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TALLER DE TESIS MATERIAL DE LECTURA


Staff MDAA Justo Solsona Director General Carlos Libedinsky Director Hugo Salama Director Daniel Ventura Coordinador, Profesor Taller Jorge Mele Profesor Area Teoría Arquitectónica Francisco Moskovits Profesor de Taller Julián Varas Profesor Area Tesis

Directores de Tesis 2009-2011 Alvaro Arrese (FADU UBA), Pablo Beitía (Escuela de Arte y Arquitectura USAL), Carlos Berdichevsky (FADU UBA), Mónica Bertolino (FAUD UNC), Roberto Bonifacio (FADU UBA), Marcelo Danza (FARQ UNR Uruguay), Mariano Faraci (FAUD UNC), Claudio Ferrari (FADU UBA), Pablo Ferreiro (FADU UBA), Jaime Grinberg (FADU UBA), Carlos Libedinsky (FADU UBA), Roberto Lombardi (FADU UBA), Aníbal Moliné (FAPyD UNR), Jorge Sarquis (FADU UBA), Hugo Salama (FADU UBA), Javier Sánchez Gómez (FADU UBA), Horacio Sardín (FADU UBA), Pablo Sztulwark (FADU UBA), Pablo Rozenwasser (UP), Alberto Varas (FADU UBA), Claudio Vekstein (ASU/UTDT).

Previamente han participado en calidad de directores: Justo Solsona (FADU UBA), Graciela Silvestri (UNLP/Conicet) y Roberto Doberti (FADU UBA).

Críticos invitados 2010-2011 Julián Bonder, Nicolás D’Angelo, Axel Fridman, Anna Font, Ariel Jacubovich, Reinaldo Leiro, Sergio Forster, Hernán Maldonado, Ciro Najle, Sofía Picozzi


índice

MÓDULO 1 ¿QUÉ ES UNA HIPÓTESIS DE PROYECTO? 1. Umberto Eco, ¿Cómo se hace una tesis? (Gedisa: Barcelona, 1988) (*)

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2. Rem Koolhaas, “Quantum Leap”, en SMLXL (The Monacelli Press: New York, 1995). p 1156. (*)

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3. Bart Lootsma, “Reality Bites: The Meaning of Research in the Second Modern Age”, Daidalos 69/70, Dec 1998, Jan 1999.

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4. Brett Steele, “Data(e)scape”, Daidalos 69/70 Dec 1998, Jan 1999.

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5. Tim Plowman, “Ethnography and Critical Design Practice”, en Design Research. Methods and Perspectives. Editado por Brenda Laurel. (MIT Press: Cambridge, MA, 2003).

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MÓDULO 2 ANÁLISIS / PROYECTO 6. Stan Allen, “Mapping the Unmappable: On Notation” en Practice: Architecture, Technique, and Representation (2000).

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7. Robert Somol, “Dummy Text, or The Diagrammatic Basis of Contemporary Architecture”, en Peter Eisenman, Diagram Diaries (Thames & Hudson, 1999).

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8. Alejandro Zaera-Polo, “Peter Eisenman´s Machine of Infinite Resistance”, en Eleven Authors in Search of a Building: Aronoff Center for Design and Art at the University of Cincinnati (The Monacelli Press: New York, 1997).

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9. Bruno Latour, “Entering a risky territory: space in the age of digital navigation”, en Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 2010, volume 28, p. 581-599

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Lecturas optativas: Peter Eisenman, Ten Canonical Buildings: 1950-2000 (Rizzoli: New York, 2008). Peter Eisenman, The Formal Basis of Modern Architecture (Lars Muller: New York, 2008).

MÓDULO 3 ¿CÓMO CONSTRUIR UN PROGRAMA? 10. Rem Koolhaas, “Exodus, or, The Voluntary Prisoners of Architecture” en SMLXL (The Monacelli Press: New York, 1995). Publicado originalmente en Casabella (1972). (*)

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11. Rem Koolhaas, “Definitive Instability: The Downtown Athletic Club” en Delirious New York. A Retrospective Manifesto for Manhattan. (Oxford University Press: New York, 1978). (Hay traducción al cast.)

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12. Robin Evans, “Figures, Doors and Passages”, en Translations from Drawings to Buildings and Other Essays (AA Publications: Londres, 1977). Traducción en: El Lugar de la Arquitectura, Alejandro Aravena Mori (editor). (Ediciones ARQ: Santiago, 2002)

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13. Benjamin Bratton, “What do we mean by ‘Program’? The Convergence of Architecture and Interface Design” en Interactions, vol. 15, n. 3 (May-June 2008) p. 20-26.

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14. Bernard Tschumi, The Manhattan Transcripts (Academy Editions: Londres, 1994).

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MVRDV, Metacity/Datatown (010 Publishers: Rotterdam, 1999). (**) (* = Disponible en la Biblioteca FADU. ** = Disponible en la Biblioteca SCA)


MÓDULO 1

¿QUÉ ES UNA HIPÓTESIS DE PROYECTO? La afirmación antecede a la pregunta Planes vs. Escenarios. Necesidad vs. Posibilidad. Características: Tematización e intencionalidad. Contextualización y relevancia: Estado del arte. Modos de la investigación: Teórica y Empírica / Histórica / Técnica / Relevamientos de campo.

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1. Umberto Eco, 驴C贸mo se hace una tesis? Especialmente el cap. 2. (Gedisa: Barcelona, 1988)

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2. Rem Koolhaas, “Quantum Leap”, en SMLXL (The Monacelli Press: New York, 1995). p 1156.

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3. Bart Lootsma, “Reality Bites: The Meaning of Research in the Second Modern Age”, Daidalos 69/70, Dec 1998, Jan 1999.

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4. Brett Steele, “Data(e)scape”, Daidalos 69/70 Dec 1998, Jan 1999.

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5. Tim Plowman, “Ethnography and Critical Design Practice”, en Design Research. Methods and Perspectives. Editado por Brenda Laurel. (MIT Press: Cambridge, MA, 2003).

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MÓDULO 2

ANÁLISIS / PROYECTO Precedentes. El análisis como proyecto / El dibujo como hipótesis. Mapas y diagramas. Close Reading. Sampling. Injerto. Algoritmos. Virtualización y actualización.

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6. Stan Allen, “Mapping the Unmappable: On Notation” en Practice: Architecture, Technique, and Representation (2000).

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7. Robert Somol, “Dummy Text, or The Diagrammatic Basis of Contemporary Architecture”, en Peter Eisenman, Diagram Diaries (Thames & Hudson, 1999).

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8. Alejandro Zaera-Polo, “Peter Eisenman´s Machine of Infinite Resistance”, en Eleven Authors in Search of a Building: Aronoff Center for Design and Art at the University of Cincinnati (The Monacelli Press: New York, 1997).

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9. Bruno Latour, “Entering a risky territory: space in the age of digital navigation”, en Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 2010, volume 28, p. 581-599 Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 2010, volume 28, pages 581 ^ 599

doi:10.1068/d10409

Entering a risky territory: space in the age of digital navigation

Vale¨rie November, Eduardo Camacho-Hu«bner

Ecole Polytechnique Fe¨de¨rale (EPFL), ENAC INTER ESpRi, BP 2133 (Baªtiment BP), Station 16, 1015 Lausanne, Switzerland; e-mail: valerie.november@epfl.ch

Bruno Latour

Sciences Po, 27 rue Saint-Guillaume, 75007 Paris, France; e-mail: bruno.latour@sciences-po.fr Received 14 August 2009; in revised form 29 December 2009

Abstract. Relying on the fecund interface of three fieldsöstudies in science, risk geography, and knowledge managementöthis paper notes first that the lack of understanding of the relationships between maps and territory and risks is an unfortunate consequence of the way the mapping impulse has been interpreted during the modernist period. Then, taking into account the advent of digital navigation, the paper discusses a very different interpretation of the mapping enterprise that allows a mimetic use of maps to be distinguished from a navigational one. Consequently, we suggest maps should be considered as dashboards of a calculation interface that allows one to pinpoint successive signposts while moving through the world, the famous multiverse of William James. This distinction, we argue, might, on the one hand, help geography to grasp the very idea of risks and, on the other, help to free geography from its fascination with the base map by allowing a whole set of new features, such as anticipation, participation, reflexivity, and feedback, now being included in the navigational definition of maps.

1 Introduction When social scientists collaborate with geographers, they are often puzzled by the weight given by their colleagues to the base map, (1) upon which they are asked to project their own objects as if they had to add a more superficial layer to a more basic one. This is never more true than in the domain of risks. Geographers insist that their colleagues in sociology, economics, anthropology, and psychology place their interpretation of risks on top of the base map, which is supposed to ground the most fundamental, the most material, and, above all, the most physical reality. Such a collaboration has the great drawback of making it impossible to go beyond the distinction between `objective' and `subjective' risks. Risks are today a crucial question for our societies, and by their nature they bring different scientific disciplines together. Mapping risks has forced us to look closer at the ambiguous role of maps. Our paper tackles some of the reasons why this emphasis on the base map does not need to characterise the skills of geographers and offers an alternative way for social scientists and geographers to collaborate by circumventing a well-entrenched distinction between `physical' and `human' geography. To somewhat dramatize the issue, we claim that risks should be as easy to put on a map as reefs. There is no reason why reefs, which might threaten the navigation of ships and yachts, should be easier to map by pinpointing their exact location using their longitude and latitude and symbollically indicating their presence and it be so difficult for the same cartographers to map risks (fire, flood, pollution, unemployment, crime, etc) that a given population might have to take into account.(2) There is no reason to think that reefs pertain more `naturally' to the base (1) The base map refers here to its French equivalent fond de carte. This kind of map is currently used as a basic layer upon which other sets of information may be represented. It is also known as `mother map' or `outline map'. (2) For a good demonstration of this see Monmonier (1997).

