Nathaniel Metz's Blog

#postmodernism #aesthetics #capitalism #atmosphere #NickLand #Kant #Lovecraft #liminal #space

The Backrooms is a popular short story that went viral on the Internet with endless adaptations, memes, games, and short films. I think it's an ingenious bit of short horror fiction that sounds like something from the Twilight Zone. The story postulates that, at certain points in our world, one can make a wrong step and accidentally “no clip” out of reality. This language of no clip or clipping out is borrowed from video games in which there are certain points within a map where the game developers forgot to add barriers. If the player reaches those points, he or she “no clips” out of the map and into undeveloped digital landscapes (or perhaps falls into an infinite void).

The original post that created the basic lore is as follows: “If you're not careful and noclip out of reality in the wrong areas, you'll end up in the Backrooms, where it's nothing but the stink of old moist carpet, the madness of mono-yellow, the endless background noise of fluorescent lights at maximum hum-buzz, and approximately six hundred million square miles of randomly segmented empty rooms to be trapped in. God save you if you hear something wandering around nearby, because it (...) has heard you.”

Creepy, right? Most people think so, which is one reason why it went viral online. The basic structure allows for a lot of creative reimagining, and the liminal aesthetics allows for plenty of interesting artwork. But I also think the story's popularity rests in its ability to capture something about our postmodern condition. I'm not the first to point this out. In fact, there's a great video essay by Clark Eleison that talks about how the Backrooms captures our fear of loneliness and isolation (especially when considering how the story took off during the pandemic).

[Link] (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fonsUaFURPI)

But I also think the story presents a fascinating illustration of the postmodern and capitalist material environments, landscapes, atmospheres, and architectures that we now inhabit. It shows the horrifying artificiality of these material environments, revealing how our spaces are constructed for the flourishing of capitalism itself rather than God's Creation.

The Backrooms represent a terrifying “outsideness.” What if, behind the borders of your house, workplace, and city, lies an infinite expanse of burning fluorescent lights, musky carpet, and ugly office hallways? It's like being trapped in the waiting room for a doctor's office from hell.

When I think about this outsideness, I'm reminded first of Immanuel Kant and his distinction between how we perceive the world and what lies beyond that perception. According to Kant, when we perceive the world, we do so according to internal categories and schematisms of the psyche, which arrange the raw sense data of experience into categories of understanding. When I look at a desk, I do not see the individual particles and atoms, but instead, I experience the desk according to how my brain is wired to recreate the input of visual stimuli. An entirely different creature, like a bat, might have an entirely different mental representation of the desk. Kant called this sort of stuff “phenomenal” experiences.

But what about the stuff that lies beyond, behind, or “outside” of the phenomenal? This stuff would be the thing-in-itself, and Kant called this the noumenal or noumenous. Our brains, rationality, and cognitive capacities are wired for decyphering phenomenal categories, but we cannot speak with any certainty about the noumenal realm other than to say it's out there. I can talk about, for example, my desk — its design, colors, and object parts — but I cannot talk about what the desk is like, in-itself, outside of my experience—according to Kant; of course, this is philosophy, so that has been subject to much debate. And even if we talk about the atomic structure of the desk, that is still talking about how the atoms appear to us, not necessarily the atoms in themselves.

In recent times, the professionally insane philosopher Nick Land has coined the term “fanged noumena.” Working under the influence of Kant, Deleuze, and Guatarri (and methamphetamines), Land used “fanged noumena” to refer to that “outsideness” which breaks into our world and rearranges things—sometimes in catastrophic ways.

Fanged, here, is to be taken in a Marxist-Lovecraftian sense. For Marx, capitalism is vampiric: “Capital is dead labour, which, vampire-like, lives only by sucking living labour, and lives the more, the more labour it sucks.” In the writing of H.P. Lovecraft, cosmic, extra-dimensional monsters exist in a manner that is beyond the comprehension of humans, leading to madness, destruction, or both. Land combines these notions and thus theorizes capitalism as a type of Lovecraftian monster rearranging our world in order to be devoured; it is fanged noumena.

In my previous post, I talked about something similar to this fanged noumena in the work of Deleuze and Guatarri in their conception of time. Here is what I said:

To give an over-generalized summary: in a more classic theological understanding, there is a distinction between Eternity (the realm of God) and time (the temporality of creation). Eternity is transcendent to time. However, for Deleuze and Guatarri, there is no transcendent Eternity. Instead, they speak of an “Aeon,” which is a concept inspired by Kantian philosophy. In Kant's philosophy, there is a distinction between how we experience the world (phenomenal) and how the world is in-itself (the noumenal). Deleuze and Guatarri place Aeonic time into a type of material, noumenal reality that is on the same ontological status as our experience of time, “but it does not manifest itself in time. Though it is itself composed of singular events – which can be precisely dated and named – these events compose a virtual plane of intensity that positively avoids climactic actualization. Deleuze and Guattari call these Aeonic occurrences plateaus and show how they constitute an exteriority that haunts the successive order of extensive temporality” (Anna Greenspan, “Capitalism's Transcendental Time Machine,” page 17).

