{"id":2644,"date":"2012-02-18T03:24:04","date_gmt":"2012-02-18T03:24:04","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/artjournalstg.wpenginepowered.com\/?p=2644"},"modified":"2019-11-07T16:43:35","modified_gmt":"2019-11-07T16:43:35","slug":"the-binder-and-the-server","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/artjournal.collegeart.org\/?p=2644","title":{"rendered":"The Binder and the Server"},"content":{"rendered":"

Lackeys<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"
Josh Kline, Photographer\u2019s Hand with Digital Camera (Marcelo Gomes),<\/i> 2011,<\/b> pigmented silicone, 4\u00bd x 6 x 6\u00bd in. (11.4 x 15.2 x 16.5 cm), edition of 5 (artwork \u00a9 Josh Kline; photograph by Joerg Lohse, provided by 47 Canal, New York)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Many young people strangely boast of being \u201cmotivated\u201d; they re-request apprenticeships and permanent training. It\u2019s up to them to discover what they\u2019re being made to serve. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u2014Gilles Deleuze<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

At first a convenience, then quickly a conundrum: Of course<\/em> we would publish on the internet. We came of age with the medium, it was our generation\u2019s default. Plus, financially speaking, it remained\u2014and remains, for now\u2014a wheat-paste endeavor: nine dollars a month to hold down a domain name. A magazine devoid of commercial ambitions but prone to literary pretensions no longer needed a George Plimpton to cut a check covering each month\u2019s shortfall. No time spent amassing capital, only submissions. No printers, distributors, or post-office officials to wrangle with, only collaborators. Online<\/em>, of course! It was hardly a discussion. But no sooner had we arrived at consensus than the quandaries presented themselves. For starters: though we all spent hours each day scanning screens for information, what on the internet did we actually read<\/em>?<\/p>\n

Our loyalties, you see, were split. The internet was the air we breathed, but print paid the bills. Many of us were fledgling contributors, fact-checkers, editors for publications ranging from Cabinet <\/em>to the heavyweights at Cond\u00e9 Nast. In a draft of a letter soliciting contributions, we identified ourselves as print\u2019s lackeys. (One editor\u2019s note in tracked changes registers discomfort with the term: \u201c\u2018Lackeys\u2019 might not work for everyone, but \u2018workers\u2019 has a nice doubleness?\u201d Fair enough, but often it\u2019s the accuracy of a word that engenders uneasiness.) We still subscribed, so to speak, to the notion that a true reading experience depended on the material substrate of a page. Our shift from print to online publishing couldn\u2019t be smooth; we had to anticipate, even instigate, some violence in the transfer. We assumed a contradictory stance: embrace the era\u2019s technology, but hold it at arm\u2019s length. That same solicitation letter contains the first instance of our future mantra: Slow down the internet<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Sorry, we got ahead of ourselves. Proper introductions are still in order. For those of you unfamiliar, we are the editors of Triple Canopy, an online magazine based (where else?) in Brooklyn, with satellites in Los Angeles and Berlin. Since March 2008 we have published fifteen issues and organized public programs from Tucson to Sarajevo. Recently we moved into an office and venue at 155 Freeman Street in Greenpoint, along with the microcinema Light Industry and the open-source classroom The Public School New York. To elaborate:<\/p>\n

Triple Canopy is an online magazine, workspace, and platform for editorial and curatorial activities. Working collaboratively with writers, artists, and researchers, Triple Canopy facilitates projects that engage the Internet\u2019s specific characteristics as a public forum and as a medium, one with its own evolving practices of reading and viewing, economies of attention, and modes of interaction. In doing so, Triple Canopy is charting an expanded field of publication, drawing on the history of print culture while acting as a hub for the exploration of emerging forms and the public spaces constituted around them.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

We say as much on our grant applications, though with constant revision; apparently, an organization built around a website poses some conceptual difficulties for the review boards that allot funding. If you\u2019re a magazine tracing rivulets through literature, the visual arts, and long-form journalism, what \u201ccommon good\u201d are you providing, and what \u201cpublic\u201d do you serve? There\u2019s no extra credit for delving into questions that thorny when applying to the NEA.<\/p>\n

Perhaps our name is causing some confusion. You may have gleaned from the column inches of various newspapers that Triple Canopy is involved in activities quite distinct from online publishing. Indeed, we are, officially, Canopy Canopy Canopy, Inc., and our URL is canopycanopycanopy.com<\/a>. The legitimate Triple Canopy is a security contractor working with the federal government in Iraq and Afghanistan, among other places, and with corporations based in what its website calls \u201caustere environments.\u201d It was founded by veterans of the US Army Special Forces in 2003, presumably to profit from the free-market outsourcing bonanza of the Bush-Cheney administration. In 2009, Triple Canopy was assigned the contracts previously awarded to the firm Blackwater, which had come under scrutiny after a notorious shooting incident in Baghdad. Also, Triple Canopy is hiring. We know these things because they show up in our Google Alerts.<\/p>\n

So we appropriated the strangely beautiful name of a vaguely sinister enterprise. It felt like the right decision for a nation that was, and still is, at war. Maybe we were thinking of Wyndham Lewis\u2019s caustic proclamation in Blast<\/em>: \u201cMercenaries were always the best troops.\u201d1<\/a><\/sup> Regardless, it turns out that the choice of our name was more accurate, more medium-specific<\/em>, than we could have anticipated. In part, we founded an online magazine to engineer our release from lackey status into independence; but even if we\u2019re no longer lackeys, we\u2019re not exactly free agents either. That was always an impossibility. The pressing question in this issue of Art Journal<\/em> is whether the shift from print to online publishing actually signals any major transformation. Well, in short, yes. It\u2019s going to take us the rest of this article to explain in full, but it comes down to this: on the internet, we are all contractors.<\/p>\n