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map and are any closer to the fundamental layer and that risks should be added like more superficial layers on top of the first. We want to reconsider the mapping impulse so that reefs and risks belong equally to the definition of `territory'öboth being obstacles to courses of action that should be registered and marked through sets of conventions on many kinds of maps. This puzzle has led us to question the relationships among maps, territory, and risks. Is a map, as Pickles (2004) points out, not a representation of the world but an inscription that does (or sometimes does not) work in the world? Do maps and mapping precede the territory they `represent', or can they be understood as producing it? Many authors have already proposed to deeply revise commonsense ideas on the emergence of territory (Elden, 2005; Glennie and Thrift, 2009; Paasi, 2003; Painter 2009).(3) And just as many authors have revised the traditional role given to maps. Here, too, different schools of thoughts are present, from those who focus on depicting the political and institutional relations of mapping (Akerman, 2009; Harley, 1989; Pickles, 2004) to those more focused on the performative use of maps (Cosgrove, 1999) and an understanding of maps as emerging through a diverse set of practices (Crampton, 2009; Dodge et al, 2009). On the risk side, the same revision prevails, from a probabilistic understanding of the phenomenon to a relational conception of it [as proposed by Healy (2004) and November (2004; 2008), for instance]. Although all of those revisions have been very inspirational, the three notions of maps, territory, and risk have not yet been brought together as one single puzzle. We want to show here, thanks to the fecund interface of three fieldsöstudies in science, risk geography, (4) and knowledge managementöthat the lack of understanding of this relationship between maps and territory and risks is an unfortunate consequence of the way the mapping impulse has been interpreted during the modernist periodöfrom the 18th to the end of the 20th century (Latour, 1993). We want to argue that, because of the advent of digital navigation (Cartwright and Hunter, 1999; Fabrikant, 2000), a very different interpretation of the mapping enterprise can be introduced that allows a mimetic use of maps to be distinguished from a navigational one. This distinction, in turn, might help geography to grasp the very idea of risks and go beyond its divide between `objective' and `subjective' as well as `physical' and `human' as some geographers have already exhorted us to do (Harrisson et al, 2004; Lane, 2001; Massey, 2000; Thrift, 2002). 2 Maps have always been platforms of calculation interface Even though maps were already ubiquitous in print form, it is now clear to all their users that they have undergone a major shift thanks to the availability of digital technologies (Crampton, 2003; Dodge et al, 2009). Not only has their ubiquity increased exponentiallyöGPS are now in all cars, in every hand-held computer, and in so many mobile phones öbut they now appear much more often in a digital format (3) We are aware that the meaning of this notion varies also between the Francophone and the Anglo-American community of geographers [see Fall (2007) on the difficulties of concept traveling, Debarbieux (1999) for an exercise in comparison]. In this paper we refer to Le¨vy (1994), Le¨vy and Lussault (2003), Lussault (2007), and Raffestin (1986; 1997) and their theoretical definitions of space and territory. Also see Painter (2009, page 64), who says territories can be understood as ``configurations of mobile objects-in-relation''. (4) Thanks to the seminal work of such geographers as Bingham and Thrift (2000), Hetherington (1997), Hinchliffe (1996), Murdoch (1997; 1998), Thrift (1996), Whatmore (2001), and of such sociologists of science as Callon and Law (2004), and Latour (1993; 1997; 2005). Law (2002; 2004) Law and Mol (2001), to name a few, we can take for granted that geography and sociology of science have many concepts in commonömany of these papers having been published in special issues in this journal.

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than they do on paper. When they still appear on paper, as is the case when one prepares a trip or sends instructions to friends, chance is that this piece of paper is only a printout from a tiny fraction of a computerized databank, a frozen image that will be thrown away after it has been used. While in precomputer times (`BC', as geeks say) a map was a certain amount of folded paper you could look at from above or pinned down on some wall, today the experience we have of engaging with mapping is to log into some databank, which gathers information in real time through some interface (usually a computer). Printing has become optional. The paper map, which was so central to the mapping experience, is now just one of the many outputs that the digital banks may provide, something we can switch on or off for convenienceรถjust as we do with our printer รถbut that no longer defines the whole enterprise. At first sight, a navigational interface like Google Earth may feel like a good old survey of a satellite photograph or paper map, except it is much easier to `fly over'. But this impression of familiarity soon becomes disturbingly odd when you can switch with one click from cartography to photography, from 2D to 3D, from small scale to large scale, depending on the choice you make of various overlays. And this ease of navigation is nothing compared with the shock one may feel when suddenly totally bizarre types of information pop up at you: advertisement for some Pizza Hut joint, street views taken by complete strangers, moving images transforming part of the scene into real-time videos, projections on the screen of historical information, alerts to the presence in the neighborhood of some people you may have befriended through some freshly designed social networks. To be sure, all those pieces of information could have been made available on BC maps, but each would have had to be printed on a separate broadsheet or added on a separate medium. Now, because of the digital compatibility of all those heterogeneous forms of media, they can be entered in similar types of databanks and be made available according to your queries and recalculated every time in real time. An added bonus is that the platform allows the user to add fresh personal information to the bank, thus transforming the user of the map into one of its myriad amateur contributors. To be sure, this is not a new experience for practicing geographers used to the notion of interactive cartography since the 1980s and to Google Earth since 2005 (see Crampton, 2003; Goodchild, 2007), but it is for sure a new experience for the masses now engaged in using maps very differently. How does one define what is original in this collective experiment? Let's say that when we log in through some interface into some geographical databank, our computer screen (fixed or portable, this no longer matters) plays the role of a dashboard allowing us to navigate through totally heterogeneous sets of data, which are refreshed in real time and localized according to our specific queries (Cartwright, 1999; Pointet, 2007). So, even though the experience of digital navigation may at first sound like a mere extension of the older experience of looking at geographical data and combining it with some other types of information, after a while the number of new traits is so large that one is forced to confess that this is indeed a new experience (Bowker, 2006). Our analysis is that digital technologies have reconfigured the mapping experience into something else that we wish to call a navigational platform that is characterized by the presence of: . Databanks. . Some interface for data handling, ie, calculation, treatment, and retrieval. . A dashboard for interfacing with the users both ways. . Many different outputs tailored to a great variety of users รถone of the outputs being paper printouts.

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What we mean today by `looking at a map' is `logging onto some navigational platform' and may be, but no longer necessarily, printing some chunk of it to help circumnavigate through some complicated trajectory. If we emphasize the novelty of the experience offered to everyone of us by the advent of digital mapping, it is not to indulge any sort of technical hype. On the contrary, it is to seize the occasion to realize how much the older BC mapping was already providing its users with all the benefits of a navigational platform. When we now look in retrospect to the many various ways in which maps were really experienced by their practitioners, we see that they have always been used as a rather complex and variegated interface of calculation for navigational purposes. So, we can now reinterpret the mapping impulse by recognizing six essential features that have always been there Ăś BC (before computers) as well as AC (after computers): . Acquisition of data: this is the work of first surveying a land by navigating through it (heroically at first and routinely now). . Management of data: this refers to the institutions that are necessary to gather, house, conserve, archive, maintain, and standardize masses of acquired data. . Recalculation of data: the cumulative effects that centers of calculation allow by the superposition and cross reference of many types of heterogeneous information made more or less coherent through conventions and standards and recalculated thanks to many successive inventions in mathematics and data handling. . Printout: the provisional outputs of the platform as they are produced for various types of customers and usages. . Signposts: the many artifacts that are aligned so as to render the printout usable and to establish some correspondence (more of this below) between two successive pieces of information. . Navigational usage: the variegated ways in which the platform is being put to use by many different types of endusers. Although huge differences exist between the early work of courageous explorers and cartographers (Alder, 2003; Trystram, 2001), and the use of GPS and remote sensing, we wish to claim that those six features have always been present and that, if digital techniques have vastly accelerated the moves and provided many new accelerated feedback loops between those steps, their net result is to have made more salient the presence of this long chain of production that existed already in the past (Carpo, 2001). In other words, if you could easily forget the masses of institutions, skills, conventions, and instruments that went into the making of a beautifully printed atlas, it is much more difficult to do so now that we are constantly reminded of the number of satellites presiding over our GPS, of the sudden disappearance of network coverage, of the variations in data quality, of the irruption of censorship, of the inputs of final users in sending data back, and so on. As usual, far from increasing the feeling of dematerialization, digital techniques have rematerialized the whole chain of production. Today it is impossible to ignore that, whenever a printed map is available, there exist, upstream as well as downstream, a long and costly chain of production that requires people, skills, energy, software, and institutions and on which the constantly changing quality of the data always depends. If BC every geographer knew that (after all, it was part and parcel of their daily practice), in the AC era every enduser is prone to feel the presence of those networks as well.

