Christian Boltanski and the heartbeats database

On the island of Teshima, on Japan’s Seto inland sea, Christian Boltanski installed his Les Archives du Cœur project, in which the heartbeats of visitors are recorded, filed, and can be listened to. The intro for the Teshima installation refers to a permanent building, in which a recording booth and a listening booth are available, next to the main “arty” piece, a long room, fairly dark, lit with a single blinking bulb, with mirrors on the walls in which the bulb is reflected but the visitors are all but invisible. The official blurb states:

The experience provided by this project encourages visitors to realize that no two people are the same, and to reflect on human individuality and the evanescence of memory.

However, it seems to me the point of this work is very different from its presentation, and focuses instead on human compliance, and on feature creep in computerized databases of personal data.

It’s a pretty common view, though, as other reviews online see it in the same way:

The heart, symbol of life, becomes the universal mediation bringing together all men and which “photographs”, in a matter of speaking, each individual. Through Teshima – the island where the hearts of all humankind are brought together – Christian Boltanski wishes to create a modern myth. (…) In this sense, with the Archives du cœur, Christian Boltanski offers us the opportunity to participate in the creation of a living, resolutely modern legend.

Actually, this introduction to the work did not seem very appealing to me, and our visit (I was visiting the Setouchi International Art Festival 2010 with my friend Bernard) took place because we were in the “neighborhood” rather than out of positive choice. It smacked of wishy-washy sentimentalism and of half-baked techno-fascination served in a artsy-fartsy package. (I had not seen any of Boltanski’s works before.)

And that was indeed the case: the sound track is formed of heartbeats “recorded by people from all over the world”, superimposed at different volumes, used with much dramatic effect. It vaguely connects with the blinking of the incandescent bulb, which is never strong or constant enough to get a good view of the room.

Due to the darkness, I perceived people entering the room as a bit threatening — we could bump into each other between two pulses of light. Also, I didn’t manage to see myself in the mirrors, although I could see the bulb itself. That was actually quite unnerving, as if I wasn’t really in the room.

This results in an “experience” that is quite intimate and somewhat disturbing. But it’s nothing to write home about — actually, it is on the whole rather unremarkable and formulaic, with its just-average use of audio-visual elements, and the crowd-sourced material, which implies a compromise between quantity and quality.

But the main room — with the bulb, the mirrors on the walls, and the heartbeats soundtrack — is only masquerading as the primary exhibition. It’s the largest room, and the two small recording booths can’t compete for attention. The listening room, which features three computer stations and six chairs, is a little more attractive, with its window looking out on the water: a gorgeous and very peaceful sight, but still clearly not the pièce de résistance of the work.

What struck me (confusedly, on the spot, and increasingly clearly since) is the importance of the overall setup. The building has been created specifically for this exhibit, and is well appointed: there are official signs leading to it, opening hours stencilled on the door.

Also, because there is an entry fee, there is at least one attendent with a computer in the entrance hall. I have a vague recollection of seeing two attendants when we arrived, but only one was present at the end, when I really noticed her. She was dressed in a white lab coat, handing out various documents, and requiring some information from all visitors.

Everyone who visits the artwork is recorded in a log (I can’t recall precisely what details were requested, but at least the name and country of origin, if I’m not mistaken), and is issued a serial number, printed with a rubber stamp on the admission ticket.

Dressing up the staff in white lab coats introduces science, the reassuring presence of knowledgeable, responsible individuals. Doctors, perhaps? Yes, but the side mention of this work in a New York Times review of another one uses interesting language:

[That other Boltanski exhibition] also includes an ersatz doctor’s office in a room off the hall, in which visitors will be able to record and register their own heartbeats.

The term ersatz is German for “replacement”, and means by extension “substitute”, “fake”, all words that would have served equally well in the context. What’s more, it seems a bit strange to fake a doctor’s office to record a heartbeat — doctors don’t usually do that.

In France at least, ersatz specifically refers to WWII substitutes for missing commodities such as coffee or chocolate, because Nazi occupation and the French collaboration government presided over a dearth of the genuine items.

But the Nazi regime also introduced another link between science and bureaucracy: efficiency. The listening stations offer access to a database of recordings (web-based, and perhaps publicly accessible, but I didn’t write down the URL and forgot it, unfortunately). It’s a pretty simple but efficient system, focused on the task at hand, ensuring that no recording of a heartbeat is lost.

And here is where, in my opinion, Boltanski’s work is really groundbreaking and powerful: it toys with the visitors, and shows them how compliant they become, when nudged along by the carrot of the artistic reward and the stick of the authoritative white coat, and when deprived of a preemptive warning.

Could you really consider the attendant’s attitude as evil? She’s only doing her job, she’s looking competent and knows what she’s doing, and you’ll really enjoy being part of the archive.

But the rubber stamps and the databases are signs that bureaucracy has taken hold: Boltanski has designed an attractive administrative hell, where biometric information (your heart beat) is recorded and linked to your name and other personally identifiable data, and stored in an efficient computerized environment (which is even demonstrated to you, in an effort of transparency).

But what of privacy concerns? How can I erase my data, a possibility that European law on personal information clearly mandates? Who else than the visitors will have access to this information, immediately and in the future? Can the police or private companies access this information and relate it to other data they hold about me?

What’s more, the introduction points out that “like fingerprints, heartbeats are unique to every individual.” But just how unique are they? Based on the recording held by this archive, would it be possible to identify me from a subsequent recording of my heartbeat, using pattern matching, as would be possible with fingerprints? And what are the conditions for such a subsequent recording? Do I have to cooperate, or can it be made without my knowledge? Could I be identified in a crowd? At a distance?

The whole setup is engineered to make the visitor comfortable with a step that’s actually quite involving, and it reminds me of “toy” genetic code sequencing machines exhibited in science museums.

Make the visitor comfortable, or really cow him into unquestioning compliance, through an array of convergent factors, used by illusionists, dictators, and bureaucrats:

• the sheer awe induced by the location (setting the stage to impress the visitor)
• the effort and investment required to get there (I came this far, to Japan, to this island, to this out-of-the-way corner of the island, I’m not going to back away now)
• the absence of a warning: this is not supposed to be an artwork about privacy or databases or compliance or cowing people, so the topic isn’t present in the visitor’s mind
• the soothing idea that this is art, after all (these are good people with good intentions, they can’t harm me)
• and more specifically, the soft, near-mystical cooing about connectedness with other human beings, and other such appeal to very broad, but very unspecific concerns (focusing the visitor’s attention away from the actual issue)
• the transparency of the experience: they’re not hiding anything — evil is actually hidden in plain view
• the authority of the white lab coat
• the inevitability of bureaucratic rules and how things are (particularly potent in Japan, but valid everywhere — that’s the rule, Sir, and I didn’t make it, so please comply)
• a clever web of “freemium” options where initial consumption is covered by the entry fee, but further contribution has a fee, thereby increasing the perception of value and the attractiveness of the proposition
• and the feeling of individual disappearance in the main room (you can’t see yourself in the mirrors, and can hardly see other people), which makes the idea of recording one’s presence, in the reassuring permanence of the database, even more attractive

Actually, I think Les Archives du Cœur should be nominated for a special Big Brother award. It is a masterful demonstration of how careless we are with our private information, and willing we are to cooperate when given surface reassurances.

By the way, I did not contribute my heartbeat — although that was more due to a logistical constraint: the attendant took care of other visitors until I gave up. I am grateful to her now.