Depth vs. Novelty

VIII: Depth vs. Novelty
Opening night! The installation all these artists have been building around me for the past three days, Meow Wolf’s Habitats show, is officially ready for public viewing. I can’t even start thinking about my essay yet. I’m too pleased with my own installation—my habitat for Habitats—which simply consists of piles of books and magazines stacked all over my desk. I think it gives the impression of abundance, variety, and the psychic structure provided by the printed word.

But it’s quiet in here right now, and mellow. The lighting is dim, and the big garage door behind me has been closed, so the only intense light is a sunbeam coming through the door to my left. There’s a vocal broadcast happening, obviously part of somebody’s installation, plus sounds of soft static coming from an array of old TV’s set up against the far wall. Two or three of the artists are putting finishing touches on things and cleaning up, but most of that is already done. The public has not yet arrived. I feel the anticipation so fully that it’s hard not to just stare around and wait for something to happen.

It is hot tonight. All I can think about is how amazing it would be to have an iced coffee. Of course I couldn’t do that, because then I’d have to get up and pee. Anyway at this point, I feel pretty sure that nothing that could happen here tonight will distract me more than this wretched heat. It just makes me slump, deep inside.

It’s later now, and quite a few people are in here. They’re sort of stalking through, stepping lightly and peering into this and that, then turning to see where to point themselves next. It’s almost meditative to watch them. They too seem to be having their own meditative experiences—the act of absorbing art. It’s helping me understand why I love absorbing art so much. It puts you in a space where there’s only you and the thing in front of you. The engagement that happens is so direct and complete and rich. It’s the kind that, when we get it from the work we do, makes us feel fulfilled.

It’s what’s being taken away from us. No: It’s what we’re removing ourselves from. “Psychologists say,” environmentalist Bill McKibben tells Appleyard, “that intense close engagement with things does provide the most human satisfaction.” McKibben sees Thoreau’s move from Concord to quiet Walden Pond as an impressively insightful decision. But he also points out that another part of human nature is “loving novelty”—a contradictory impulse that pulls us away from the depth we crave.

What this means is kind of what we already know: Where we place our attention is ours to choose. Changes in the way the world works have made it harder to choose depth over novelty. But they haven’t made it impossible. The technologies of distraction have just made it hard to make the choice unconsciously. Despite our natural tendencies, circumstances now require that we consciously choose to not click on that link to the YouTube video of the sneezing panda. When it comes to distractions, as Sam Anderson cogently put it, “Western culture’s attentional crisis is mainly a widespread failure to ignore them.”

But so what if people are distracted? I mean, I don’t personally want to be crippled or mauled by a driver on a cell phone, but part of me thinks, If I just solve my distraction problem for myself, I can have my fulfilling life and everyone else can just be as distracted as they want and that’s their prerogative. Right? Well, if incessant distraction impacts the way everyone else thinks, that could have a big impact on me—one I’m not sure I want to deal with. I don’t want to live in a nation of web surfers who never actually analyze anything they read, but just absorb the shallowest part of it and move on. That sounds like some kind of fucked up Huxley novel.

Avoiding that brave new future means consciously limiting how much we’re gripped by that state of disengaged distraction I described—no matter how many distractions we’re surrounded by. Basically, as Anderson observed, “The question now is how successfully we can adapt.” Or, in Gallagher’s more colorful language, “If you continue to just jump in the air every time your phone rings or pounce on those buttons every time you get an instant message, that’s not the machine’s fault. That’s your fault.”

So, like with so many other things, this greater freedom requires greater responsibility, and a conscious decision to not just take the easy way out. These choices we make, however benign, are more than personal decisions about our personal lives. They have profound social and political implications. Given that so many of democracy’s fundamental elements depend on what we’re paying attention to and why—government transparency, voting, and on and on—we do have a responsibility to consider where our attention should go, and make a real effort to put it there.

I seem to be turning into the Information Desk around here. I didn’t expect that. People keep asking me questions that I don’t know the answer to, like where the bathroom is.
Dave came up behind me and started reading over my shoulder. This was bizarrely intense and emotionally challenging. Something inside me totally recoils at the thought of somebody reading my unfinished work. It’s even worse when they’re watching as you do it, before you’ve even had the chance to decide to hit “Save” or just let that line disappear forever. I was halfway to mortified when, at one point, he laughed at something I’d written and repeated it aloud: “I didn’t even know there was a drum set in this building.” At least the response was positive.

There are lots of people coming through now. “Smells like Christmas,” a guy comments to me. I have no idea how to respond to that. “Must be the pine needles,” he says, wandering off. A woman is cooing over the igloo with the owl head over its entrance. “Ooooh, the Owl House,” she says, and pets it. Another woman holds a toddler’s hand as the child teeters along a platform. For the first time since I’ve started this project, I really would rather watch the human parade than write. I’m enthralled. The clothes people are wearing. These artsy funky Santa Fe types. I adore them. The older folks look out of place, like tourists, but they seem to be loving it as much as anyone else. Everyone looks happy. Smiling, bemused, intrigued, delighted.

“Are you writing down people’s comments?” Owl Woman asks me. “Among other things,” I say, nodding. She approves. I show her that I actually took down her Owl House comment. “Did you hear me say I wanted to pet it?” she asks. I am starting to feel like this is some kind of play within a play. Writing about art about writing about art. It’s so abjectly postmodern it hurts.