!Mediengruppe Bitnik. Solve this captcha: Is anybody home lol, 2016; neon sign, 8mm glass tubes, transformers; installation view. Courtesy of the Artists and EIGEN + ART Lab, Berlin. Photo: Otto Felber.

The juxtaposition of seriousness and playfulness is literally glaring in the neon light sculpture, Solve this captcha: Is anybody home lol (2016), from which the exhibition’s title is based. In this work, the words are spelled in a twisted and goofy typeface typical of captchas, whereby computer programs distinguish humans from computers by their ability to interpret the distorted lettering. !Mediengruppe’s captcha directly asks viewers whether they are human or machine—whether they are present and aware, or automated and mechanical, in their perceptions. The distinction may not always be so clear.

This question “Is anybody home?” is consistently posed throughout the show, with the answers varying based on the work. To achieve Opera Calling, the earliest artwork in the gallery, the artists secretly planted audio bugs in early 2007 within the auditorium of the Zurich Opera. Then, from March to May of that year, these bugs robocalled randomly selected landlines throughout the city; however, rather than attempt to sell anything to the person picking up the phone, the automated calls transmitted live opera performances to those who stayed on the line. Democratizing access to the opera, the automated voice at the start of the call would tell the listener: “You can now enjoy this, lean back. Admission is free.”

!Mediengruppe Bitnik. Opera Calling, 2007; single-channel full HD video (16:9, sound; 08:52 loop); installation view. Courtesy of the Artists and EIGEN + ART Lab, Berlin. Photo: Otto Felber.

What the viewer in the gallery experiences of Opera Calling is an audio recording of the conversations among one family who chose to remain on the line. The conversation is translated into English on an otherwise blank television screen. Over the course of the roughly eight-minute recording, the telephone is passed from one family member to another as they listen to the opera, comment on it, pose questions for each other, and occasionally refer to unrelated topics. While their comments are sometimes amusing—ranging from, “Yes, this is nice!” to “I’ll hang up. What’s the point? I don’t want any opera!” and “…the acoustics are an absolute disaster!”—at other moments their conversation is more personal. At one point, a family member mutters, “I cleaned her bottom,” referring possibly to the child who is audible in the recording. Such moments emphasize the viewer’s own act of eavesdropping on the unsuspecting family.

While another video, Surveillance Chess (2012), takes on similar issues of surveillance and power, the show’s true centerpiece is the installation Ashley Madison Angels at Work in Berlin (2017), in which monitors set to eye level display the faces of animated female bots. A neon pink light illuminates and overtakes the room, the pink color at once jaunty and cloying. Referring to the online dating platform marketed to people in committed relationships with the slogan, “Life is short. Have an affair,” !Mediengruppe’s installation deploys information revealed in a high-profile 2015 hack in which the company’s source code was dumped onto the internet.

!Mediengruppe Bitnik. Ashley Madison Angels at Work in Berlin, 2017; five-channel full HD video installation (16:9, sound; 10:07 loop); LCD screens, trolley stands, cables, pink neon lights; dimensions variable; installation view. Courtesy of the Artists and EIGEN + ART Lab, Berlin. Photo: Otto Felber.

Ashley Madison’s source code revealed, among other things, that the platform had created female bots to chat and engage with heterosexual men seeking women on the site. Taking on the identities of some of the Berlin-based bots revealed in the cyber-hack (who had names such as Femme_fatale69420, Jennibabe80, and Berlinfairy, and were associated with specific local addresses) and using transcripts of bot-to-human chats on the site, !Mediengruppe’s female bots engage the viewer in the gallery. They blink and breathe, and sporadically utter crude statements and questions such as: “I’m sexy, discreet… Does this sound intriguing?” or “I’m looking for someone to have some fun with online,” and, of course, “Is anybody home? lol.”

Although visibly cartoonish in their appearance, the bots are nevertheless mesmerizing and uncanny in their ability to engage the viewer. It is easy to want to linger and wait for them to speak, and to see how far they will go to lure the listener into a man-machine romance.

