Takashi Makino's [2012]3D

People watching 2012 with 3D glasses on   After a day of talks from eminent scientists about the vast impersonal and hidden forces shaping our universe, it is strangely reassuring to have the minute intricacies of human perception put centre stage by Japanese experimental film-maker and musician Takashi Makino.   His film ‘2012’ - simply titled to reflect the fact that all images in it were generated during that year - has been reworked into 3D for Sonic Acts, with cardboard glasses distributed to an intrigued audience. He stands dwarfed by the huge screen at the Paradiso as he prepares to perform its soundtrack live.   A slow static roar consumes the hall as the screen fills with a blue grainy wash of dots and squiggles which crackles in white and grey and green. At first the 3D effect is subtle. Then patterns, or different planes of moving textures, are established. They appear like two translucent screens moving across each other in opposite directions.   The boiling plasma shifts and becomes what could be pouring rain. This coalesces into a powerful downpour that pummels into and splashes up and out of the screen, its sound a coarse pouring rush.   The most astounding sight is when the perspective suddenly shifts and drops. From a close-up earthly world of droplets and swaying bushes, suddenly the sense is one of cosmic scale.   A clear and golden pulsing drone cuts through the white noise, shifting and shimmering as a huge cube composed of intricate lattices is revealed. Our perspective of it pulls back and swings around, producing a dizzying rotation and sense of depth.   When these familiar forms suddenly emerge from constantly moving chaotic static, there is a sense of revelation, of being shown the hidden workings of the universe. They seem imbued with a timeless authority, like Platonic forms existing on a level beyond the constant flux of sensation perceived at every moment of consciousness.   There is also a doubt: are these forms real? Does this order exist, or am I making it up? Bombarded by the constantly shifting squalls of visual and audio data, it’s hard to say what is really there, or intended to be there, and what is the internal by-product of a human brain trying to see patterns where there are none.   This central ambiguity is a theme in Makino’s abstract films. In interviews the artist resists giving any easy answers about his work, preferring instead for the viewer to form their own meanings from the “collage” he has created.   By playing with images of the world around us, filtering and remaking them, breaking and eroding them into noise then reassembling them into moments of recognition and clarity, Makino is putting a spotlight on human perception itself.   But the a feeling of awe evoked by the emergence and dissolution of forms on the screen is undiminished by any lingering scepticism regarding their existential validity.   The experience of momentary recognition is akin to those moments of pure awareness occasionally experienced in the sway of day to day consciousness. Timeless moments, like glimpsing the sun shining through swaying trees, looking up to see the moon hanging low over a cityscape, or experiencing an instant of deep connection with another that cuts through boundaries of habit and persona and reaches the very core of being.   For a moment this extra-ordinary state remains, and then, inevitably, it falls away, merging back into the disparate thoughts, feelings, sensations and perceptions that make up our picture of the world, much like the surging dots and squiggles which once again fill the screen at the end of the 30 minute long film.   That question again: to what extent did what I just experienced only exist within my mind? How much of it was real?   The experience itself was real. Out of the dark universe, something became known. Perhaps that’s good enough.

Takashi Makino's [2012]3D

People watching 2012 with 3D glasses on   After a day of talks from eminent scientists about the vast impersonal and hidden forces shaping our universe, it is strangely reassuring to have the minute intricacies of human perception put centre stage by Japanese experimental film-maker and musician Takashi Makino.   His film ‘2012’ - simply titled to reflect the fact that all images in it were generated during that year - has been reworked into 3D for Sonic Acts, with cardboard glasses distributed to an intrigued audience. He stands dwarfed by the huge screen at the Paradiso as he prepares to perform its soundtrack live.   A slow static roar consumes the hall as the screen fills with a blue grainy wash of dots and squiggles which crackles in white and grey and green. At first the 3D effect is subtle. Then patterns, or different planes of moving textures, are established. They appear like two translucent screens moving across each other in opposite directions.   The boiling plasma shifts and becomes what could be pouring rain. This coalesces into a powerful downpour that pummels into and splashes up and out of the screen, its sound a coarse pouring rush.   The most astounding sight is when the perspective suddenly shifts and drops. From a close-up earthly world of droplets and swaying bushes, suddenly the sense is one of cosmic scale.   A clear and golden pulsing drone cuts through the white noise, shifting and shimmering as a huge cube composed of intricate lattices is revealed. Our perspective of it pulls back and swings around, producing a dizzying rotation and sense of depth.   When these familiar forms suddenly emerge from constantly moving chaotic static, there is a sense of revelation, of being shown the hidden workings of the universe. They seem imbued with a timeless authority, like Platonic forms existing on a level beyond the constant flux of sensation perceived at every moment of consciousness.   There is also a doubt: are these forms real? Does this order exist, or am I making it up? Bombarded by the constantly shifting squalls of visual and audio data, it’s hard to say what is really there, or intended to be there, and what is the internal by-product of a human brain trying to see patterns where there are none.   This central ambiguity is a theme in Makino’s abstract films. In interviews the artist resists giving any easy answers about his work, preferring instead for the viewer to form their own meanings from the “collage” he has created.   By playing with images of the world around us, filtering and remaking them, breaking and eroding them into noise then reassembling them into moments of recognition and clarity, Makino is putting a spotlight on human perception itself.   But the a feeling of awe evoked by the emergence and dissolution of forms on the screen is undiminished by any lingering scepticism regarding their existential validity.   The experience of momentary recognition is akin to those moments of pure awareness occasionally experienced in the sway of day to day consciousness. Timeless moments, like glimpsing the sun shining through swaying trees, looking up to see the moon hanging low over a cityscape, or experiencing an instant of deep connection with another that cuts through boundaries of habit and persona and reaches the very core of being.   For a moment this extra-ordinary state remains, and then, inevitably, it falls away, merging back into the disparate thoughts, feelings, sensations and perceptions that make up our picture of the world, much like the surging dots and squiggles which once again fill the screen at the end of the 30 minute long film.   That question again: to what extent did what I just experienced only exist within my mind? How much of it was real?   The experience itself was real. Out of the dark universe, something became known. Perhaps that’s good enough.

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