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3 Navigational versus mimetic interpretation of maps It is this new salience of the whole chain of production that we want now to use in order to highlight a puzzling feature of maps: if maps have always been part of this chain, why have they been interpreted as having a correspondence with a physical territory? Is it possible that the very notion of territory is tied to a certain fascination with maps รถa fascination due to the overlooking of the whole chain of production? That the map is not the territory every reader of Borges's rather too famous fable ``Of exactitude in science'' knows very well (Borges, 2004). But we have another reason to think that such a project could produce only `unconscionable maps': what is called the `land' to be overlaid by a scale one cartography might not exist either; it might be an artifact, a belated consequence of a wrong philosophy applied to the cartographic enterprise. With the digital ubiquity of mapping, we are literally entering a `new territory' that is so new it bears almost no resemblance with what was called `territory' before.(5) To understand this, one has only to get closer to the ways the correspondence between maps and lands is made in practice (Hutchins, 1995; Kitchin and Dodge, 2007).(6) Consider a simple example: all yachtsmen know that the navigator inside the cabin is busy using the map laid out in front of her to calculate with ruler and compass the best route taking into account the many shreds of information shouted at her from the cockpit. For the navigator, the map is indeed like a 2D slide-rule that incorporates in a precalculated format huge masses of information about angles and distances and on which is overlaid in various fonts other types of information รถ toponyms, average strength of currents, range of tides, seamarks and landmarks, shapes of reefs and wrecks, various regulations, and so on. The only difference between the situation BC and AC is the navigator had to do everything on the very surface of the beautiful and water-proof shining paper map and not, as she would do nowadays by logging onto her GPS-equipped laptop, on a screen through a keyboard. It requires no great leap of imagination to redescribe the navigator's workplace as a platform interface of calculation in both situationsรถwith this difference that there is paper in one and may be no paper in the other. Now the navigator tries to establish some relation between some of the features on the map and the warnings shouted at her from the cockpit by her team members whose views are made fuzzy by the sea spray, their voices covered by the roar of the waves, and their hearts excited by the heat of the race. Even if she had learned her Descartes by heart, she would never fancy for one minute that the skipper and the crew live in some `outside world' that would resemble the geometric one she is looking at; too many features would not obviously fit in this geometrical world: the spray, the waves, the heat, the excitation of the treacherous landscape, the skills of the maneuvers. But it would be just as wrong to believe that the navigator, because she is down in the cabin looking over the map tracing their tacks on paper with ruler and compass, resides `in' a geometrical space (Ingold, 2007). The relation she is looking for is based not on some resemblance between the map and the territory but on the detection of relevant cues allowing her team to go through a heterogeneous set of datapoints from one signpost to the next: some signposts are made visible from the cockpit in the hurly burly world (for instance, a roaring red buoy that the crew was desperately trying to tack), and some are visible in the no less hurly burly nauseating world of the cabin (for instance, a dark spot on the map with a red tip, which is just at the right angle expected by the (5) See, for instance, literature on globalization, where a similar thinking also emerges (Amin, 2002; Elden, 2005; Sheppard, 2002). (6) Vertesi (2008) describes this correspondence in the case of the London Underground map and its users.

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navigator since the last beacon has been safely recognized and pinpointed with a blue pencil). What is clear from the example of the continually renegotiated connection between the navigator and the skipper in the cockpit is that in the past we might have confused two entirely different meanings of the word `correspondence': the first seems to rely on a resemblance between two elements (signs on the map and territory, or more philosophically words and worlds), while the second emphasizes the establishment of some relevance that allows a navigator to align several successive signposts along a trajectory. While the first meaning implies what James called a salto mortale (deadly jump) between two, and only two, endpoints through a huge gap, the second defines what James called a deambulation between many successive stepping stones in order to achieve the miracle of reference by making sure that there is as little a gap as possible between two successive links (James, 1996a). Both are depending on correspondence, but one engages the mapping impulse into an impasse (ironically recorded by Borges's fable: is the map similar to the territory?) while the other allows one to move away from it and deploy the whole chain of production that has always been associated with map makingĂśas we recognized above. To clarify the difference between the two meanings, we are going to call the first one the mimetic interpretation and the second the navigational interpretation of maps. Why navigational? Because we argue that the common experience of using digital maps on the screen, and no longer on paper, has vastly extended the meaning of the word navigation. In effect, we are led back to the earliest use of the map-making impulse (Jacob, 1992), not only in the maritime sense of the word but in the vastly enlarged meaning that is now familiar through digital worlds (Cartwright, 1999). The users of the platforms are engaged in receiving and sending information to allow other agents to find their way through a maze of data: it could be data about the yacht's trajectory (as in the example of the navigator above), in a digital library (Bowker, 2006; Fabrikant and Buttenfield, 2001), or through a social network or through a city. It does not matter: everyone now has the experience of navigating through successive signposts on screen. The BC and AC meaning of navigation taken literally or figuratively are thus in continuity with one another. The whole history of cartography would show, if it is taken as a practical activity, all the explorers, navigators, cartographers, geometers, mathematicians, physicists, military personnel, urban planners, and tourists that have `logged in', so to speak, on those `platforms' in order to feed the `databanks' with some piece of information, or to draw the maps, or to use them in some way to solve their navigational problems (Chrisman, 1997; Collectif, 1980).(7) In all those cases, there is indeed a correspondence, but it works precisely because it is not mimetic. What counts in the example of the yacht is that the data sunk into the sea by the Nautical Service under the form of a roaring buoy bear some relation (angles especially) with the map that uses the same standards to code the same data (longitude and latitude) to which have been added several international conventions on how to design and where to sink the buoys and how to decide how to print signs on the maps. To be sure, there are plenty of mathematics, plenty of geometry, plenty of realities, plenty of correspondences, plenty of signposts in the world interpreted in its navigational dimension, but they are not distributed in the same way as with the mimetic dimension: they do not divide in two, so as to form a real analogical `outside' and a mapping representational one `inside'. (7) It

is on those principles that the mapping of scientific and technical controversies of the MACOSPOL project (http://www.macospol.eu/) as well as the demoscience consortium of teaching those `cartographic' techniques (http://www.demoscience.org/) are developed.

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Let us already note that in such a redescription reefs and risks, reefs as risks, are one and the same for the navigator: obstacles along the way she and her crew try to circumvent. We may now begin to sense why risk cartography is at once so difficult and so rewarding: there would be no meaning in having a mimetic interpretation of risks as if there were `out there' objective risks รถ for instance, disasters or catastrophes รถ which would then be mapped. It is clear that in the case of risks what should be recorded is rather a long collection of signposts (reefs, buoys, tidal information, algorithms, etc) and warnings (eg meteoalerts) that define complex paths through series of risk institutions and practices. And yet, this does not mean that one has to fall upon a merely subjective definition of risks. It is precisely because risks cannot be fully calculated that they may escape the fate of being divided into an objective reality to which one should then add a subjective interpretation.(8) A sturdy and realistic mapping of the trajectories through risk paths is perfectly possible, but on the condition of bypassing the mimetic interpretation given of maps. To sum up the argument so far, we can offer this diagram (figure 1) showing the same map interpreted in two orthogonal ways: the first one, the navigational one, inserts the map into a deambulation from one signpost to the next and establishes various correspondences within sets of heterogeneous media; the second interpretation, the mimetic one, imagines that there exist, because the navigational impulse has been forgotten, two sets of images that should resemble one another.

`Virtual image': the territory of the map

Mimetic dimension of mapping

`Real image': the map Signposts

Acquisition

Users' trajactories

Printout Recalculation Institution Navigational dimension of mapping

Figure 1 [In color online, see http://dx.doi.org/10.1068/d10409] Two orthogonal interpretations of the mapping impulse (source: base map comes from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration; alterations are authors' own).

(8) This

is what Beck has emphasized about the terrorist threat: ``as soon as we speak in terms of `risk', we are talking about calculating the incalculable, colonizing the future'' (2002, page 40). Also see Thrift, who says: ``I want to extend these thoughts in various directions, hoping to capture the outlines of a world just coming into existence, one which is based on continuous calculation at each and every point along each and every line of movement'' (2004, page 583). Also, the calculative mode of thinking as part of the notion of territory is present in Elden (2005).

