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John Maeda, 2008

When I lived in Japan, I had the fortune of taking a break from computers. I was attending an art school which offered few computing resources, an intentional move on my part. The period was pre-web and, therefore, pre-Google. Desiring to find something new to me that quite often turned out to be something old, I found myself regularly in the library. It contained an unusually strong collection of books on kinetic art, which I attributed to a leading contemporary sculptor who taught at the school, Morio Shinoda, a pioneer of avant-garde kinetic sculpture.

I took Shinoda's class on plastic form and greatly admired his dry approach to interpersonal communication. Always putting on a cigarette that appeared glued to his mouth, Shinoda often seemed more interested in the wispy forms of smoke than in the conversation around him. Something of a Japanese Clint Eastwood, he was someone you felt afraid to approach, but one day I found the courage to ask the master about his mysterious departure from the kinetic art scene decades earlier. Why did he choose to pursue more conventional sculpture in his later years? Was it because he felt the world was in flux after the advent of the rocket age and/ or advances in video as a new artistic medium? What epic movement or moment forced his interest away from kinetic art? Trembling with excitement, I hoped at long last to solve a mystery not explained on the library shelves.

Shinoda took a deep lug of his cigarette and looked to the sky, paused, and in a surprisingly colourful, un-Japanese manner said, "Because it was a bitch". My raised eyebrows belied my sincere surprise. He continued, "The shit broke down too often. I'd sell it, and then I'd immediately have to travel to some place to repair it. So I got out of the business fast". Expecting an eloquent pearl of ancient wisdom, I got a coarse reply from a mouth that needed to be washed out with soap and water. But, as the years passed and I made my own brand of kinetic art on the computer, every so often I would recall that moment and reflect on how right the master was - foul language and all.

Technology eventually breaks down, and the more technology you use, the sooner it fails to work. So, Shinoda's later sculptures were made with thick aluminium sheets, aircraft cable, and solid brass pigs that never "crashed" creating a purity of timelessness mediated by a selection of proper materials. Shinoda's good business sense should not be underestimated either as he was no longer required to run a twenty-four hour technical support line.

Is any art truly timeless? Does any art deserve to last forever? Consider recent well-intentioned efforts to archive and preserve digital media art. Computer codes are designed to run on specific computers; therefore, with new computers released and made obsolete within the same month, maintaining all computer artworks would require keeping every model of computer ever developed. There have been attempts to do this, but they are probably futile. What determines that a computer artwork should live forever when there are mountains and streams that are routinely destroyed by humanity? Why should digital art be any more powerful and important than nature?

Due to modern information technology, we are at a moment in time when the very meaning of "now" implies a global instance. In my mind, the challenge today is to seek to extend the "now" to better savour the moment inside ourselves - the world will be affected soon enough. Technological events are set in motion that will affect our virtual future, but I treasure my physical present.

John Maeda is a Japanese-American graphic designer and computer scientist. He is author of several books, including Creative Code (2004), and Laws of Simplicity (2006).

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