Dividuals <\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"
Joe Milutis, \u201cR, Adieu,\u201d Triple Canopy 8,<\/i> \u201cHue and Cry,\u201d published March 26, 2010<\/b> (caption: \u201cPerec: This distasteful letter lucky-pierres between the two es of his patronym.\u201d) http:\/\/canopycanopycanopy.com\/8\/r__adieu (design by Triple Canopy)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Slow down the internet. <\/em>Like \u201cDon\u2019t be evil\u201d for Google, this was our guiding slogan. To be clear, we didn\u2019t coin it out of nostalgia for the modem blips of the dial-up era. Nor were we pointing toward the saboteur aesthetics of pioneering Net artists like the duo Jodi, who have made a career of exploiting the internet\u2019s glitches. Rather, we were speaking as readers. Our initial conviction that online publishing differed from print was practically physiological: quite simply, our eyes moved differently over screens. Some of that saccadic strain was the unavoidable consequence of the technological support, but widespread tendencies in web design were equally culpable. The entire internet seemed convulsed by horror vacui<\/em>, with surfaces cluttered and margins covered. We always found our attention yanked toward some errant blinking in our peripheral vision, or to another site entirely. Repeatedly, reading deteriorated into skimming. This phenomenon wasn\u2019t limited to text; any images, audio, or video that demanded sustained attention fared equally poorly. To slow down the internet, we wanted to reproduce the absorptive experience that print still afforded us, while also incorporating the web\u2019s capacity for interactivity and multiple media. The trick was to achieve this mix in a manner somehow centripetal, so that diverse elements mutually reinforced the reader\u2019s focus instead of scattering it.<\/p>\n

Of course, this was all aspirational blather until our creative director Caleb Waldorf and senior web developer Adam Florin created Triple Canopy\u2019s original platform. When they debuted their prototype for the website, those of us less technically adept were astonished: a whole intellectual position was here elegantly articulated in code. The principal feature was a rectangular frame that held each article\u2019s content. To the left and right of the frame were a minus and plus sign, respectively. Clicking the plus sign carried you through the piece, one frame of content at a time. It was a succinct digital equivalent to flipping pages, only those \u201cpages\u201d could support text, full-bleed images, audio, video, and interactive graphics with equal ease. (A custom content-management system allowed editors to design articles using a number of templates, requiring only rudimentary knowledge of HTML.) The conceit was a synthesis of the printed magazine and Hypercard, an important precursor to today\u2019s web browsers; the strategy was to focus attention on an article\u2019s content by eliminating any extraneous elements; the kicker, we all agreed, was the horizontal movement. In contrast to the internet\u2019s default of vertical scrolling, which originated as a way for programmers to sift through massive amounts of code without<\/em> reading and which encourages eyes to jump, skim, and stray, the left-to-right progress provided subtle cues that a proper reading experience was under way. The platform was novel and familiar in equal measure, both an anomaly in web design and a throwback to print. Reanimating the dead metaphor of the web \u201cpage,\u201d it was undeniably retardataire<\/em> but\u2014we hoped\u2014radically so.<\/p>\n

Then we published our first issue. (Well, not right then<\/em>; obviously there were intervening steps like commissioning and editing articles, and so on, but for the purposes of this section we\u2019re restricting the narrative to our overall conception for the website, OK?) Promptly we discovered the flaw in our thinking. We had developed our response to the online environment from the perspective of readers, but now we were producers\u2014and distributors to boot. Imagine if magazines had detailed information about everyone who picked up an issue at a newsstand, flipped through the pages, then placed it back on the rack. We do. Visits to our site get logged in Google Analytics, and if we want to know the number of articles accessed by people reading for four minutes or longer in southern Ohio who found us by searching for \u201clogical stories,\u201d it\u2019s a simple query. After publishing all fourteen articles of our first issue at once on March 17, 2008, we monitored our analytics compulsively, and often what they revealed was excruciating. We saw how the page-views spiked after our mass e-mail announcing the release, then fell off drastically when we didn\u2019t add new content in the days following. We saw the navigation problems, how readers of one article seldom found their way back to the table of contents to select another. We had the precise count of everyone who stayed for less than two minutes before they bounced away. It\u2019s one thing to know in the abstract that people likely leaf through your magazine and quickly lose interest; it\u2019s quite another to have a comprehensive record of this occurring daily across the globe.<\/p>\n

At the same time, our central conceit\u2014the foregrounding of the page\u2014was posing technical challenges. These extended beyond the inevitable bugs and glitches that accompany any site launch; they were structural. Our magazine, you see, had two sets of readers, and those first and foremost had names like Firefox, Safari, and Explorer. Browser applications turned the source code into content, and each possessed slightly different standards for font size and spacing. The resulting discrepancies fractured the fixed units of our pages. A paragraph that fit comfortably on a page in Firefox 4.1 would run over in Safari 3.6, creating odd breaks or throwing off the position of an image. There was no sure-fire method of preventing these errors, so instead we tested each article in multiple browsers on PCs and Macs. We patrolled for flaws and fiddled with code. Unwittingly we had replicated one of print publishing\u2019s most finicky aspects, the last-minute fussing over hyphens and page breaks at press check\u2014only for us it was a perpetual process. In our effort to slow down the internet, we ourselves became mired in tedium.<\/p>\n

\"\"
David Graeber \u201cTo Have Is to Owe,\u201d with illustrations by Joanna Neborsky, Triple Canopy 10<\/i>, \u201cAnd Yet It Moves,\u201d published December 7, 2010,<\/b> http:\/\/canopycanopycanopy.com\/10\/to_have_is_to_owe (design by Triple Canopy)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

