To define the world around us, we construct a set of symbols to represent it; this set of symbols, in turn, begins to shape ourselves and the very world around us we are trying to define. It is therefore impossible to completely disassociate oneself from those symbols which “define” our world, and they consequently tint all received text and language with variable hues of meaning. If one conceives of text and language as a sort of encryption device, by which meaning can be encoded by the writer/communicator and decoded by the reader/communicatee, the intended message (or parts of it) will inevitably get lost or altered because the reader’s methods for decoding are influenced by personal experience and cultural programming (experience and programming that is most likely dissimilar to those of the writer). So the text itself is subject to two more levels of “encoding:” encoding by the writer's frame of reference to the world as well as the reader's frame of reference to the world (this frame of reference which is, again, a construct of symbols utilized to represent the “real” – yet another layer of encoding, and on it goes). But from where exactly does meaning originate? And at what point during the process of encoding and decoding does meaning get fractured, distorted, lost? If a writer wishes to convey a thought, is that thought, at its moment of conception, pure meaning? Or does the act of thinking it already begin to taint it with cultural “symbolic baggage?” When the pen is put to paper, and the thought must be expressed through text, transformed into a logic of ordered characters, symbols, glyphs – is that the moment where the corruption begins? Not to make mention of the whole process of decoding, and the reader’s own frame of reference adding to the chaotic mix of signifiers.

Given that text/language is an imperfect system for conveying meaning, if one sought to refine it so that the least amount of meaning is lost in translation from writer to reader, what tack would they take? One could flood the reader with endless modifiers, adding more and more dimension to the objects and experiences they wish to convey, even to the extent of adding modifiers to clarify modifiers (because each word carries with it variable associations and connotations per reader) – adding modifiers upon modifiers upon modifiers, shooting the reader off into a million infinite directions (the hypertext approach). Or, one might take the opposite tack: whittle away at each pointless paragraph, superfluous sentence, unnecessary modifier; use words sparingly but choose them fastidiously; dissect words down to their “root” components – perhaps employ only those root components, because each additional letter has the potential to carry with it superfluous meaning. If one starts dismantling words down even further, down to their building blocks of letters – a letter astride another letter would construct a different equation than each letter alone – is there a simpler, purer “meaning” that exists?

It is the intent of my digital installation piece “story” to convey this struggle to preserve meaning as it travels through an imperfect system of communication, that of text and language. “Story” consists of an installation space with three adjacent video and text projections depicting fractured scenes from a narrative whole. This narrative tells a story of an author who is concerned with the fact that her words are subject to innumerable “translations” by her readers because of their varying frames of reference. She is disturbed that her thoughts are potentially misrepresented, that she is essentially losing control of the text to her readers. It’s not enough that each individual word could carry countless nuances depending on the reader, but each reader could decide differently on the order in which to read pages, or omit the reading of certain sections entirely. They could be swapping out sections of novels intermittently so that the very context of the words change. Words could be selected individually and reassembled to create a new text within a text. If all these possibilities exist for “reading” a novel, then where does that leave the author? The reader assumes the role of the author and the author is no more. So the character/author resolves to tighten control on her words, on language, and seeks to rid her work of any possible misrepresentation. The two principle “roles” in the narrative, those of the author and the editor, are played by the same actress and represent real characters, but at the same time reflect various facets of the author’s own psyche and her struggle with text and representation. The author delves deeper into the struggle and whittles more and more language away to get at the “root” of meaning; she believes she is purifying her method of communication (attempts to use words, fractions, symbols void of cultural baggage) so nothing could be lost in the process of encoding/decoding. Yet the more and more she “refines” her language, the semiotics of the world around her no longer make sense – at moments they seem to her just a bunch of garbled syllables or odd blips and beeps.

This basic story line is echoed in the actual story the author writes. The narrative whole consists of multiple interwoven fractures conveyed by various visual means: dramatic manifestation of the story (actor + action); the writing/typing of the author’s story; gradual deterioration of the author’s text; and archival footage depicting supporting concepts. An oversized voluminous book lays open on a table in the center of the space. The author’s text is projected down onto its blank pages. Each word of the projected text shifts periodically into synonyms, perpetually changing the landscape of the text and varying slightly the interpretation of the reading.