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4 Learning to see territory as a `spurious referent' What we are now going to argue is that these two sets of images are actually an optical illusion and that there exists in effect, only one, the print mapöthus suggesting that it is difficult to detect in the notion of territory what is not coming from the map. But for this we should leave the case of maps and make a little detour through scientific inscriptions more generally. One of the striking results of the study of scientific visualization has been to show that a given image loses its scientific meaning once taken out of the cascade of antecedent and posterior images inside which it is inserted (Latour, 1986; 1987; Lynch and Woolgar, 1990; Pinch, 1986). To summarize a large body of work: an isolated image has no scientific referentöbut it generates, of course, like all images, a virtual image, the `what' that it is said to be the representation `of '. Taken in isolation, an electronic microscopic image of a virus, a photograph of a galaxy, and the drawing of a skeleton in a natural history museum have no specific value (even though they might have powerful aesthetic, pedagogical, or rhetorical strength). If you want to understand what an isolated inscription means in science, you have to reinsert it inside the cascade of other inscriptions out of which it has been extracted. A glance at scientific papers is enough to show that the proof never resides in one visual display but in the invisible constant that is conserved through the many intermediary steps leading from one inscription to the next (Netz, 2003) [and the series would be even longer if followed through the laboratory practices (see Latour, 1999)]. Any given image is always preceded or followed by long series of graphs, tables, equations, legends, and paragraphs, and it is the series in its entirety that can be said to `have a referent' or to prove something incontrovertibly (Daston and Galison, 2007). In other words, writing or reading a scientific paper heavily resembles the laying out of signposts that we have just described as the only practical way through which maps are generated. The important point for us here is that, contrary to what a common philosophy of science would lead us to believe, a scientific inscription is never engaged in a correspondence between two and only two endpoints: the representation and the model. There are indeed many correspondences between scientific inscriptions öand this is why the sciences are so often able to produce objective knowledge öbut those correspondences are always between one inscription and its many antecedents and consequents along the series of inscriptions that are being generated by instruments, theories, and calculations. Paradoxically (at least for the common view), it is because the series is uninterrupted and never broken down to the point of jumping `outside' that that objectivity may be reached by accessing phenomena that would be inaccessible without them. As soon as you break the cascade, an isolated image loses its scientific or referential character and enters a totally different trajectory. It becomes `mimetic' öthat is, it generates as a sort of halo a spurious referent that may seem very convincing but that has, in effect, no practical counterpart: it is the mere redoubling of what is being shown in the image. It leads you nowhere except to the equally spurious question of its `resemblance' with an original modelöthat is created by the representation itself. To decide whether a photograph of a galaxy is really objective or not, you have to reconnect the photograph with the long cascade of other inscriptions out of which it has been taken. And the crucial point here is that those inscriptions do not resemble the photographöand it is precisely this lack of resemblance that allows a gain in certainty as to the objective quality of the photograph (Latour, 1999). From a scientific point of view, a mere replication or resemblance between one inscription and the next would be a loss of objective information. Correspondence between successive dissimilar inscriptions is not to be confused with a resemblance between one image and its model.

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To sum up, not only maps but all scientific inscriptions may be framed in two orthogonal ways: the mimetic one (in fact a resemblance between an image and its virtual image) and the navigational one (a connection between one set of signposts and those dissimilar posts that precede and follow them). There is no doubt that in terms of gaining information, only the second one may provide objective knowledge. The first one is nothing but a narcissistic contemplation of one's own image. At this point in our argument, there is a well-known danger that could paralyze the reflection: that we are making here a critical point about either the lack of exactitude of mapping techniques or, even worse, about the `nonexistence' of an outside world. We beg the readers not to indulge in this facile turn of mind and to notice instead that those two questionsö`is the map an accurate representation or not?' (Borges's question), and `is there a real world outside of the map?' (the realist's question)öare both depending on understanding the map in a mimetic way, which is precisely the way out of which we try to escape. Those two `critical' questions don't have the least meaning if we go back to the other dimension of mapping that we have recognized as essential: the navigational one, which, according to our argument, has been refreshed by the recent transmigration of data into digital formats. As James (1996b) would have argued, on the contrary, it is only once we stop asking the mimetic question that there is no longer any doubt as to how connected we are to the real `outside' world. The `correspondence theory of truth' ö to use a cliche¨ dear to epistemologists ö is much more sturdy once many real correspondences have been established between two successive elements along the way. It is much safer to fumble from one signpost to the next than attempt to jump daringly from words to world or from maps to territory (Latour, 2007). 5 The influence of art history on the interpretation of maps Thus, there is nothing obvious, necessary, nor natural in engaging the map in a mimetic adventure.(9) Actually, what is so striking in looking at a two-dimensional map is how little it resembles the world it is supposed to `reflect'. Hence, the inescapable question: how come, in spite of this huge lack of resemblance, we have been forced to ask the map a mimetic question: do you represent accurately the `outside' world? The difficult historical question is why the mapping impulse, so clearly engaged in the practice of navigationöin the literal sense, at the time of the Great Discoveries, and later in the more generalized sense made possible by the shift to digital mediaöhas been interpreted mimetically (Cosgrove, 2003; Pickles, 2004). One of the answers might come not from the history of scientific visualization but from art historyöespecially painting (Casey, 2002). What is so characteristic of the ``art of describing'', to use Alpers's (1983) term, is that scientific and artistic visualizations, whatever their many crossovers and overlaps, have one radical difference: scientific inscriptions draw together long series of dissimilar navigational tools, whereas painting defines, by definition, only two endpoints, the prototype and the copy. Each painting, of course, may refer to one another through what literary critics call `intertextuality', but even if you do not know their author, their topic, their genre, or their value, you may grasp it as something that has meaning in itself: the `what' that it represents. You do not have to wait, as you do with scientific cascades of inscriptions, for another dissimilar image in order to align both of them into a process of (navigational) correspondence that generates an invisible constant. Painting deals with two endpoints; cartography with many. So, the argument can be made that it is paintingöperspective painting and even more precisely Dutch painting (10) öthat has allowed the culture of imagination to shift (9) And

the same could be said, much later, of photography (Crary, 1990). the many Dutch paintings including mapsöthink of Vermeer (Casey, 2002).

(10) Especially,

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the maps 908 and to connect them with the one-copy ^ one-model mode, even though, in terms of practical usage, no one has ever used the maps this way for any navigational purpose. In other words, maps have been aesthetized and fused with the emerging culture of `realistic' paintings. Quoting Panofsky (1997), we could say: ``This too like so many subdisciplines of modern `science', is in the final analysis the product of the artist's workshop'' (page 58). If this art history argument is correct, we could conclude that the common philosophy of science (`is science a mimetic representation of the ``outside'' world?'), makes sense for realistic perspective paintings but not so much for science. To put it too crudely, the so called `realist' philosophy of science is just as realistic as the still-life paintings of the Golden Century (Latour, 2008). As an art history interpretation, it may be fine; as a philosophy of scientific objectivity, it might not be so useful (Ivins, 1973). The realism of scientific inscriptions and especially of maps has always resided elsewhere: in the deambulation from one signpost to the next that it allows. Our admittedly grand argument is that this second dimension has been rather parasitical on the first and that this parasitic interpretation of maps has created the `virtual world' of a `territory' understood not as what is surveyed by the map but rather as a blind alley engaging the map in a destiny for which it was never made and for which it could never succeed (Harley, 1989; Monmonnier, 2005; 2006; 2007). Fortunately, everything happens as if the AC mapping practices had been freeing the BC maps of questions that had played, to be sure, a very important role (`is the map like the territory or not?'), but which are immaterial to the real success and import of mapping techniques. Or rather, we understand in retrospect that the very notion of territory is nothing but the `virtual image'öto use an optical metaphoröof a paper map interrupted in its navigational usage to answer a mimetic interpretation after all its real life users and makers have been all but deleted. This might explain why risk geography is so topical: it is precisely because it cannot rely on a fully calculable universe it has, so to speak, escaped the temptation of producing a spurious referent and is thus well adapted to being mapped in a navigational way. In this case, at least, the long and complex chains of practitioners, signposts, institutions, and warning systems that allow one to find one's way through controversies are what provide risk geography with its objective reality. It is because risk is so controversial that it may be mapped (November, 2002; forthcoming). 6 Space is a contested territory The reason we find probing maps this way so important is that this dissolution of territory as a spurious referent might help improve one of the notions geography has been fighting since its inception: the very notion of space to which the discipline is so attached (Massey, 2005). The question we want now to raise is whether the navigational interpretation of maps may help to revise the idea of space as it is used in geography. Historians of science, art historians, anthropologists of the industrial societies, and philosophers have always been struck by how unique the notion of space developed in the West since the Renaissance is (Derrida, 1998; Sloterdijk, 2004; Whitehead, 1920). This peculiarly odd notion is best captured by two adjectives: `Euclidian' and `Galilean'. In the Western scientific imagination öwithout, of course, any direct relation with practical realities öthe world is made of `Galilean objects' running through a `Euclidian space'. The key feature of those Galilean objects is that displacement does not imply any transformation; they are able to move but are themselves immutable, keeping their properties intact as they go (Latour, 1986). As to the Euclidian space, it is the repository inside which Galilean objects move without transformation and are rendered detectable and calculable through their changing positions.