What was happening? We could explain these challenges one by one, but that would obscure the bigger picture. Here it\u2019s helpful to turn to the theorist and programmer Alexander R. Galloway\u2019s important book Protocol<\/em>, which examines the technical rules and standards that govern relationships across the internet. As much as Waldorf and Florin\u2019s code for the Triple Canopy platform encapsulated our collective conversation and engendered a particular kind of reading experience, so too does the underlying programming of the entire internet reflect a widespread consensus and dictate a fixed model of behavior. Access to the internet is available to all, but that access is contingent on conforming to specific technical standards, or protocols. These are the rules and recommendations that govern how web addresses are structured, or determine how information packets travel from one computer to another, or outline what HTML tags browsers need to interpret a page correctly. Some aspects of protocol are quite rigid, others incredibly flexible. All must be followed. \u201cIn order for protocol to enable radically distributed communications between autonomous entities, it must employ a strategy of universalization, and of homogeneity,\u201d writes Galloway. \u201cIt must be anti-diversity. It must promote standardization in order to enable openness.\u201d2<\/a><\/sup> All this is achieved through self-regulation by individual participants, which makes for a curious system of governance. Everyone obeys the rules, but no one enforces them.<\/p>\n

Nothing in the programming of Triple Canopy\u2019s original website broke absolutely with protocol, yet by trying to lock text into the specific dimensions of our pages, we had strayed from standardization. Source code doesn\u2019t furnish browsers with a layout but rather instructions <\/em>for one; a web page is created anew each time someone asks to view it. Vertical scrolling became the norm in part because it could easily accommodate these serial instances of interpretation. Our programming aspired to an ideal design, whereas the internet generally privileged variation and difference. If we had published our magazine on paper and discovered inconsistencies from one copy of an issue to the next, obviously we would complain to our printers until they fixed it. When publishing online and encountering the same problem, there was no one to petition. Who was even responsible? We had no recourse but to regulate ourselves: troubleshooting, trial-and-error, learning to avoid certain layouts, anxiously reevaluating after each major upgrade to popular browsers. Et cetera.<\/p>\n

For our tenth issue, published in November 2010, we overhauled the platform\u2019s programming entirely, in part to address this ongoing annoyance in a comprehensive manner. A major change in conception lay at the redesign\u2019s core: we broke apart the page. We retained the horizontal scroll that felt so intrinsic to the Triple Canopy reading experience, but eliminated the strict page breaks that had caused so many glitches. A smaller unit, the column, became our organizing principle; now when the reader clicks the plus sign, the text advances by a single column. In the vocabulary we developed for the new code, we distinguished between flowing <\/em>elements, like text, and floating <\/em>ones, like slideshows and video. In both cases, content was unmoored from the fixed page. Precise placement mattered less. Our layout became flexible and fluid\u2014in other words, far more to protocol\u2019s liking. In order to achieve greater consistency, we gave up a degree of control.<\/p>\n

To help explain our second set of early challenges\u2014namely, all that anxiety-producing data Google Analytics kept feeding us\u2014we need to move past protocol, but stay in its domain. Galloway\u2019s theoretical model for Protocol <\/em>is heavily indebted to Gilles Deleuze\u2019s tantalizingly brief (or frustratingly underdeveloped, depending on your disposition) \u201cPostscript on the Societies of Control.\u201d The essay argues that the enclosed institutions of Foucault\u2019s discipline society\u2014the barracks, the school, the prison\u2014have given way to the continuous, open-ended topologies of what Deleuze calls control societies. Power is no longer exercised at fixed coordinates along clear lines of force; rather, power is pervasive and operates subtly. Instead of bowing to disciplinary procedures, autonomous agents internalize their directives. For Galloway, computer protocol is a prime example of control at work; everything on the internet follows regulations despite the lack of punitive measures. The logic of control is one of constant self-modulation. Often what regulates this process is a steady flow of statistics. In control societies, persons are broken down into aggregates of information (Social Security numbers, shopper IDs, checking accounts, IP addresses, biometrics, genetic code, and so on). \u201cIndividuals have become \u2018dividuals<\/em>,\u2019 and masses, samples, data, markets, or \u2018banks<\/em>.\u2019\u201d3<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n

In the case of Triple Canopy\u2019s first issue, the magazine had individual readers\u2014say, the friends who shared their first impressions with us\u2014but an order of magnitude more dividuals<\/em>, i.e., the numerous points of data compiled by Google Analytics. The statistical patterns we found nudged us to make changes. For instance, whereas we had published our first issue all at once, for subsequent issues we posted articles two or three times per week over the course of a month, in closer sync with the internet\u2019s regular clip of updated content. When the data indicated visitors seldom found their way to a second article, we started to fill the abundant blank space of our initial design with links and navigation tools. Here we had entered a feedback loop, making frequent minute adjustments in response to changes in statistical results. (Through this process we were also conditioning our visitors, continually acclimating them to the unfamiliar experience of reading a lengthy article online.) Nothing obliged us to make these departures from our original conception for the platform, yet we did so anyway. That\u2019s the paradox of control: you want to do what it wants you to do.<\/p>\n

Let\u2019s reframe: For any magazine, distribution entails obligation. Notoriously, Aspen<\/em> (1965\u201371) lost its periodical status and shut down because its irregular publication and changing format failed to conform to postal regulations. To this day, the pressure on a magazine to maintain a regular publishing schedule comes from newsstands and subscribers. As a website, our capacity for distribution far exceeds that of any print publication, especially those offbeat or recondite \u201clittle magazines\u201d that, in sensibility, we consider close peers. Yet the technical possibility of reaching several million readers at little cost is hardly free\u2014so far as \u201cfree will\u201d is concerned. Publishing online involves a subtle, steady stream of particular considerations, self-corrections, unacknowledged concessions that affect everything from the juxtaposition of text and video within articles to our overarching vision of the project.<\/p>\n

\"\"
Josh Kline, Retoucher\u2019s Hand with Mouse (Jasmine Pasquill),<\/i> 2011,<\/b> pigmented silicone, 2\u00be x 4\u00bc x 6\u00be in. (7 x 10.8 x 17.1 cm), edition of 5 (artwork \u00a9 Josh Kline; photograph by Joerg Lohse, provided by 47 Canal, New York)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

