often had no means to pay their heating bills. So they were spending cold days and evenings in places where it was warm enough to think, draw, and write. Maybe independent immersive creators went on to exhibit at film festivals, especially documentary, or art-related festivals, because they were looking for a shelter that nobody else would have provided them with.
Festa, fête, fiesta —festivals as social rituals
Festivals are temporary spaces built by people on the move: one season comes, another one goes, you build fast, and learn to adapt even faster. You don’t know what the next season will be like. So you nest on the railroad tracks. Unlike theaters or museums, festivals can't plan their line-ups three to five years ahead. For culture, festivals are what news channels are for media landscape. We discuss in real time what is happening to us. We get people together to confront them with the emotion of that very moment in history. That’s why we remember certain festival editions better than others — that’s why, for example, I will forever remember IDFA 2023.
In a peculiar way, our way of building things at festivals reflects how many people feel in their everyday lives today. The current state of constant emergency, to which we're all being trained to adapt as if it were a natural environment (climate crisis, pandemic, war, populist-led disruptions, social movements), is not necessarily conducive for those who understand that making a statement through art requires time and focus. We tell ourselves stories of how Stanley Kubrick waited months for the right light to shoot the opening sequence of “The Shining”. We try to meditate at Rothko’s Seagram Murals (in an overcrowded LV gallery with hundreds of phones between you and the paintings which can’t be hung low, as per Rothko’s will, because if they were, nobody would have seen them). And yet, we tweak our precarious immune systems, increase our capacity to breathe faster, sleep lighter, hoping that the next breaking news won't involve us, and that what we build offers audiences some hope and a sense of direction in a world that can’t go twenty-four hours without a special edition (by now, it's evident I'm a former news channel editor).
5 — 10 Years
In post-Soviet countries, there was a saying that temporary solutions (‘prowizorka’ — solution provisoire) last forever. You build something cheap, ad-hoc, and fifteen years later you realize this MDF piece was the part of your furniture that best stood the test of time. Perhaps this is exactly what happened to XR. We came to film festivals just for a moment or two, to see what happens when we collide, to start a conversation (revolution), and to become self-sustainable and independent in the legendary 'five to ten year period.' We always say five to ten years. And it’s never been five to ten years.
So yes, I want to think that one day we will have our own events, galleries, and art centers. That more festivals, following the one I’m lucky to be part of, will embrace new forms of expression not only as a fancy add-on to their programming but as a wholesome change to who they are and how they communicate with their audiences. It will be a very new cultural landscape and probably a quite different world. But so far, we play with the temporary solution we opted for over ten years ago, try to stay warm, and carry on.
The Rest is Noise
Although it’s been quite turbulent recently, I still believe that at some point in the future what we now call “XR” will become an integral part of human reality as a means to participate in culture, entertainment, and professional exchange. Similarly to how in the early 21st century we have gotten used to the permanent presence of screens in all shapes and forms, at every step of our daily Leopold Bloom excursions, XR will soon become a frequent companion to our lives. How will that exactly look like, and what “soon” actually means remains an open question. But if nothing unexpected happens (choose your emoji), the way technology evolves will most likely get us to a place where the physical barrier between users and their communication devices becomes almost unnoticeable.
While it might not be good news (think X), it doesn't change the fact that, precisely for this reason, being part of a generation of early adopters is interesting — and comes with a responsibility. We are a privileged and relatively small group that will consciously remember both worlds: the one where there was one core reality and a number of media to analyze it, and the one where a multilayered, hybrid reality will require us not only to rethink what we consider true, real, and valuable, but also how much we’re ready to pay for rare moments of silence.