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It does not require a great deal of attention to notice that in both cases the world drawn by Galilean objects moving in Euclidian space furiously resemble a world drawn on paper according to the precise rules of geometry, perspective, and later projective geometry (Ivins, 1973). What Descartes called the res extensa, the material stuff out of which the real world is supposed to be made, has the puzzling characteristic of resembling closely what can be drawn and also calculated on paper. This `close resemblance' is often (if we dare say) papered over by simply marveling at the sheer coincidence that makes the real world of res extensa so similar to what can be grasped by calculation, thus proving the fabulous power of the human mindöand of God, at least for Descartes. This `close resemblance', however, cannot but trigger the nagging suspicion that we might be talking here about a totally different and much less marvelous coincidence: the redoubling of the same world first as drawing and calculation on paper and second as the virtual image of a world represented by those same calculations and on this same paper. The cause for marveling is then rather different than in the first version: why have reasonable people confused the virtual image of the graphic and mathematical invention of three centuries of intellectual technologies with a real world that those technologies would merely `reflect' as exactly as possible? If you think about it, it is about as odd as to wonder how come there are two strikingly similar images of ourselves when we face a mirror. In effect, we have never been gazing at a world and then at its representation, but rather been engaging with a powerful set of intellectual technologies, so powerful that, when viewed under a certain angle, they project outside a virtual image of the same world with a few odd discrepancies. In other words, there exist representational techniques, and each of them produce a `what' outside of itself that is being represented. To be sure, the emergence and stability of a virtual image is a fascinating phenomenon (witness Narcissus!), but it is not a phenomenon of correspondence between two different worlds that would mysteriously `resemble' one another. Hence, the oddity of engaging the mapping impulse, one of the most elaborate intellectual technologies, in mimetic interpretation. One way to approach this retrospective shift in the understanding of the `scientific revolution' is to say that `space' and `territory' themselves are historical inventionsö largely due, as many historians have shown, to the necessity of giving a shape to states (Foucault, 1994). The invention of space could be called a `res extensa effect', which happens when you look at a map in a certain way and through a certain angle, and when you delete its users and makers öthe navigators in all of the BC and AC meanings of the wordöand erase the six steps of the technology of representation itself to concentrate on the virtual image this technology has projected outward. Then, but only then, you begin to devise a world made by stitching together within your imagination all the virtual images of all the maps (as in figure 2). At this point, a generalized Euclidian space is invented that is the repository of all the territories generated by all the maps. Then you reverse the order, as if we were moving from the abstract `Euclidian space' to the real `outside world' and then to the map (as in figure 3). In this view, space is but the virtual image of all the virtual images of all the mapping techniques that have been interpreted in a mimetic way. Paradoxically, res extensa is a by-product of res cogitans öor rather res imaginans. The `outside material' world might have been engendered by dreaming over overly beautiful maps. Virtual images, as is well known in optics, appear or disappear depending on the angle at which they are considered. Once the mapping impulse is reinterpreted in the navigational way, there is no longer a projection of a territory, nor of a Euclidian space. All the calculations and signposts are redistributed and embedded inside the world that bears no resemblance with the one that has emerged from mimetic mapping.

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Mimetic dimension of mapping

Generalized Euclidian space

``Virtual image'': the territory of the map

Real image: the map

Navigational dimension of mapping

Figure 2 [In color online.] The mimetic interpretation generates a generalized virtual image (source: base map comes from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration; alterations are authors' own). Commonsense genealogy of mapping

Physical background of reality: res extensa

Real physical territory

Representation with a map

Navigational dimension of mapping

Figure 3 [In color online.] The inversion of the mimetic interpretation makes the map a copy of the model provided. The navigational chain of production has been deleted (source: base map comes from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration; alterations are authors' own).

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If this argument is correct, this would explain why, for so many geographers, `space' is not a primeval feature of the world (Le¨vy, 1999; Thrift, 1996; Massey 2005).(11) `Space' appears and disappears historically as well as visually depending on whether we interpret representational techniques according to mimetic or navigational dimensions. It is our contention that the vastly expanded use of digital mapping renders the historical interpretation that has made space the indispensable category of cartography less commonsense (as if we were collectively moving again from figure 3 to figure 2 and then to figure 1). To navigate on screen is not the same as to imagine that we reside in space. This could throw new light on the efforts of so many scholars to escape the `tyranny of space' (Law, 2002). 7 Another take on the difference between `physical' and `human' geography We may now return to our original puzzle and try to account in a new more productive way for the ease with which `reefs' enter cartography and the difficulty with which `risks' were perilously registered inside geography.(12) Where do you put `risk' on a map? At first sight, the answer is nowhere (in the mimetic interpretation), since risk is not a feature of the `outside material' world. But as soon as you shift to a navigational interpretation, `risk' is just as important to detect on a map as the reefs that threaten the course of your travelöit is not a coincidence that the word risk in insurance and probability emerged in the 16th century among ship owners because it could threaten the maritime enterprise (Beck, 1992; Bernstein 1996).(13) Ask the navigator in the cabin, and she will certainly tell youöand shout to the skipper in the cockpit!öto beware of the risk of hitting some dangerous reef if they do not make sure that the next buoy in line is the one she has been warning them about beforehand and that she has marked in red pencil on her map. The navigator is just as attentive to a dotted line indicating a legal barrier (because of a navy training ground) as she is by an indication of depth or the odd name of a church the spire of which is also used as a landmark. The relations between those heterogeneous sources of data (legal, tidal, toponymical) is what counts for her when she uses the map as a platform for calculation through the database ö not especially their `spatial relations'. So, as soon as we shift to the navigational interpretation of geographical techniques, we realize that there is nothing especially spatial about geography. Any map is simply one set of inscriptions leading to and coming from another series of dissimilar signposts to help navigators find their way through their trajectories. Or, rather, each entityöthe law, the tides, the churchöcreates several spaces around itself of which only some of their dimensions are entered in the database and queried by the navigator through the interface. In principle, any type of relation may be of interest for building the platform and may be selected on the dashboard provided they allow the navigation to proceed (Camacho-Hu«bner, 2009; Le¨vy, 1999; Pointet, 2007). This argument may free geography from its fascination with the base map, as if any type of data had to be shoehorned onto the topographic grid that has been invented originally, not for any mimetic use but only for navigation (in the literal sense of being on a moving machineöship, cars, planes, or footöand trying to anticipate the next (11) The argument is made even stronger when paralleled by that of time as Glennie and Thrift have shown (2009). (12) This unease is apparent also within the fragmented study of risks in geography (and, to be fair, not only in this discipline) where natural risks are predominantly being analyzed by physical geography and anthropic risks by human geography. (13) But apparently not because of the spurious etymology that would connect reefs and risks, since the word risk appears to come from an Arabic root meaning the undeserved gift of God.

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signpost with a special emphasis on the conservation of angles).(14) In other words, as so many geographers have argued, the mapping impulse is infinitely more open than cartography, itself much more variegated than topographyödigital techniques show that in retrospect. And yet, geography still imagines itself as being locked in topography, on top of which cartography would be overlaid, always with many agonizing scruples about what is allowed to be safely `shown' on a map.(15) Actually, the very distinction between `physical' and `human' geography, a divide that is as old as the bifurcation of nature (Whitehead, 1920) and that cuts across the discipline leading to the split of many academic departments, may be an artifact of engaging the mapping impulse in its mimetic interpretation. And the consequences are obvious on the way risks have traditionally been studied in geography, even though this is rapidly changing thanks to new topics such as climate change (Buckhingham and Turner, 2008; Giddens, 2009; Pelling, forthcoming). It is true that once you have confused the virtual image generated by the mapping techniques with the `outside material' world it is very difficult to see where you would situate the `humans' with all their subjective and symbolic enterprises öespecially when there is nothing topographical about them. Once, mountains and valleys, capes and rivers have been laid out, and you have transmogrified them into so many Galilean objects moving into a Euclidian space, it is very cumbersome to fit in human industry, economics, risk, travels, and so on, since you pretty well know that they do not `reside' in Euclidian space and share many more relations than the three sacrosanct ones of height, width, and length. It is important to realize at this point what our argument is not: it is not another phenomenological attempt to show, once again, that there exists a huge difference between the material world `as it is known by science' and the `lived' world as it is practiced by intentional humans. This distinction, no matter how commonsense it seems at first, has plagued geography because it has entrenched the division between `physical' and `human' geographies even further, as if the first was a good representation of the `real world' and the other a necessary complement to account for the `symbolic' way in which the real world is lived by human subjectivities. What we are arguing instead is that the reduction of the world to Galilean objects flowing effortlessly through Euclidian space is not an especially good representation of the real world either öphysical, biological, or human. Thus, there is not the slightest reason to limit the study of `human' to the symbolic domain either. `Galilean' and `Euclidian', after all, are adjectives that relate to highly specific historical sites, Euclid first and then Galileo (Netz, 2003; Biagioli, 1993). Far from being the universal a priori of any metaphysics, they should be inserted into the description of navigational practices with all their local, historical, and anthropological contingencies. Our contention, contrary to that of phenomenology, is that any realistic interpretation of what it is to be `thrown in' the world, should begin by interrogating anew what the `scientific world view' is supposed to be (Sloterdijk, 2005). And there is no question that a large part of what we usually mean by `physical' is an imaginary virtual world born out of intellectual technologiesöof which the map is arguably the most impressive. The point we make, instead, is that mountain, rivers, valleys, capes, and promontories do not sit well in this Euclidian space either. If you do not know where to put the `humans' on the map, you should be just as concerned about what to do with the nonhumans. No one and no thing ever resided in the virtual image of the map. (14) Anticipation

is, of course, what has been so important in the history of probability (Hacking, 2006). (15) This point is, of course, one of the main concerns in mapping risk issues and making them public and engaging with the Public (in the sense of Dewey) through participative cartography [see Crampton (2009) for recent development in this field].