Is anybody home lol asks important questions about our engagement with and through technology. What levels of awareness do we bring to these interactions? Do we take pleasure in surveilling others, and do we care or consider that we too might be surveilled? What kind of agency do we attribute to computers, and can we have real feelings for nonhuman machines? !Mediengruppe’s show does not offer any answers or clear opinions. It is ultimately up to the viewer to decide whether she’s “home” to answer them herself. Maybe the answer is an uncomfortable “lol.”

!Mediengruppe Bitnik: Is anybody home lol will be on view through June 24, 2017.

Adrian Piper. The Probable Trust Registry: The Rules of the Game #1–3, 2013–17 (exhibition view); installation and performance (3 gray walls reaching from floor to the ceiling, 3 golden circular desks, golden embossed letters, 3 standing desks, 3 lean stools, computer system, 3 receptionists); dimensions variable. Courtesy of Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Nationalgalerie. Photo: David von Becker.

From a distance, visitors can see that the installation consists of three circular, golden reception desks in front of three ceiling-high gray-colored walls staggered along the hall. Behind each desk is an attendant dressed head to toe in black. Upon each desk rests a computer monitor that faces the visitor. After one approaches the desks, it becomes apparent that the walls are adorned with golden, uppercase embossed letters that form declarative statements, the eponymous Rules of the Game:

• I will always be too expensive to buy.
• I will always mean what I say.
• I will always do what I say I am going to do.

Adrian Piper. The Probable Trust Registry: The Rules of the Game #1–3, 2013–17 (exhibition view); installation and performance (3 gray walls reaching from floor to the ceiling, 3 golden circular desks, golden embossed letters, 3 standing desks, 3 lean stools, computer system, 3 receptionists); dimensions variable. Courtesy of Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Nationalgalerie. Photo: Thomas Bruns.

A music stand to the side of each desk holds a sheet of “Performance Instructions” that purports to offer more information. Written in a dry, official tone, the list of eleven instructions begins: “1. Each Signatory signs and dates the digital Personal Declaration on the Receptionist’s desk screen.” After the viewer signs the digital contract, acknowledging her lifelong commitment to the declaration on the wall, the “Receptionist prints out for the Signatory a hard copy of the signed Personal Declaration plus the Performance Instructions of the Rules of the Game respectively.” These Personal Declarations are written in the style of binding legal contracts. For example, the Personal Declaration in The Rules of the Game #3 reads: “I, the undersigned, hereby certify that I will always (absent uncontrollable Acts of God) do what I say I am going to do.”

The Performance Instructions go on to explain that the signatory inputs his or her name and email address in the computer on the receptionist’s desk and that this information will be kept in a confidential registry held by the Berlin State Museums and sealed from the public for 100 years. After the exhibition, each signatory will receive a full list of the names, but not email addresses, of the other signatories. Should one signatory wish to contact another, she would request the contact information from the Berlin State Museums, which would only supply the information after receiving explicit written permission by the proposed respondent.

Adrian Piper. The Probable Trust Registry: The Rules of the Game #1–3, 2013–17 (exhibition view); installation and performance (3 gray walls reaching from floor to the ceiling, 3 golden circular desks, golden embossed letters, 3 standing desks, 3 lean stools, computer system, 3 receptionists); dimensions variable. Courtesy of Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Nationalgalerie. Photo: Shahrzade Ehya.

On a recent Saturday at the museum, I watched some people walk up to the screens, swiftly sign the digital contract, receive their printed copy, and leave. A few visitors appeared totally confused throughout their time in the exhibit. Others lingered to speak with the receptionists, discussing further details before deciding whether to sign the Personal Declaration.

Although people can choose to sign one, two, three, or none of the contracts, one receptionist I spoke with said a number of visitors had been infuriated by the show, feeling coerced into signing the documents. Some parents have dragged unwilling children to sign the declaration, committing signatories to “…always do what I say I am going to do.” At the other end of the spectrum of responses to the work, many visitors expressed feelings of self-empowerment upon signing and seemed eager to embody their ethical vows. At least one person wept as she signed, explaining that she was so moved by her commitment. Clearly, the exhibition’s attendees demonstrated a broad range of motives as well as understanding and intention.

