Anthropocene is visually stunning but falls short of making a statement
Twice before, photographer Edward Burtynsky and filmmakers Jennifer Baichwal and Nicholas de Pencier have collaborated on ecologically-oriented films: Manufactured Landscapes (2006) and Watermark (2013). While Manufactured Landscapes accompanied a suite of photographs by Burtynsky, Anthropocene is uniquely both a film and a full-scale exhibit, with iterations installed concurrently at the Art Gallery of Ontario and the National Gallery of Canada (Ottawa).
Both the exhibit and the movie inform us: “We have reached an unprecedented moment in the history of this planet. Humans now change the Earth’s systems more than all natural forces combined. As a result, scientists are gathering evidence towards establishing a new geological epoch: the Anthropocene.”
The term ‘Anthropocene’ has been challenged for more than geological validity. Jason W. Moore, for example, has suggested ‘Capitalocene’ as a more accurate alternative, in that it points to capitalism as the root of the problem instead of to an inherent and uniform human nature; Donna Haraway agrees, taking a systems-oriented approach in suggesting ‘Chthulucene.’ While these terms are mentioned in the ‘glossary’ included in the press kit, neither––nor the idea of contestation at all––is referenced in the film or exhibit.
Unsurprisingly, the film is beautifully shot. It moves through its thematic case studies deftly and coherently: terraforming, anthroturbation, extinction, and technofossils are a few of these themes, all of which are examples of large-scale human effects on the Earth.
Baichwal, de Pencier, and Burtynsky say that they aim for this work to be not “accusatory” but “revelatory.” Burtynsky laments that discussions of climate change tend to bifurcate unreasonably and detrimentally into political dichotomies, and he says that, with this project, the artists “don’t want to offend anyone.” In the film, however, this attitude of intended equality seems instead sometimes to be one of ambivalence or detachment. Baichwal lauds the film’s inclusion of ironies, but, due to the film’s suppression of commentary, these ironies are prone to expressing themselves as ambiguities.
Baichwal says they chose global examples of human-affected environments that “announced themselves visually,” because, otherwise, it would have been impossible to relay the intended message. A “seemingly-pristine lake that in actuality is so toxic it requires one to don a HAZMAT suit to approach its shores” is an example she offers of a case that would have required too much explanation. And yet: would not a HAZMAT-clad individual on the banks of a glittering lake be uniquely evocative of the insidious, large-scale destruction Anthropocene attempts to communicate? The artists seem to be intent on showing instead of telling, but their attempts at so doing seem misguided at times. Baichwal loves that scenes of plant cultivation in a converted British bunker appear nefarious while being progressive, but conversely audience members expressed confusion about the lithium production that also seems harmful but is, apparently, a sustainable method of sourcing energy. The burning of piles of confiscated elephant tusks in Kenya appears violent and dismal, but it positively communicates that there can be no more market for elephant ivory. While this example rises above its visual irony, it is undermined by a later episode. An ivory carver has ‘positively’ moved on from now-illegal elephant tusks to carving Siberian mammoth tusks, now accessible in melting permafrost. Baichwal sees this, too, as a moment of clever irony in that climate change allows this carver to adopt a non-violent medium––but this is irreconcilable with the Kenyan government’s attempt at fixing the problem of poaching by targeting the market demand. What happens when there are no more mammoth tusks? Already, poachers are attempting to pass off illegal elephant ivory as mammoth ivory.
In attempting to present this project without ‘accusing,’ by being objective, the artists instead appear to balk at making a statement. When Burtynsky says climate change isn’t a political issue, he seems to be saying that the issue transcends political party lines because climate change affects everyone. Why, then, are we are still trying to kindly convince the unconvinced that humans have a hugely destructive effect on the Earth? Are we not sufficiently past the revelatory––An Inconvenient Truth (2006) has already been made––that it might even make sense to be accusatory? Sometimes it seems that the filmmakers are hesitant to involve their film with activism, as though this will compromise its status as art.
Still, the film does show such a variety of scenarios and locations that the five years of production are evident. In some ways, it does not make sense for me to criticize it: I was largely unfamiliar with almost every example of environmental destruction (and rehabilitation) that Anthropocene explored, and it would not even occur to me to recommend that anyone not see the film. It might be quiet, but it is still quietly moving.
If Anthropocene the film is flawed, however, in being too hesitant to make potentially polarising statements, then Anthropocene the exhibit is flawed in being hesitant to state anything at all.