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The mountain range on the map bears no more resemblance with the mountain range `out there' than the village, the economic market, or the recommended roads outlined in green on the tourist's Michelin map. Either you are able to put all of them on the map depending on the precise navigational usages at hand or none of them. Either risks and reefs may cohabit on the map, or you should banish both of them. The real difference is not between `physical' and `human' geography but between taking a map mimetically (in which case it does create a difference between human and nonhuman) and taking a map navigationally (in which case there is no relevant difference between the two). What is commonly called the `outside material' world, the one more or less accurately `represented' by the maps, is entirely a by-product of the imagination, an aesthetic view of technical practices that have been put in the background. There is nothing especially `material' in this Euclidian space inside which Galilean objects would flow effortlessly without undergoing any transformation. To achieve the historical anthropology of the advent of the res extensa would be a major undertaking (and impossible to summarize here anyway), but it is clear to many scholars that the immense shift in imagination that has been called `the scientific revolution' cannot be understood simply as the progressive or sudden discovery of a Euclidian world over there waiting to be unveiled. What Whitehead (1920) has called the ``bifurcation of nature'', that is, a division between, on the one hand, `primary qualities' known by science and, on the other, `secondary qualities', invented by human subjective minds, is not a feature of the world itself but a very specific moment in a historyöa moment that had a beginning and fortunately may come to an end, the `modernist parenthesis' (Latour, 2008). Something entirely different than the discovery of nature has happened for which many disciplines are struggling for words öespecially geography. 8 Conclusion: from space to the multiverse What happens when you stop dreaming over maps and you draw again the six steps from section 1? Well, all the virtual images that the mimetic interpretation had been generating begin to fade and vanish, and with them space first and then territories: you resume the course of navigation, and everything is on the move again. As we saw in earlier sections, maps now strike you not as what represent a world `out there' but as the dashboards of a calculation interface that allows you to pinpoint successive signposts while you move through the world. But through which world ? It is not, of course, the `outside world' this virtual image produced for your mind onlyöonly Narcissus believes you can reside in this world of fascination. Needless to say that it is also not the `subjective symbolic' world of human intentional subjects, since this one exists only by contrast with the equally fictitious world of `primary qualities'. No, the world in which you now try to navigate, thanks to the many scientific techniques that have laid out their long series of inscriptions and instruments, is the real world, but it is not the 3D world. Since there is no good accepted termöwhich in itself is odd since it is the only world we all inhabit, humans as well as nonhumans!öwe will use James's term, multiverse, indicating by this word that it is indeed just as real as the `universe' of commonsense but that it has not been prematurely unified through a continuous `physical space', in effect the res extensa. What has been so odd with the advent of geography is that not only does it purport to be about `spatial dimension' but confesses how difficult it is to `include' the time dimension (see Glennie and Thrift, 2009; Ha«gerstrand, 1975; May and Thrift, 2001; Schwanen, 2007). But what we just said about the spurious distinction between `physical' and `human' geography is even truer of the efforts to add the fourth dimension to the `three dimensions' of Euclidian space. To be sure, once you believe you have

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frozen the navigational movements in the three dimensions of Euclidian space, it is very difficult to see how you could insert the obvious fact of movement and transformation. But this difficulty vanishes once you realize that in geographyöprovided you shift to the navigational interpretation of mapsöeverything is on the move: the navigator in the yacht, the yacht itself, the pencil on the map, the tide, the current, the Nautical Service in charge of sinking the buoys, in brief the whole damned multiverse. The very idea of a time separated from a space (as if a fourth dimension had to be added to the three of `commonsense' ö as if living in a Euclidian space was commonsense!) comes from dreaming over a map too long. Yes, when you engage a map in its mimetic mode, time disappears, but that is because you deal with a frozen image, or synchronic cut (Camacho-Hu«bner, 2009), selected out of the cascade of transformations inside which it is inserted and because you have deleted all the transformations undergone by the entities you wish to navigate öthe yacht, the tide, the reefs, the risks, the race. The very idea of a mobile moving without undergoing any transformation is the result of an aesthetic contemplation of an isolated inscription (Latour, 1986). It is not a property of the worldöat least not of the multiverse. It has been our contention that the massive diffusion of digital technology has allowed not only geographersöthey knew that all alongöbut a much larger public to shift from a mimetic to a navigational interpretation of maps. This shift has the unintended consequenceöif pushed to its philosophical originsöof freeing maps from their relationship to a spurious definition of territory. This, in turn, may give a realistic nonsubjective meaning to a whole set of practices that until then had to be divided between an `objective reality'öoften associated with a fond de carteöand `subjective layers' that had to be added in order to accommodate subjective interpretations. In other words, the mapping impulse might be freed from the `tyranny of space' (Law, 2002). This might throw a new light on several topics but certainly on risk geography, which has been paralyzed by the distinction between `subjective' and `objective' risks, itself a consequence of the entrenchment of the division between `human' and `physical' geography. It is now possible to envisage drawing paths through controversial risks without having to abandon objectivity, even though many of the risks are not fully calculable. A whole set of new features, such as anticipation, participation, reflexivity, and feedbacks, might now be included in the navigational definition of maps (November, 2004). We are aware that this new way of looking at risk geography might have interesting political consequences as well (Latour and Weibel, 2002). Acknowledgements. This paper has been written with the support of the European project MACOSPOL on mapping scientific controversies. We thank Albena Yaneva, Nigel Thrift, Jim Proctor, and the Me¨The¨oGe¨o collective in Grenoble, as well as two anonymous referees for their useful comments. References Ackerman J (Ed.), 2009 The Imperial Map. Cartography and the Mastery of Empire (University of Chicago Press, Chicago, IL) Alder K, 2003 The Measure of all Things: The Seven-year Odyssey and Hidden Error that Transformed the World (The Free Press, New York) Alpers S, 1983 The Art of Describing (University of Chicago Press, Chicago, IL) Amin A, 2002, ``Spatialities of globalisation'' Environment and Planning A 34 385 ^ 399 Beck U, 1992 Risk Society: Towards a New Modernity (Sage, London) Beck U, 2002, ``The terrorist threat. World risk society revisited'' Theory, Culture and Society 19 39 ^ 55 Bernstein P L, 1996 Against the Gods: The Remarkable Story of Risk (Wiley, New York) Biagioli M, 1993 Galileo Courtier: The Practice of Science in the Culture of Absolutism (Chicago University Press, Chicago, IL) Bingham N, Thrift N, 2000, ``Some new instructions for travellers : the geography of Bruno Latour and Michel Serres'', in Thinking Space Eds M Crang, N Thrift (Routledge, London) pp 281 ^ 301

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10. Rem Koolhaas, “Exodus, or, The Voluntary Prisoners of Architecture” en SMLXL (The Monacelli Press: New York, 1995). Publicado originalmente en Casabella (1972).

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What Do We Mean by “Program”?

The Convergence of Architecture and Interface Design Benjamin H. Bratton Yahoo!, SCI_Arc, UCLA | benjamin@bratton.info

Very often in my discussions with interaction designers, there is strong agreement that their work should include in its assignment a broader range of interactions, including things like supply-chain systems, recycling techniques, intangible workflow processes, traffic interfaces, and even furniture. There is a hope that their discipline would have something important to say (and do) for the design of interaction wherever it may meaningfully occur. There is, however, less insight than enthusiasm into how other design disciplines have thought about these issues, and therefore where closer bonds are most needed. If interaction design is to make good on its aspiration to move beyond the relatively closed, localized experience of clickable software buttons and expand into the more open, expansive agenda of how human-scale and city-scale interactions can be designed, then it will do well to consider how architecture relates to human-machine interaction (as body and building) and what might be learned from it. Design is not only the design of things in themselves but perhaps more important the design of how things work together (something more complex and

elusive). Architecture refers to this working together as “program”—a set of designed or designable scripts that organize organization itself, that imagine in advance how things will play out, and stage their interrelations accordingly. It seems that the word and the concept have a vital and specific role in enabling the necessary scalar shifts to which interaction design aspires, one which is not only about the convergences of interfaces (and disciplines) but also their replications and divergences. Embedded Interfaces: Software and Space To investigate what organization-of-organization really means, we have to first specify what it is that programs program, namely “interfaces.” If we think of interface design as an expertise in the points of contact between complex and perhaps incompatible systems, the design of interfaces has everything and nothing to do with software or architecture per se, as both systems are themselves organizations of interfaces programmed in particular ways. We study and produce interfaces between humans and computers but understand that the chain of interactive succession extends far beyond the moment when

buttons on screens are clicked. It extends all the way down into global and local networks of systemic interconnectivity, including and dependent upon concrete, tangibly embedded interfaces like buildings, cables, and cities. Conversely, once we think about how and why physcial things are moving as they are through urban space, we discover the software under the surfaces of everyday hardwares. Each couches the other. I hope to clarify—particularly for interaction designers who specialize in the creation of software graphical user interfaces—a necessary convergence between these two nominally distinct design practices, architecture and interaction design, and to sketch an image for programmatic thinking that is more encompassing than has been previously considered. My hope is that as points of contact between complex systems are necessarily both physical and virtual, and as each creeps further into the domain of the other, a combined agenda of architecture and interaction design will emerge called perhaps simply “interface design.” I would hope that this emergent discipline will be widely understood not only as a design craft but also as having significant