For a print magazine, everything occurs in discrete spatial units: it handles content and design in-house, then brings that material to a press for production, then contracts out distribution to other agencies, including the postal service. For those of us who once worked for print magazines, the single moment when distribution became a serious preoccupation was the selection of a cover image, since that\u2019s what attracts casual browsers in bookstores; the inside contents were animated by other concerns. For online publications, the sites of distribution and production are continuous. <\/em>The nature of search and hyperlinks is that new visitors are just as likely to come across the magazine via a specific article as the landing page. However much we wanted Triple Canopy\u2019s platform to counteract the entrenched reading habits of the internet, we also wanted first-time users to understand intuitively how to engage with our content. Our 2010 redesign was a provisional reconciliation of those two competing desires.<\/p>\n

To summarize: From our perspective, print magazines still have room to maneuver, to be oppositional, contrary, outside. <\/em>There\u2019s a discrete place for free play removed from whatever strictures distributors and advertisers might impose. For an online magazine, there is no outside. Instead there is protocol, analytics, feedback loops. Slowing down the internet, it turns out, isn\u2019t an oppositional stance, but a continually negotiated one. \u201cOpposing protocol is like opposing gravity\u2014there is nothing that says it can\u2019t be done, but such a pursuit is surely misguided and in the end hasn\u2019t hurt gravity much.<\/em>\u201d4<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n

That\u2019s all one way of explaining the departures from our initial platform, one way of parsing the distinctions between print and online publishing. There\u2019s a whole other narrative arc that\u2019s equally relevant, one that we won\u2019t dwell on here because you\u2019re already aware of it. Since our debut issue in 2008, a tremendous amount of capital has been expended turning screens into pages, often in a manner so dishearteningly literal that the column units of our redesign became a more appealing option. Amazon\u2019s Kindle, Barnes & Noble\u2019s Nook\u2014we shudder to think of the millions spent on rendering the animation of a page being flipped just so<\/em>. Meanwhile, mass-market magazines have realized they compromised their revenue models by posting free content online and are now rushing toward subscription applications for the iPad\u2014proprietary for-pay software that binds users to an interface that is severed from the rest of the web. We see this as a reactionary move, as a strike against the internet\u2019s capacity for connectivity. It\u2019s only mildly hyperbolic to claim that such \u201capps\u201d represent an attempt to reestablish a segment of the disciplinary society\u2014the digital equivalent of the barracks, an enclosed space for readers with aspects of both the department store and the prison house. Those who held sway in the old dispensation are growing nervous, and they\u2019re stocking up for a long siege.<\/p>\n

Open Letter to Kevin Kelly <\/strong><\/p>\n

Hi Kevin,<\/tt><\/p>\n

How are things? We\u2019ve been meaning to write for a while\u2014since 2008, actually, when you posted an article of ours to your (widely read!) blog. You remember, right? \u201cStar Wars: A New Heap,\u201d by John Powers, that elaborate Smithson-inspired disquisition on the relationship between Star Wars<\/em> and Minimalist sculpture. Apparently sci-fi is the internet\u2019s main artery, because we\u2019ve never gotten more unique hits for any article. No doubt your endorsement sent some eyeballs our way. \u201cIt is one of the densest, highest ideas-per-page reads I\u2019ve had in a long time,\u201d you wrote. We copied that and put it on our press page\u2014out of context, so it seems you\u2019re referring to the magazine as a whole, not just a single article. We hope you don\u2019t mind. Hell, just about any movie poster with critics\u2019 blurbs has done worse, right? Thanks so much!<\/tt><\/p>\n

But anyway, we finally got around to writing because we\u2019ve been reading your new book, What Technology Wants<\/em>. You are, after all, an eminence grise <\/em>of this unwieldy networked era in which we find ourselves\u2014an early contributor to the Whole Earth Software Catalog <\/em>in the 1980s, a founding editor of Wired <\/em>in the 1990s\u2014so it seems as if we should be paying attention to what you say. Your central argument, as far as we can tell, is that fixating on the development and impact of specific technologies misses the big picture. Instead we should focus on what you call \u201cthe technium,\u201d a vital energy vibrating all around us. \u201cThe technium is now as great a force in our world as nature, and our response to the technium should be similar to our response to nature.\u201d\u2060<\/sup> If we conceive of the technium as a natural system, we\u2019ll be able to discern the patterns of technology\u2019s evolution and discern what it wants: efficiency, opportunity, diversity, sentience, beauty (and on from there; your list is quite long). \u201cBy following what technology wants, we can be more ready to capture its full gifts.\u201d5<\/a><\/sup> That\u2019s all well and good, but the thing is, we couldn\u2019t help thinking we had read about what technology wants and how to service its needs before, in terms that weren\u2019t quite so rosy. We thumbed through our libraries till we found it:<\/tt><\/p>\n

It means this War was never political at all, the politics was all theater, all just to keep the people distracted . . . secretly it was being dictated instead by the needs of technology . . . by a conspiracy between human beings and techniques, by something that needed the energy-burst of war, crying, \u201cMoney be damned, the very life of [insert name of Nation] is at stake,\u201d but meaning, most likely, dawn is nearly here, I need my night\u2019s blood, my funding, funding, ahh more, more<\/em>. . . . The real crises were crises of allocation and priority, not among firms\u2014it was only staged to look that way\u2014but among the different Technologies. Plastics, Electronics, Aircraft, and their needs which are understood only by the ruling elite . . .6<\/a><\/sup><\/tt><\/p>\n

By the ellipses alone, you probably surmised this came from Gravity\u2019s Rainbow<\/em>. How did you two arrive at such contrary conceptions of what technology wants? You predict peace and prosperity; Pynchon, perpetual war. Is it just the old saying, one man\u2019s technophilia is another man\u2019s paranoid dread? Or maybe it\u2019s part and parcel of the historical trajectory Fred Turner traces in From Counterculture to Cyberculture<\/em>, where he follows the career path of Stewart Brand to explain how the cultural connotation for computers changed from dehumanizing machines in the early 1960s to a life-affirming means of self-realization in the 1990s? Either way, the juxtaposition underscores what makes us uneasy about your claims. All your recourse to biological metaphor\u2014technological development as species evolution, the technium as the seventh kingdom of life\u2014is a variation on social Darwinism. That is, you attempt to naturalize technology, as if there were no historical actors, as if things couldn\u2019t have turned out otherwise. You don\u2019t consider how technologies have been mobilized to benefit particular economic or political agendas. The question Cui bono? <\/em>never occurs to you.<\/tt><\/p>\n