Notice how this Aeonic time is like a ghost (or even a Lovecraftian monster) sitting just outside our periphery, occasionally breaking into our world and leaving haunting traces of itself. The Backrooms seem to have a similar function. It is a realm of pure liminal space that is outside of our periphery or perception, and yet something about this reality conditions our world — or at least what the Backrooms represent conditions us.

The Backrooms are the pure form of a capitalist atmosphere that is devoid of subjectivity, existing neither from humans nor for humans. Indeed, it doesn't really exist for anything so far as we can tell. It is a material environment devoid of telos. It is artificial and yet not generated solely by human effort. This aspect of an artificial material environment without a telos or sole human origin is similar to Nick Land's famous description of capitalism in his famous essay “Meltdown”:

“The story goes like this: Earth is captured by a technocapital singularity as renaissance rationalitization and oceanic navigation lock into commoditization take-off. Logistically accelerating techno-economic interactivity crumbles social order in auto-sophisticating machine runaway. As markets learn to manufacture intelligence, politics modernizes, upgrades paranoia, and tries to get a grip.”

The Backrooms spatially represent this noumenal or transcendental quality of capitalism as an alien force conditioning our world and vampirically sucking Creation's lifeforce to empower itself— a type of spiritual warfare if you will. And we see quite well in the Backrooms meme how this noumenal capitalism manifests itself in space: through the desubjectivizing atmospheres of postmodernity, such as office spaces, shopping malls, Time Square, and suburban sprawl. In a sense, all of reality is now suburban sprawl, and the Backrooms are the horrific psychogeography of that labyrinth that pushes us toward alienating individualism rather than communal flourishing.

Of course, much of what I've written in this post is imaginative speculation and intellectual experimentation. I'm not exactly convinced that this is the best way to understand the ontology of capitalism. But at the very least, I think the Lovecraftian lens of Land is an intriguing perspective because it would potentially allow for Christians to view capitalism as a “principality and power” (Ephesians 6:12) and thus under the category of spiritual warfare.

#aesthetics #atmosphere #postmodernism #weirdcore #liminal #sublime #artandtheology

As someone who is interested in contemporary art, I often explore the aesthetic wiki website in order to learn about new art movements. While on one of my adventures, I came across weirdcore. Weirdcore is defined as follows:

“Weirdcore is a surrealist aesthetic centered around amateur or low-quality photography and/or visual images that have been constructed or edited to convey feelings of confusion, disorientation, dread, alienation, and nostalgia.” [link] (https://aesthetics.fandom.com/wiki/Weirdcore)

Usually, the images convey a sense of vague, quasi-nostalgia—lost memories from childhood and dreams you can only half-remember. Or even better, a half-remembered dream about your childhood. But in contrast to pure nostalgia, the images often lack any recognizable “brand” iconography (there's no Surge soda or Lunchables), and the images contain an eeriness that many find unsettling—and yet slightly comforting as well.

Formally, weirdcore borrows many elements from liminal aesthetics. Liminal is a term that refers to an “in-betweenness.” Liminal spaces are often “non-spaces,” which forego a unique identity of their own, such as the interior of a public bus, hotel rooms, office spaces, hotel lobbies, waiting rooms, and abandoned malls. The liminality can also be found in spaces where normal activities are absent, such as shopping centers or worship spaces during after-hours.

Liminality likewise holds a vague quasi-nostalgia. When you look at a picture of a hotel pool, it feels like you've been there before, but the memory lies just outside of your grasp. There's a combination of pain and sorrow: You remember the fun adventures you had on that playground and realize that you perhaps made a friend for that brief hour, and you will never see them again.

Weirdcore picks up on some of that formal liminality but then saturates it with the weird and eerie qualities of postmodern capitalism. Weirdcore conveys the strange sensation of stepping into the Twilight Zone of capitalist hyperreality.

Within our culture, we are increasingly disconnected from the sorts of material environments in which humans evolved, and we have replaced those material environments with increasingly “plastic” surroundings. Natural materials have a way of generating their own sorts of energetic atmospheres. As an extreme example, imagine sitting in a cabin made of wood compared to that same cabin made of artificially colored plastic. Increasingly, our material environments mimic the plastic cabin more than the wooden cabin, which is why office spaces and Walmart shopping centers are so displeasure to inhabit. Likewise, the intentions of design behind the material environment are to create an atmosphere that pushes people toward consumerism above other forms of relation. Lost in a slurry of blinding florescent lights, randomly organized plastic plants, dazzling commodities, and faintly echoed music, the shopper can experience a sense of de-subjectivization or, in extreme cases, a quasi-disassociative state perfect for consuming.