Adrian Piper. The Probable Trust Registry: The Rules of the Game #1–3, 2013–17 (exhibition view); installation and performance (3 grey walls reaching from floor to the ceiling, 3 golden circular desks, golden embossed letters, 3 standing desks, 3 lean stools, computer system, 3 receptionists); dimensions variable. Courtesy of Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Nationalgalerie. Photo: Shahrzade Ehya.

In a recent interview, Piper described The Probable Trust Registry as offering a solution to the problem of individual self-interest by giving “everyone the opportunity to develop trust in themselves and at the same time show themselves to be trustworthy in a community of other trustworthy people. The process begins with the individual, spreads among other individuals who build a society, and even further among other societies that together form an international association.”[1] In this view, The Probable Trust Registry represents a utopian gesture that works toward the cultivation of a society built on relations of mutual trust. As such, Piper explains the title as a repository of names of individuals who are likely to be trustworthy: a community of ethical people on whom one can probably rely.[2] Yet this view seems insufficient, neglecting too many of the show’s physical aspects, including the legalese of the Performance Instructions and contracts, and the mystifying corporate presentation of the installation, set within a vast space that dwarfs the viewer.

One might argue that the show’s title could equally be interpreted to refer to a database of private information that will likely, but not necessarily, be kept safe. In this view, The Probable Trust Registry reflects on the role of institutions in people’s lives, drawing attention to all of the institutions—social, corporate, political—that demand our participation and to which we willingly or unthinkingly submit. The title of Jean Renoir’s 1939 film, The Rules of the Game, refers to the inescapable codes of conduct to which the characters must adhere in order to participate in the social sphere. Similarly, in a 2016 “Interim Report” on The Probable Trust Registry, Piper asserts that the work consumes anyone who encounters it, “forc[ing]” all viewers into a relation with it, no matter whether they choose to participate or not.[3] The choice of whether or not to sign The Probable Trust Registry is a pretense; we all internalize its terms and thereby participate in the rules of Piper’s game.

The Probable Trust Registry: The Rules of the Game #1–3 will be on view through September 3, 2017.

[1] Agata Waleczek, “Interview with Adrian Piper,” (author’s translation from the German), http://www.adrianpiperinberlin.de/index.php?id=2586&L=0.

[2] Adrian Piper, The Probable Trust Registry: The Rules of the Game #1–3 (Berlin: Hamburger Bahnhof—Museum für Gegenwart, 2017), exhibition brochure.

[3] “The Probable Trust Registry: The Rules of the Game #1–3. The Destiny and Interpretations of the Work are Part of the Work. Interim Report of 31 May 2016,” http://adrianpiper.com/art/docs/Piper2016TPTR_InterimReport-1.pdf.

Gary Simmons. Recapturing Memories of the Black Ark, 2014; installation view, Southern Exposure, San Francisco, 2017. Courtesy of the Artist and Southern Exposure, San Francisco. Photo: Shahrzade Ehya.

But the installation refers to pasts beyond the performances playing on the television. The work as a whole is inspired by the producer Lee “Scratch” Perry’s legendary Black Ark recording studio in Jamaica, the site where reggae and early dub music developed. Artists like Bob Marley and the Wailers, The Heptones, and Max Romeo recorded there, to name a few. Celebrated for its unique and inimitable acoustics, the Black Ark was an improvised setting and space of experimentation. Both the studio building and many of the innovative sounds and effects made there were created with found materials and everyday objects like corrugated metal, chicken wire, and broken glass. Sadly, the studio was short-lived. Built in 1973, it burned down in 1979, and while many have since tried to imitate the unique style of sound produced there, none have had any great luck.

Gary Simmons. Recapturing Memories of the Black Ark, 2014; installation view, Southern Exposure, San Francisco, 2017. Courtesy of the Artist and Southern Exposure, San Francisco. Photo: Shahrzade Ehya.