What are we trying to say? Yours is a dream of a world without power. In his book, Turner notes that Brand zealously hid from public scrutiny the degree to which control over the Whole Earth Catalog <\/em>was consolidated with him. We wonder if this wasn\u2019t an original sin of sorts, considering how influential the Catalog<\/em> proved to be in shaping the popular reception of networked computing in the 1990s. By obscuring the dynamics within his own organization, Brand took the question of power off the table.7<\/a><\/sup> Power, power was always the dirty secret, and any analysis that fails to account for it has fallen for its ruse. So if we left the study of the internet to you and your fellow boosters at Wired<\/em>, the \u201cconspiracy between human beings and techniques\u201d would carry on unabated. My funding, funding, ahh more, more<\/em>. . . . <\/em>The majority of Gravity\u2019s Rainbow<\/em>, you\u2019ll remember, takes place in the Zone, that Europe-wide interregnum in the dwindling days of World War II, when national boundaries have dissolved and the main characters shed their allegiances, altering their trajectories and assuming new personae according to their own desires\u2014or so they think, since always they are subjects to power, obeying forces both pervasive and invisible. Sounds like we\u2019re all in the Zone now.<\/tt><\/p>\n

Thanks again! Three Cheers,<\/tt><\/p>\n

Triple Canopy<\/tt><\/p>\n

Friends<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"
Josh Kline, Fashion PR\u2019s Hand with Blackberry (Cynthia Leung),<\/i> 2011,<\/b> pigmented silicone, 3 x 4\u00be x 6\u00be in. (7.6 x 12 x 17.1 cm), edition of 5 (artwork \u00a9 Josh Kline; photograph by Joerg Lohse, provided by 47 Canal, New York)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Was that too harsh? Obviously there are other prominent technology enthusiasts we could have singled out, so we hope Kevin understands we chose him out of affection. There\u2019s an affinity between us, a bond. After all, he blogged <\/em>about us. These days, that\u2019s a direct connection, potentially a deeply personal one. He\u2019s our friend<\/em>. But what does that word mean now, given the coincidental rise of Mark Zuckerberg and revival of Carl Schmitt? From our perspective, the internet has turned \u201cfriendship\u201d into a term of political economy. Most obviously we could point to the connections maintained across social networking sites: affiliations of varying professional and personal intensity, aided and abetted by communication technology but usually stemming from and sustained by face-to-face encounters. There is, however, a second form of \u201cfriendship\u201d operating online, one of greater concern to the present discussion, since it has become endemic to the web. It\u2019s de rigueur <\/em>for magazines to offer mechanisms for registering semianonymous comments, if not entire user-profile systems. These features harbor the promise of virtual communities brought into formation by a publishing platform: passive readers become active participants; each article prompts a long chain of responses, a frenzy of productive conversation. The logic is appealing, yet we have been adamant in refusing to provide Triple Canopy readers with any such comment function. Even after our redesign, which further facilitated our connectivity to social-networking sites, there is no way to \u201ctalk back.\u201d Everything published is carefully edited, often elaborately produced, and properly attributed. As far as the website is concerned, Triple Canopy has only authors, no friends.<\/p>\n

Is this where our crypto-reactionary tendencies become evident? Have we forsaken a forum for lively debate in the name of editorial control? Does our insistence on retaining a strong \u201cauthor function\u201d amount to a bid for authority, when a more progressive position might be to encourage what Foucault called \u201cpervasive anonymity\u201d?8<\/a><\/sup> All good questions, but, we suspect, flawed ones. They rest on the assumption that the internet has the capacity to facilitate a truly democratic process: the more voices that can contribute, the more that may be heard, the greater our ability to arrive at a reasonable consensus, and so on. To put it bluntly, we\u2019re not sure this is a plausible description of our public sphere. As the political theorist Jodi Dean argues, the proliferation of communication doesn\u2019t automatically enliven debate, but instead often forecloses it. Multiple voices drown each other out; the dream of digital democracy gives way to pure noise. The resulting confusion favors those already in a position to exploit it. \u201cThe circulation of content in the dense, intensive networks of global communications relieves top-level actors (corporate, institutional, and governmental) from the obligation to respond,\u201d Dean writes. Drawing on the work of Chantal Mouffe and Ernesto Laclau, Dean argues that true democracy depends on antagonism, which is precisely what can\u2019t happen when messages zip past each other in frictionless circuits, when speech decomposes in a comments section. \u201cThere is no response because there is no arrival. There is just the contribution to circulating content.\u201d\u2060<\/sup>9<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n

Obviously there are other takes on the internet\u2019s communication surfeit. In his influential book The Wealth of Networks<\/em>, Yochai Benkler writes off thinking like Dean\u2019s as \u201cthe Babel objection.\u201d10<\/a><\/sup> (That said, Benkler\u2019s relentless pro-market optimism that the internet always enhances personal autonomy is hard to bear, let alone believe.) But if you buy Dean\u2019s analysis\u2014and we sure do!\u2014then the right approach to today\u2019s media environment is hardly to foster communication for communication\u2019s sake. If online publishing is to distinguish itself from the rest of the internet\u2019s information stream, it mustn\u2019t settle for the easy terms of online friendship. It needs to maintain a degree of idiosyncrasy and difficulty. As a template for this, we\u2019ve always looked toward the flip-books and fold-outs of Aspen<\/em>, the magazine-in-a-box that so ingeniously coaxed its contributors into unfamiliar formats. A productive friction came from reducing Tony Smith to paper sculpture, or committing Alain Robbe-Grillet to flexi-disc recording. Aspen<\/em>\u2019s appeal rested on these odd fusions of form, content, and author. To build a similar store of hybrid objects, we prefer to enlist writers and visual artists with little prior experience publishing online, and to expose them to the discomforts of a new medium. The result is a much more intensely collaborative process than any of us ever experienced in print\u2014since it operates on the level not just of text and image, but also of code. Artists\u2019 proposals continually oblige us to consider what\u2019s possible, or even desirable, within the strictures of our platform. A contributor\u2019s original conception often hinges on a programmer\u2019s imagination. In contrast to the rapid-fire posting of most online content, our publishing process can be slow and protracted, with wrong turns and false starts that sometimes lead to confusion and disagreement. Dare we even say antagonism? We\u2019re afraid several of our past contributors would concur.<\/p>\n