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ramifications for organizational management and governmental theory and practice. In the concentration of architecture and interaction design, this interface design will have less to do with the formal correspondence of software that uses architectural metaphors (such as Second Life) or architecture that uses software metaphors (such as airport signage), or even “interactive architecture” (think Jacques Tati at Ars Electronica) than pragmatic convergences and divergences of the social and cultural operations and expressions they all share: the primacy of the idea and ideal of “program.” Program Per Se/ Propositional Infrastructures Where do programs come from and why? Program is the image (prescriptive, diagnostic, analytic) of how a field of interfaces comes together into a specific active system. When architects are engaged in conceiving the integration of structure, space, layout, partition, void, pathway, of how people course through them and push against them, and of how those structures and pathways will push against the people, they call this thinking and planning “programming.” The design of architectural pro-

grams, like interaction design for software, is based in the creative analysis of organizational needs and possibilities and crafting an infrastructure to best stage desired conditions of connection and interaction. In the most specific sense, the architectural discourses around “program” (and there are many, both enthusiastic and dismissive) are where the question of spatial interaction design comes into play, even if it is seldom referred to as such. In architecture, program is the framing script for how inhabitants will engage with a spatial system over time, or over a day, or simply from one place to the next. It is the prescriptive imaginary for how the architectural space will coperform its functions with those people and things that it will house. Hospitals are planned in a certain way because medical programs demand it. Prisons have regimented partitions and interfaces because the penal discipline uses these as its physical methods of punishment, control, and surveillance. Warehouses are planned and coded as they are to support the efficient movement and display of transient inventory, a program of logistics. A border between two countries is put together the way it is in response to the discourses of the

nation and its designed contiguity, as well as security interfaces. Even more dynamic, culturally specific environments utilize program: Successful carnivals (and protests) opportunistically take advantage of the urban environment to upset everyday work and function. Program is not just about function. It is more about setting up the terms (designing) by which the built environment (including hardware and software) can actively participate well in social and economic intercourse and then letting life assume the territory. In the conventional sense of architecture, interfaces converge in a fixed site bound by a building envelope, creating in their arrangement a bound interior. Today our own hypermodernity can make some stable systems (such as libraries and nations) more fluid and liquid, and the volatility and divergences of interfaces make the joint agenda of architects and interaction designers that much more critical. Hard and Soft Interaction in Historical Context For this expanded landscape, in which soft and hard systems intermingle on the go, the concern of architectural program is still to stage desired conditions of connection and interaction,

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separation, and discreteness, but it is as much about network effects and affects, software infrastructures, and experiences, as it is about glass and concrete. The blending of architectural thinking and media-information technology design is by no means new. Quite the opposite. But its story tends to be told from the perspective of architecture, the more discursively mature discipline. Interaction design as a discipline does not have a coherent, historical discourse. It does not, as of yet, have all that much to say about how “interaction” was designed in ancient Rome, in the midst of the Paris Commune, or among the Iroquois confederacy. While today interaction design is more practical than epistemological, this will likely not be the case by the middle of this century. As computer science and philosophy annex each other, interaction design may do something similar with sociology and architecture. If so, this may prove less the end, vanishing, or eclipse of architecture (as some have suggested) than the disclosure (finally!) of its first truly post-Industrial assignment. As we look forward to a design practice with holistic concern for all kinds of human-related interfaces, the lessons learned about the problem of “program” by architecture are of direct value to interaction designers who are now asked to solve similar organizational design briefs with different tools. Architectural Program in Transition How has the notion of program changed as architecture’s own

image of itself has changed? How has it driven and been driven by cycles of modernity and media technologies? First, program needs to be understood in relation to a reflexively generative relationship between bodies and the physical spaces they inhabit. French sociologists Pierre Bourdieu and Henri Lefebvre employed the notion of “habitus” to analyze this very reflexivity. Habitus is the root from which both habit (as in bodily habit) and habitat are derived. It can be used to discuss how one informs the other, how bodily habits, especially of large populations, wear grooves into space, producing habitats in their image. For one, this is how archaeologists are able to divine social practices from reconstructed architectural debris: The forms imply what made them. Conversely, space frames and constrains the action that it houses, training bodies and thereby program in its image. To be sure, habit and habitat emerge at once, a conjoined machine, not in some never-ending representational reciprocity. In essence, the patterns that program seeks to specify can be understood as the prescriptive or analytical images of this emergence. In the early years of modernity, architectural programs may be seen as explicitly diagrammatic of a larger ethos of moral order. Usually drawn as plans (two-dimensional line-based images of a site, as if seen from above with the roof removed), schemes relied heavily on graphical symmetry to imply and ensure the clear-mindedness of their implications. (Examples of this include Charles Fourier’s

plans for a utopian community, or Michel Foucault’s analysis of Jeremy Bentham’s ideal prison.) In these a recommended moral order is drawn into an unfolding embodiment of adjacency, hierarchy, discipline, and procession. The architecture that would be constructed is almost directly translated and extruded from these idealized, floating arrangements. This configuration was well-suited to a society in which large, immobile institutions were constructed to transfer scientific and moral authority onto a relatively local, immobile population. Though to this day, the plan remains the preferred device with which to draw program; for it the “floor” is the tablet to be partitioned by lines, and program is modeled as a compartmentalization of habitat type into clear zones of activity. But modernity’s accelerations brought radical forms of urbanization, technological speed, and rationality, as well as new mobilities of people, labor, and capital. Traditional social forms were uprooted, populations were moved to city centers, and sidewalks filled with strangers, unskilled and hyperskilled segmented into increasingly narrow specialties. Places of work, factories or highrise offices, where those modern interfaces converged and synthesized, became machines of functionalism. Reciprocity developed: Architecture and industrial design sought to train an organization into the rational image of its new equipment and simultaneously to model that equipment in the image of an ideal organizational form. The social agenda was not only to accommodate, but continu-

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Today architecture finds itself confronting ing the modernist project, also to improve it according to its own abstract ideals. Form itself was hyperrationalized, reduced to its most essential purpose. Calculated, or so it was claimed, for maximum performance and throughput. “Interaction design” proper was born, both sinister and progressive (in the image of both Taylor’s studies to minimize assembly-line movements and Louis Kahn’s studies of traffic patterns in Philadelphia). Formal aesthetics also emerged that mirrored this machine logic; functionalism became codified into design ethics of usability and later with it the formal application of persona typologies as design-research techniques. But the machinic mechanization of programmatic efficiency was also in conflict with the cultural ethos of postwar society and its celebration of the individual. The question of who was using whom became increasingly more volatile, exploding even in the world’s cities in the late 1960s in a broad social and political revolt against the very logic of efficient function that opaque, rectilinear modernist corporate architecture embodied. Function became the enemy of possibility, gridded structure the opposite of open innovation. And against this backdrop, “program” became a dirty word. Its projective logic not only remained, however, but it also blossomed, less a script for organizational efficiency than a platform for speculative conceptualization of impossible alternative cities. Challenges for Architectural Program in a Software Society And so today, in facing the “Google economy” and the chal-

lenges of a hyperglobalized, increasingly mobile, and intensely capitalized economy, architecture finds itself confronting several paths and roadblocks at once, some formal, some genetic, some informational, some phenomenological, some performative—some having little to do with buildings as we might normally think of them. Architecture critic Hans Ibelings describes architecture’s programmatic responses to millennial globalization as “supermodernism.” He describes how the rate of change of occupancy, the requirements of flux and flow, the legal and financial constraints of the buildout, not to mention the sheer velocity with which information pushes people and goods through volumes and voids, has focused architecture’s expertise (1) to the blunt envelope’s requirements of a hyperperformative of highperformance spaces and superbrutalism (as volume and wedge) and (2) to the maximal intelligent, intricate, and interactive surfaces (as skin and screen). In this, formally specific (and therefore static) programmatic solutions underestimate the contemporary speed of space and are replaced by cheaper, more flexible dumb sheds. Mutability of occupation through quarterly financial cycles wins out over specific frameworks, which become so much noise in the system and end up contributing friction and inefficiency. Anything that reduces flexibility that is anything but smooth (literally and metaphorically) is only decorative and unassimilated into the larger network of space, capital, and experience. Think of the difference between

several paths and roadblocks at once, some formal, some genetic, some informational, some phenomenological, some performative— some having little to do with buildings as we might normally think of them.