Like Perry’s studio, the installation Recapturing Memories of the Black Ark uses local materials imbued with history and a specific sense of place. The wood encasing the speakers was salvaged from the Treme area of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, and the installation was first shown during the city’s Prospect biennial in 2014 in an abandoned Treme warehouse—a space Simmons liked because “[y]ou feel the history in this room in a lot of ways…and you start to think, ‘What was here?’”[1] The artist’s comment points to what might be the only shortcoming in showing the installation at Southern Exposure. Whereas the dilapidation of the New Orleans warehouse led a viewer to feel the room’s history, Southern Exposure’s clean, white gallery doesn’t convey a similar effect. Nevertheless, Recapturing Memories of the Black Ark succeeds in incorporating and commemorating its histories, from Treme to Perry’s studio in Jamaica. Despite the recorded activity playing on the television, the stillness in the gallery is appropriate to commemoration, with the tower of silent speakers standing like a giant monument to Perry’s massive achievement.

Gary Simmons. Recapturing Memories of the Black Ark, 2014; installation view, Southern Exposure, San Francisco, 2017. Courtesy of the Artist and Southern Exposure, San Francisco. Photo: Shahrzade Ehya.

And yet, to call Simmons’s work a commemorative installation is not entirely right. As the television recordings make clear, Recapturing Memories of the Black Ark is a platform for live musical performance. Just as the Black Ark was a setting for live sounds and acoustic experimentation—a place where musicians met and played and where people listened and moved—so too is Simmons’s installation, if one visits Southern Exposure during one of the scheduled evening performances. For selected Thursday and Saturday nights in April, Southern Exposure has curated a series of performances with a diverse selection of experimental Bay Area musicians, playing not just reggae but also jazz, hip-hop, techno, and more. On these nights, the gallery lights dim, and the open space fills with people—by my count at a recent event, there were more fans of experimental music than enthusiasts of visual art—who are excited to dance and discuss the music, Simmons’s show, and Perry’s work. During these events, the old television is put away and the speakers come to life, blaring music and filling the space with heavy bass notes that reverberate in the walls and people’s bodies. The space pulses with living energy.

Beast Nest performing at Recapturing Memories of the Black Ark, Southern Exposure, San Francisco, April 6, 2017. Courtesy of the Artist and Southern Exposure, San Francisco. Photo: Shahrzade Ehya.

Perry once said the Black Ark “must be a living thing.”[2] Like living things, his studio was an ever-changing site of alternating action and inaction, movement and stillness. At times it was loud and filled with people; other times it was quiet and empty. At times it was home to eruptions of novel musical experimentation; other times it was silent and still. Like Perry’s studio, Recapturing Memories of the Black Ark is not a static or fixed thing. While commemorative, still, and relatively quiet by day, it can be filled with people, music, energy, and experimentation by night. Rather than try to reproduce the Black Ark, Simmons says he wants his work “to recapture the spirit of what Lee Perry did.”[3] One could say that he succeeded. By hosting performances from a new generation of experimental musical artists, Simmons’s Recapturing Memories of the Black Ark honors Perry’s achievement. Simmons represents the Black Ark as a living thing—something not only with a past to be celebrated, but also with a dynamic present and future—and with each performance, Perry’s influence continues and is given new life.

The Creatrix performing at Recapturing Memories of the Black Ark, Southern Exposure, San Francisco, April 6, 2017. Courtesy of the Artist and Southern Exposure, San Francisco. Photo: Shahrzade Ehya.

Recapturing Memories of the Black Ark is on view through April 29, 2017. Performances begin at 7 p.m. on scheduled Thursdays and Saturdays through April. $10–$20 sliding scale at the door.

[1] Jodie Bass, “Gary Simmons,” Bomb, January 7, 2015, http://bombmagazine.org/article/2000070/gary-simmons.

[2] Louis Chude-Sokei, The Sound of Culture: Diaspora and Black Technologies (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2015), 170.

[3] Bass.