Of course, there is another vital distinction between authors and friends: authors are paid. (Inevitably and unfortunately, our honoraria are modest and meager, but still, they\u2019re some measure of regard.) Online friendship taps into a vast reserve of uncompensated labor\u2014\u201cfriends\u201d as outside contractors without contracts. For the Whole Earth Catalog, <\/em>Stewart Brand encouraged readers to mail in product reviews and offered ten dollars for accepted submissions. Today, paying for reader contributions is such a rare practice that it sounds quaint and ludicrous, but it shouldn\u2019t. On this topic, Kevin Kelly is joined by a whole chorus of boosters\u2014Benkler, Clay Shirkey, and Tim O\u2019Reilly, to name just three\u2014exulting in Wikiphilia.<\/em> Certainly the achievement of Wikipedia warrants enthusiasm, but too often the example of this remarkable nonprofit endeavor shields for-profit ventures from tough questions about their attempts to harness the same collective energies. As for Triple Canopy, we\u2019ve entered into enough potentially exploitive relationships ourselves that we\u2019re loath to further propagate any. We\u2019ll keep our consciences clear and keep signing checks. But doing so assumes a steady source of revenue\u2014which obliges us to determine what sort of service we perform.<\/p>\n

Mercenaries <\/strong><\/p>\n

No culture can develop without a social basis, without a source of stable income. And in the case of the avant-garde, this was provided by an elite among the ruling class of that society from which it assumed itself to be cut off, but to which it has always remained attached by an umbilical cord of gold. The paradox is real. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u2014Clement Greenberg<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Information wants to be free because it has become so cheap to distribute, copy, and recombine\u2014too cheap to meter. It wants to be expensive because it can be immeasurably valuable to the recipient. That tension will not go away. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u2014Stewart Brand<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\"\"
Triple Canopy\u2019s temporary occupancy space for 2010<\/b> at 177 Livingston St., Brooklyn, New York (photograph by Gabriel Fries-Briggs and Rachel Himmelfarb)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

In 2009, after two years of running largely on sweat equity, Triple Canopy was selected to join a group of magazines supported by the Andy Warhol Foundation\u2019s Arts Writing Initiative, the first online publication to take part. The accompanying three-year grant, exceedingly generous, came wrapped in the slogan \u201ccapacity building\u201d\u2014meaning the foundation wanted recipients to spend funds in a manner that stood to improve their long-term sustainability. For the print publications in the group, this translated into developing sophisticated software tools for managing their databases and processing purchases, or campaigns to expand their subscriber pools. When we met with the consultant hired by the Warhol Foundation to evaluate our financial situation, it became clear we had few material needs, and even fewer obvious prospects for earnings; in terms of technical equipment, a few laptops and home broadband connections sufficed, and no one thought hawking suggested-donation drinks at release events qualified as a \u201crevenue model.\u201d We convinced the Warhol Foundation that the best way to sustain Triple Canopy was to invest in human capital\u2014quite simply underwriting a few part-time salaries so some of us could set aside the hours needed to pull together new issues, improve the website, apply for grants. We are forever in the Warhol Foundation\u2019s debt, but its support puts us in an odd position. The grant is in all likelihood the largest we will ever be awarded. As soon as the checks started to arrive, we had to consider how we would survive once they stopped. What\u2019s the revenue model for an arts publication that posts content for free on the web?<\/p>\n

Wait, don\u2019t stop reading! We know, you\u2019re inclined to assume that a discussion of funding will be dull. But actually, as Deep Throat and The Wire<\/em>\u2019s David Simon have taught us, it\u2019s often when you follow the money<\/em> that things get interesting. In the case of Triple Canopy, our current approach to sustainability frames a major conceptual issue for online publishing: the question of how to define an online magazine is still open-ended. To describe a print magazine, the postal service\u2019s criteria apply broadly: an assembly of printed sheets, dated and numbered, with consistency among issues and periodicity. You can fairly reliably identify a print magazine on the basis of a certain material construction and system of distribution. Employ the same logic to designate an online publication, and you wind up calling it a website that regularly, or semiregularly, posts new content\u2014which applies equally well to the platforms of booksellers, law firms, restaurants, enterprising artists, or sixteen-year-old video-game enthusiasts. There\u2019s nothing specific to the design or dissemination of an online magazine, but nor is there anything constraining. We\u2019ve elected to capitalize on this situation by behaving as several different organizations at once, and there\u2019s no sharper indicator of this than the diversity of our portfolio.<\/p>\n

For most institutional funders, we\u2019re a literary or arts magazine. We filed for 501(c)3 tax-exempt status early on, assuming that Triple Canopy would be in the same financial sinkhole as many small print magazines; we had lower overhead, but we also had nothing to sell, so it would all level out at the same dismal bottom line. We hoped institutional support would alleviate the losses. But it\u2019s never been an easy fit. However inadvertently, grant criteria inevitably encourage specializing and serving precisely defined publics\u2014stumbling blocks for a magazine with interdisciplinary interests and a geographically far-flung network of readers and contributors. So when preparing most applications, we narrow our purview. From the Warhol Foundation\u2019s perspective, we\u2019re an arts-writing publication, though one that hardly ever publishes writing about art; as far as the New York State Council for the Arts is concerned, we showcase poetry, short stories, and creative nonfiction by authors living within the state\u2019s boundaries; New York\u2019s Foundation for Contemporary Arts supports us for featuring new work by visual artists. Many of these applications are geared to specific projects, prompting the frequent atomization of our interests\u2014hence one recent grant from Chamber Music America.<\/p>\n

