Last month, Leon Gallery International in collaboration with New York’s prestigious Gagosian Gallery presented Nam June Paik in Manila, the first Philippine exhibition of works by the Korean-American “father of video art” who blurred the line between art and technology
In a proposal for a musical performance published in 1963, Nam June Paik instructs two pianists—one in San Francisco and one in Shanghai—to play the left-hand and right-hand parts of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier at exactly noon (GMT) on 3 March. While each player performs only half of the piece, a live television broadcast unites both sides of the Pacific Ocean into a synchronised moment of performance. This early, unrealised composition—conceived nearly a quarter-century before Paik created his first international satellite broadcast—reflects the artist’s lifelong dream of using technology to connect people across geographic borders.
Of course, Paik foresaw many of the ways in which electronic innovations would reshape social relations. He predicted in 1965, for example, that the number of television channels would expand dramatically, eroding the dominance of the large networks and allowing specialised programmes to emerge. (With his characteristic humour, Paik imagined chess lessons taught by Marcel Duchamp, gymnastics classes with Merce Cunningham, and the noon news read by Charlotte Moorman.) To keep access to this expanded content as open as possible, he advocated for the creation of a “Video Common Market” that would allow users to skirt network bureaucracies and share video directly. Most famously, in a 1974 essay, Paik coined the term “electronic superhighway” and offered a stunningly accurate description of the Internet: he anticipated how the rise of “interactive two-way television (for shopping, bibliographies, opinion polls, health care, bio-communication, data transfer from office to office) would transform the television set into an ‘expanded-media’ telephone system with thousands of novel uses.”
Paik predicted not only the ways we now share and distribute content, but also how creative production would become increasingly democratic. Together with the engineer Shuya Abe, he created the Paik-Abe Video Synthesiser, a tool for editing and colorising video meant to bypass the high costs and complex production requirements of television studios. Paik debuted the synthesiser in 1970 in a live television broadcast, Video Commune (Beatles Beginning to End), a four-hour collage of saturated colours and ghostly imagery set to the music of the Beatles. Ultimately, Paik hoped to create a mini-synthesiser that anyone could use at home to modify broadcasts in real time, effectively transforming the television “from a passive pastime to active creation.” In this age of YouTube and other social media platforms, when users regularly record, edit, and share videos with just a few clicks, Paik’s writings and creations appear extraordinarily prescient.
For Paik, the most promising applications of electronic innovation lay in the realm of education. Video, he thought, could give rise to a “global university” that would expose students to previously inaccessible information; it would allow, for example, an American music student to study musical instruments available only in the Japanese emperor’s court. Great thinkers such as Martin Heidegger or Jean-Paul Sartre could produce videotaped lectures to be viewed by philosophy students—much like the massive open online courses available today. Video projection could create three-dimensional environments, allowing students to travel virtually to the Chartres Cathedral or the rock garden of Ryoan-ji in Kyoto. In short, technology could open the world of human learning to new audiences and create new avenues of exchange.