Burtynsky’s photos are, of course, stunning. Drawing brilliantly-hued textures––like marble, like mosaic, like striated agate––out of industrialised landscapes, he displays the ironic beauty of environmentally-destructive practices and addresses not only our concerning (and sometimes deliberate) ignorance about them but also the gradual replacement of ‘natural landscape’ with, indeed, ‘manufactured landscape.’ The way the ‘natural environment’ has historically been idealized and romanticized through landscape painting or photography figures here, too––Burtynsky simply switches out the natural for the human-made, pointing to its prevalence. Stitching together hundreds of photos into vast composite images, Burtynsky creates sweeping views from airborne vantage points. In exceeding the parameters of that which is perceptible by the naked eye, these images suggest that there’s no innate way to comprehend the vastness of the industry, effect, and damage that humans have created. Mathematical and precise, large, matte, and squarely at eye-level, Burtynsky’s photographs confront the viewer and plainly state that they depict an unavoidable reality.
But––and maybe this is a necessary evil of pairing photographs with a film of the same subject––when seen together, it is difficult to avoid feeling that Burtynsky’s photographs are little more than limited views of what is perceptible in the film. A photograph of a chemical plant might be devastating, but, when a film is able to capture an equally evocative image as well as the fact that the ravaged land extends ten times that distance in every direction, there suddenly seems to be an inefficacy to the photography. Perhaps this is an obvious criticism, or one invalidated by the fact that maybe many photographs would seem inadequate if presented alongside a moving-image complement. Still––de Pencier, Baichwal, and Burtynsky haven’t paired their films with exhibits before, and there is no inherent reason that doing so must be successful.
There is a level of contextualization, too, that is achieved in the film but not in the exhibit. The film is dedicated to evidencing not only scenes of environmental destruction but also the incongruously positive locations or events that complement them––for example, after we see the intensive tunnelling (‘anthroturbation’) required for a high-speed train in Gotthard, Switzerland, we watch the train’s opening ceremonies, which must now seem to us inconceivably, inappropriately joyful. Here, the film successfully points out the potential vastness of the discrepancy between what we perceive in our everyday environments and the environmental toll of our daily activities. de Pencier noted that the film aims to be “experiential, not didactic.” I wonder, however, whether that divide can really apply for a film, which is fundamentally not experiential: sometimes, explanation can clarify.
The use of augmented reality (and some video) in the exhibit might be an attempt at atoning for that potential limitation to photography, but––particularly for a project centred on taking a more ‘natural’ approach to the earth––sliding the digital realm in between the viewer and the immediate environment is somewhat jarring. Certainly, as ever more practices adopt or are consumed by the digital, a nostalgia for the material and analog may arise more as a general impulse than as a case-by-case judgment. But looking at an iPad screen instead of engaging with the immediacy of the gallery space feels like having to place boundaries on your vision; giving each AR sculpture a physical “trigger” and thus an attempt at location and fixity feels a little like shoehorning in––and trying to justify––a superfluous technology. Jane Jacobs’ idea that “old buildings need new ideas” is certainly true, but the frequent conviction that these new ideas must take the form of digital innovation seems amiss: the non-AR works and concepts in Anthropocene are, quite literally, new in and of themselves.
Then again, the AR works may draw an entirely sound metaphor specifically in being dissatisfying. That which is virtually reconstructed, here, is that which will never again take physical form as a result of destructive human activity: the last male white rhinoceros, the Kenyan government’s ceremoniously incinerated hoard of confiscated ivory tusks. The underwhelming, disruptive, and acutely artificial nature of augmented reality exactly conveys the inadequacy of human engineering to replace that which has been lost or to salvage that which is nearly gone. Burtynsky’s photographs of a human-made concrete sea wall––an antidote to rising sea levels––express this same idea. What a strange paradox it is to think that we can reconstruct our world using the same materials with which we brought about its destruction.
Environmental sensitivity seems to be a phase so many ‘grow out of,’ though, and Anthropocene’s (at least attempted) integration of art and science is commendable. Burtynsky celebrates “raising awareness” by emblazoning ‘ANTHROPOCENE’ on streetcars––perhaps he doesn’t fully address the fact that the word might be an entry point into a vital conversation more than the conversation itself, but indeed, thus functions the exhibit at large. Did I know what terraforming was before Anthropocene? Did I consider what it meant to grow up or raise a family in an industrial town with hardly anything ‘natural’ in sight? (No!) Nearly everything in this review is something I discussed with a friend, a group of people, or a professor, and all of these have been vital and deeply enlightening discussions that I otherwise would not have had. In short, while Anthropocene cannot be the last word on human-engineered environmental crisis, it starts the right conversation.
Anthropocene the exhibit is presented jointly by the Art Gallery of Ontario and the National Gallery of Canada (Ottawa). It is co-curated by the AGO’s Sophie Hackett, the NGC’s Andrea Kunard, and Urs Stahel. The exhibit runs until January 6, 2019. Screenings of the documentary Anthropocene, Manufactured Landscapes, and Watermark will be held at the AGO through October and November; see ago.ca for more information.
Artist comments are from the AGO Media Preview on September 25, 2018 and the TIFF Q&A on October 5, 2018. Further information is available at https://theanthropocene.org/. Specifically, various noteworthy sustainability-oriented organizations can be found at https://theanthropocene.org/positive-change/.