\"\"
TC Labs website, designed by Caleb Waldorf, 2011,<\/b> http:\/\/labs.canopycanopycanopy.com (design by Triple Canopy)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

At the same time, we also operate according to the logic of a New York\u2013based nonprofit art space. It\u2019s not such a stretch. From the beginning we\u2019ve organized public programs at hosting institutions or temporary-occupancy spaces, and we continue to do so at our new office in Greenpoint. If the definition of an online publication is still so open-ended, we see no reason why it shouldn\u2019t exceed the screen. Indeed, organizing programs that fold back into content for the magazine, or vice-versa, has become our signal strategy for engaging with multiple publics. Virtually every arts organization uses a website to promote the activities going on in its space; we tend to do the inverse, holding programs in real space to promote what\u2019s happening on our website. And so we have emulated the fundraising \u201cprotocol\u201d of venerable institutions like White Columns and Artists Space: we have a board of directors, form benefit committees, and proffer limited-edition prints. For our editors coming from a strictly literary background, these are completely alien rites; for all of us, they\u2019re slightly uncomfortable ones.<\/p>\n

In short, our profile changes according to which set of funders we are addressing. And we have begun to address a third constituency, our readers, in a manner that we hope changes how they conceive of their relationship to Triple Canopy. Our readers have provided much in the way of moral support, but little of the material variety; for the sake of Triple Canopy\u2019s long-term sustainability, we believe some percentage of our public need to think of themselves as subscribers. Yes, we find ourselves in the same fix as Cond\u00e9 Nast, wondering how to encourage readers to pay for content we give away (only without resorting to the strong-arm tactics of subscription apps). It\u2019s a tough sell. Short of emulating the Whole Earth Catalog<\/em> by running a tally of expenses on our website, it\u2019s hardly obvious how to convey a magazine\u2019s hard costs to a readership so accustomed to regarding information accessed online as part of the commons. We notice that our peers in print have responded to publishing\u2019s digitalization by doubling down on production value. A magazine like Esopus <\/em>employs a rich variety of paper stocks, includes fold-outs and inserts, and lets loose a spate of typographic virtuosity. Each year we visit the New York Art Book Fair and marvel at the degree to which publications justify their cost through the ingenuity and craft of their material construction. Online, the same strategy suffers from a curiously reversed effect: the more exquisite the programming, the more the labor involved disappears from view. The ease with which our articles are accessed belies the amount of work that goes into their production. As we embark on a subscription campaign, it\u2019s not without irony that we\u2019re offering as an incentive our first book, Invalid Format<\/em>, an anthology of past articles and related documentary material. So our bid for reader-based support of digital publication is centered on a printed object. The definition of an online magazine is both open-ended and contradictory.<\/p>\n

We\u2019re hopeful for the subscription model, if not necessarily optimistic. As a first attempt at attracting broad support, we recently organized a Kickstarter campaign with Light Industry and The Public School New York to support our shared space in Greenpoint. We were heartened that 338 individuals pitched in, and grateful for the thirty-five thousand dollars raised. Yet we couldn\u2019t help noticing that nearly half that sum came from purchases of limited-edition prints by R. H. Quaytman and a unique artwork by Paul Chan, which we offered as rewards for upper-tier donations. Too often the rhetoric of diffuse participation masks the reality that capital remains concentrated.<\/p>\n

Rather than entrust ourselves to the generosity of readers, or to the continued largesse of funders who may themselves become casualties of the faltering economy, we\u2019re courting a fourth constituency, one that has emerged unexpectedly as a consequence of our online format: Since the release of our first issue, we have regularly received inquiries asking whether we do web design and development work. Which is to say there is sizable contingent for whom Triple Canopy\u2019s website is neither a magazine nor the online presence of a nonprofit arts organization, but rather an advertisement for the skill sets of our staff. These requests have led to enough freelance gigs that we decided to consolidate them into TC Labs, which we describe as \u201ca wing of Triple Canopy that works with clients to develop dynamic online experiences, innovative publication concepts, and generative public programs.\u201d We liken TC Labs to the practice of an arts organization that specializes in screenprinting and that occasionally rents facilities and hires out personnel as a means of supporting its core mission. TC Labs represents an effort to monetize and reinvest the cultural capital accumulated by the project and its participants, and to wean ourselves off institutional funders. It\u2019s also the unexpected fulfillment of our chosen name: officially, we\u2019re contractors. The danger in metaphors is their propensity to turn literal.<\/p>\n