With these interior design strategies built around unnatural “plastic” materials, postmodern atmospheres become eerie, weird, and strange — but also somewhat enjoyable. I think the perfect illustration of this eerie enjoyment is the McDonald's play place. It is a labyrinth of plastic tubes and shifting color blocks that cannot be easily navigated. And perhaps if you can remember as a kid, there could even be times in which you got lost within those spaces for a brief moment, or you were met with a sudden extreme darkness full of uncomfortable bumps as you went down a slide. The 'McAmbiance' is both eerie and enjoyable, and I think weirdcore captures that feeling within much of its imagery. The images creep me out, but I also find myself wanting to get lost inside them.

In this sense, I think weirdcore represents a new postmodern shift within the sublime. It's not the first instantiation of this shift, but I think it's a good example. In its simplest sense, the sublime is that strange combination of something that is both overwhelmingly beautiful but also terrifying. It is like standing on the edge of a cliff at the Grand Canyon: one is overwhelmed by the world's splendor, and yet one is also aware that one misstep could end one’s life. In the midst of such a vast beauty, we recognize our own finitude in comparison.

The sublime is not only a property of natural environments like mountains, oceans, or forests, but it can also inhabit architecture. Standing inside a large cathedral can be a sublime experience. However, in the case of the cathedral and natural environments, there can be a deeper spiritual and theological meaning attached to the sublime. For example, when standing inside of a beautiful cathedral, one can feel overwhelmed by its magnitude and outstanding beauty. But there is another step in which one is then awestruck by thinking about how God is even grander and more beautiful than the cathedral. It is likewise with nature: creation is vastly large and immensely beautiful, but God is even more so. One's sense of finitude turns into a religious experience of recognizing one's dependence upon the Infinite, generating gratitude toward God.

In the case of weirdcore, we see something slightly different. There is a combination of fear (eerie/weird) and enjoyment (nostalgia), but it is not the same as the transcendence of the sublime. Instead, weirdcore conveys a truncated and flattened “outsideness.”

The notion of a truncated outsideness is inspired by how the philosophers Deleuze and Guatarri truncated the concept of time. To give an over-generalized summary: in a more classic theological understanding, there is a distinction between Eternity (the realm of God) and time (the temporality of creation). Eternity is transcendent to time. However, for Deleuze and Guatarri, there is no transcendent Eternity. Instead, they speak of an “Aeon,” which is a concept inspired by Kantian philosophy. In Kant's philosophy, there is a distinction between how we experience the world (phenomenal) and how the world is in-itself (the noumenal). Deleuze and Guatarri place Aeonic time into a type of material, noumenal reality that is on the same ontological status as our experience of time, “but it does not manifest itself in time. Though it is itself composed of singular events – which can be precisely dated and named – these events compose a virtual plane of intensity that positively avoids climactic actualization. Deleuze and Guattari call these Aeonic occurrences plateaus and show how they constitute an exteriority that haunts the successive order of extensive temporality” (Anna Greenspan, “Capitalism's Transcendental Time Machine,” page 17).

I'll be upfront: I don't understand Deleuze and Guatarri, so I hope what I said makes the slightest bit of sense. Anyways...

What Aeonic time is to Eternal time, weirdcore sublimity is to transcendent sublimity. Though in this case, the outsideness creeping in on us is a hyperreality of postmodern capitalism, in which the production machine of industry, mass consumerist reproduction, and omnipresent media culture — and especially the internet — have created an eerie rhizomatic “outsideness” of space (both virtual and physical space) that conditions our material environment. Notice, for example, how often in weirdcore the image barriers bleed together, giant dark patches consume space like a black hole, singular text phrases are divorced from meaningful discourse, and objects are deterritorialized from their original context. These common elements of weirdcore art are the basic factors of postmodern hyperreality: everything is deterritorialized from its original context and placed into the organizing structure of capitalism, social media is breaking apart discourse into incoherent soundbites, and there is a looming dark presence of de-subjectivizing ambiances all around us.

As a concluding thought, I think we can see from these instances that the hyperreality of postmodern capitalism generates its own, rival forms of religious experience, space, and time. I think weirdcore has managed to do a great job of capturing the feeling. By engaging with that art and musing upon its meanings, I think we can learn a lot about our current (hyper)reality. And maybe it will also inspire us to spend some time out in God's beautiful creation.