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organization to the software, between individuals and individuals through the software, and between some software and other software.

the singular Chrysler Building in New York City, a permanent public exoskeleton of the corporate body casting up into the sky, and on the flip side a network of giant metal rectangles in the middle of a field in Arkansas where cars are today assembled within jumbo shipping containers in economic and political obscurity. But this is only one response to the requirements of a

instrumental interfaces. And so the architecture story is actually a software story as well. Below I consider convergences, replications, and divergences in more detail. New Context: Architectural Interfaces Becoming Software Interfaces Architecture is being transposed, translated into software systems. Techniques of organi-

New Context: Software Interfaces Becoming Architectural Interfaces Does this transposition mean that in turn, software becomes the architecture? Yes and no. In the 1990s it was fashion-

software-driven second modernity, which shares the ideal of functionalism with its 20thcentury incarnation. What has changed this time is the notion of “functional.” No longer is it sufficient for the built environment to facilitate, for example, a specific industrial process. It must be able to evolve alongside the rapid mutation of industry in general. We see another convergence between the design of the built environment and digital systems, one in which it is no longer sufficient for the program to run the same way every time as it were. Instead organizational programmatic specificity moves from hard architectural interfaces to soft

zational management (where it is that bodies-in-space go, and what they do once they are put there, how they come in contact with each other) that were once the expert province of architecture have since the mid-1960s been transferred to increasingly powerful and nimble softwarehardware complexes. This has had a considerable effect on the push and pull of corporate centralization and decentralization, social nearness and farness, cultural privacy and publicity, and individual and collective participation in the modern organization. Much interaction design done during this period sought to provide clearer interfaces between individuals in this

able to imagine that this macrotrend of architectural interfaces dissolving into software interfaces spelled the end of cities. Why centralize when we can work from whatever exourban enclave we choose? But for many reasons, the continuing urbanization of the planet’s population has only intensified, both driving and being driven by the emergence of a software society. Sociologist-urbanists like Manuel Castells have demonstrated how the globalization of flow contributes to the intensification of throughput through specific, mega-bandwidth urban nodes. Steve Graham has identified a kind of “tunneling effect” whereby bandwidth infrastruc-

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ture allows for better connectivity (functional proximity) between Los Angeles and New York than, say, Los Angeles and San Bernardino. So as the proximity to rivers, oceans, and shipping ports sparked commerce in the past, today proximity to cheap, plentiful, open bandwidth becomes the geographically specific interface upon which organizations rely to centralize their operations. This produces vastly complicated intersections of politics, economics, and social culture, both intensifying links between some territories and further disconnecting other regions. In this, the spatial career of software is entirely dependent upon large-scale architecture as its medium and force, and vice versa. It doesn’t displace the meta-interface of the city—it feeds it. Information technologies and social systems of spatial formation, interaction, signification, emergence, and complexity always commingle and codetermine each other. Today software is an increasingly promiscuous substance. It intermingles with every object. It either animates that object (like a gasoline pump, a street light or an alarm clock) or it guides that object to us through various supply-chain interfaces (to a store shelf), or perhaps the object becomes known to us first as a digital representation of itself (via eBay) only later materialized to direct experience (via FedEx). Software is already everywhere, and computation is already pervasive, though not as pervasive as it will be. The real frontier of that ubiquity is, I surmise, not in talking appliances and smart gadgets, but in the deep, invisible logisti-

cal systems that circulate the massive distribution of objects and quasi-objects to their proper locations. To me, the magic of UbiComp is already apparent in the intensity of strategic intelligence brought to bear by suppliers upon the competitive array of shelf display space at WalMart. The mind boggles. Computation in the Wild Further, for most of the world’s citizens, their first owned, personal computer will not be a (hundred-dollar) laptop but a (ten-dollar) handheld device/ phone/PDA of some kind. This is a critical difference in the experience of world-software interactions. For the West, the scalar phenomenology of computing runs from large to small, from architecture to accessory, from building-scale mainframes to desk-scale PCs to lap-scale laptops to hand-scale PDAs. Similarly, our understood history of telephony is one that moves from fixed-line phones (where telephony was a fixed function of the architecture) to one untethered within the domain of domestic space, to finally one that we put in our pockets. Phones were “de-architecturalized”; they become an extension of our bodies, not our homes and offices. As the modern city was built around providing real and virtual proximity, shared space and centralized bandwidth, a new city is emerging that two billion people already carry in their hands. For most humans (the “we” that live in “developing countries”), the personal experience of computational information media will start off as hypermobile, conversationcapable devices. For most, com-

putation will begin as a sort of remote control for the world, albeit one centered around synchronous P2P voice protocols (aka phone calls). Because of this, the really important applications in pervasive computing (those built on emergent social behavior around information, and those that enable the acceleration of informal economies to connect across urban, political divides) will more likely emerge from internet cafes and third bedrooms in Delhi, Dakar, or Dar Es Salaam than in VC-funded cube farms in Sunnyvale, Cambridge, or Chelsea. At least one can hope so, and for them to separate interface design into hard and soft touchpoints will be less meaningful. Program and Interface Design: A Heuristic Program, regardless of medium, is always a translation of possibilities in relation to a set of contexts, themselves never directly given, rather filtered, interpreted, interpolated by a design scheme in particular ways. What appears obvious or even universal in a point in time to one design logic in its translation of context to solve a particular “program” (library, school, house, etc.) is completely unintelligible and bizarre to another logic at another time or place. This is no different for the design of software or any other interface. What would integrated look like? What is common language for this, a common language for the specification of soft and hard programs? Both disciplines are tasked with designing how complex organizations come in contact with their own people and processes, with external

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organizations and systems. Both are critically concerned with solutions that provide continuity and structure on the one hand and fluidity and iteration on the other. Both aspire to model these for spatially embedded interfaces, mobile interfaces on the go, for one-way information, twoway communication, for search and location. Both are projective in their purpose: Both imagine an organization performing differently, as a different organism, and both install hard and soft structures to bring that about.

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Universal Interface Design This is rudimentary information architectural theory, or should be. Again, “program” is the image of how interfaces, of whatever kind, come together into a real or potential active system of transference and communication. As a design venture, program is projective, even speculative. What will happen with the introduction or removal of some thing or process? What will happen to organizational translation? What is replaced or displaced in this? What intervention is at work in habit and habitat? This may begin as an analytical process, full of persona and testing, but no amount of research will add up to an irreducibly risky act of projection, to a simple act of design. This is where software “becoming” architecture means not only software becoming a kind of environmental intelligence, but also that the conceptual design of software becomes, like the architectural imaginary, a discourse for the projective conception of what our shared environment could be and should be. This is clearly already

at work and is to be encouraged as such. But for its part, software design is still underestimated as tactical, as a technique of management rather than management itself. It is not merely solving a particular problem, any more than a building is merely solving a problem of space. Both are strategic, projective, and innovative. But software, strange as it may sound, perhaps has still to clarify the horizon programs available to it. The politics of FL/ OSS is critically important as a model for democratic infrastructure, but it is limited as a politics of code and code developers. Privacy is important, encryption tools are important, open bandwidth is important, access for the disadvantaged is important, but these are more definitions of a level playing field than designs on what beautiful things might happen on that field. As software comes to animate space directly, a more universal interface design is necessary (and to great extent this is how I characterize my work to people confused as to why a sociologist is so concerned with architecture and software in the same breath). Part of the development of more ambitious and omnivorous programs for interface design is to extend the specification of what hard and soft programs actually do, to draw the design profile of software not by its size or its application purpose, or its place within a stack, but according to its situation within a larger organizational habitus. What does it—as a complex of interfaces—converge, replicate, diverge, and when, and how does it do this? Are those results

transferable to other contexts, or not? Why not? I end with an assignment for the reader: Design a political border. We know that it is an interface between two complex systems. But how big or small, strategic or tactical is the interface-design assignment there? It is an architectural assignment (as a recent New York Times competition demonstrated), but it is also a software design problem. Maybe it’s just a matter of smoother logistics of the same basic processes, or maybe the possibility is much more open than that. Next week some young visionary interface designer, not knowing that hard and soft systems are supposed to be dealt with by different professionals, may posit that geographic borders—lines in a planometric vision of terra firma implying contiguity where there is none—are incompatible with her program for how politics, cartography, and security should be constructed. When she does I will be listening carefully. ABOUT THE AUTHOR Benjamin H. Bratton is a sociologist based in Los Angeles who specializes in design economies, media theory, architectural theory, and software studies. He is director of the Yahoo! Advanced Strategies Group, where he develops next-generation search, brand, and interaction platforms. He is also the senior cultural studies faculty at SCI_Arc (The Southern California Institute of Architecture), lecturer in the Department of Design|Media Arts at UCLA, where he codirects the Brand Lab, and a founding fellow at the CALIT2 Center for Software Studies at U.C. San Diego. Visit him at www.bratton.info.

DOI

10.1145/1353782.1353785

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14. Tschumi, Bernard, The Manhattan Transcripts (Academy Editions: Londres, 1994).

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MÓDULO 4

PRESENTACIÓN Y REPRESENTACIÓN Protocolos y Discursos. Coherencia. Plagio. Estilo. Lenguaje.

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