\u2022 \u2022 \u2022<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"
Josh Kline, Editor\u2019s Hand with Mini-Bottle (Ken Miller)<\/i>, 2011,<\/b> pigmented silicone, 3\u00bc x 4 x 8 in. (8.3 x 10.2 x 20.3 cm), edition of 5 (artwork \u00a9 Josh Kline; photograph by Joerg Lohse, provided by 47 Canal, New York) <\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Who are you a contractor for? It\u2019s not an easy question, though often the answer is obvious to everyone but you. Lackeys clamor for the privilege of working long hours in entry-level positions. Dividuals provide the data flow that Google channels through PageRank to generate enormous wealth for its shareholders. Friends contribute their labor gratis<\/em> in the spirit of Wikiphilia, unrewarded but compelled by a bond of affection that often only goes one way. And mercenaries . . . well, at least they usually understand the terms of the agreement and insist on payment upfront. It\u2019s a confusing situation: we follow what we think are our own desires, yet it leads to the fulfillment of other entities\u2019 needs. When considering the shift from print to online publishing, of course there are substantial differences in the material supports, but the real issues emerge when you begin asking how information technology affects the exercise of power. In the conspiracy between human beings and techniques, whither digital publishing? Marshall McLuhan <\/em>was right, the shift from typographic to electronic communication is epochal, but just beyond the Global Village is the Zone.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s easy to get sidetracked\u2014what with the analytics, the noise, the chatter from friends, the applications to funders, the freelance inquiries. This essay has made clear that Triple Canopy has definitely changed since we launched in 2008, in ways both subtle and substantial. You could say that\u2019s typical of any start-up, but you could also diagnose it as a peculiar strain of technological determinism: Our organizational structure, you see, matches the internet\u2019s. As Galloway explains, the internet is governed by two contradictory logics, one rigidly vertical (Domain Name System, or DNS), the other radically horizontal (Transmission Control Protocol and Internet Protocol, or TCP\/IP). Likewise, Triple Canopy has a standard-looking (i.e., hierarchical) masthead, yet in practice we work in a decentralized, networked fashion, with clusters of editors collaborating on the individual projects (or nodes) that together comprise the magazine; those higher up on the masthead have committed more hours per week to Triple Canopy and as a result tend to be involved in more nodes. We enjoy this manner of working, but certainly an organization with no fixed center is susceptible to drift. Without vigilance, Triple Canopy could fall victim to neoliberalism\u2019s imperative of infinite flexibility. This week a magazine, next week a design firm, or a curatorial initiative, or a murkily defined \u201cconsultancy.\u201d Maybe our appropriated name will finally cause sufficient brand confusion, and we\u2019ll find ourselves seriously considering a misdirected request for \u201clogistical support\u201d and a junket flight to Kandahar. The internet is a market for new identities: some you purchase, others are foisted on you.<\/p>\n

Or Triple Canopy could simply come to an end, like many little magazines before\u2014though it\u2019s not clear how that plays out, either. As a matter of individual staff members leaving, it\u2019s foreseeable enough: we\u2019ll accept teaching positions or writing gigs that pay better, or we\u2019ll simply grow exhausted of group meetings and the grind. But after the masthead collapses, what happens to Triple Canopy the magazine? When a print magazine folds, it stops publishing, and its back-issues languish on private shelves or lie in trash bins; the lucky ones reside in libraries as complete bound sets. Triple Canopy, on the other hand, will rapidly deteriorate: without preservation efforts, the website\u2019s source code will become buggier with each new upgrade of Firefox or the iPad; without payment of storage fees, individual pages will be wiped from servers, leaving only digital traces, dead links, rumors. Dispersal could be the media magazine\u2019s past and future. Perhaps it\u2019s prophecy that Phyllis Johnson published Aspen<\/em> and then vanished from history,11<\/a><\/sup> just as Tyrone Slothrop, the putative hero of Gravity\u2019s Rainbow<\/em>, gradually drops out of the plot and disintegrates. \u201cHe has become one plucked albatross. Plucked, hell\u2014stripped<\/em>. Scattered all over the Zone.\u201d12<\/a><\/sup> Online<\/em>, of course! It was hardly a discussion. Little did we know . . .<\/p>\n

\n

Triple Canopy is an online magazine, workspace, and platform for editorial and curatorial activities. Colby Chamberlain is a Triple Canopy senior editor and a Jacob K. Javits Fellow in the art history department of Columbia University. www.canopycanopycanopy.com<\/a><\/p>\n

\n

This essay, the outcome of several group discussions among Triple Canopy editors, was written by senior editor Colby Chamberlain.<\/p>\n

The epigraph is from Gilles Deleuze, \u201cPostscript on the Societies of Control,\u201d October<\/em> 59 (Winter 1992): 7.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
    \n
  1. Wyndham Lewis, \u201cBlast<\/em> Manifesto,\u201d Blast <\/em>1 (June 20, 1914): 30. ↩<\/a><\/span><\/li>\n
  2. Alexander R. Galloway, Protocol: How Control Exists after Decentralization<\/em> (Cambridge, MA: 2004), 142. ↩<\/a><\/span><\/li>\n
  3. Deleuze, 5. ↩<\/a><\/span><\/li>\n
  4. Galloway, 2004, 147, emphasis in original. ↩<\/a><\/span><\/li>\n
  5. Kevin Kelly, What Technology Wants <\/em>(New York: Viking, 2010), 17, 270, and 188. ↩<\/a><\/span><\/li>\n
  6. Thomas Pynchon, Gravity\u2019s Rainbow <\/em>(1973; New York: Penguin, 1995), 521 (italics and punctuation as in original). ↩<\/a><\/span><\/li>\n
  7. See Fred Turner, From Counterculture to Cyberculture: Stewart Brand, the Whole Earth Network, and the Rise of Digital Utopianism<\/em> (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 90\u201391. ↩<\/a><\/span><\/li>\n
  8. See Michel Foucault, \u201cWhat Is an Author?\u201d in Language, Counter-Memory, Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews by Michel Foucault, <\/em>ed. Donald F. Bouchard, trans. Donald F. Bouchard and Sherry Simon (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1980), 113\u201338. ↩<\/a><\/span><\/li>\n
  9. Jodi Dean, \u201cCommunicative Capitalism: Circulation and the Foreclosure of Politics,\u201d in Digital Media and Democracy: Tactics in Hard Times<\/em>, ed. Megan Boler <\/em>(Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2008), 102, 118. ↩<\/a><\/span><\/li>\n
  10. See Yochai Benkler, The Wealth of Networks<\/em>: How Social Production Transforms Markets and Freedom<\/em> (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006). ↩<\/a><\/span><\/li>\n
  11. See Gwen Allen, Artists\u2019 Magazines: An Alternative Space for Art<\/em> (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2011), 67. ↩<\/a><\/span><\/li>\n
  12. Pynchon, 712 (italics in original). ↩<\/a><\/span><\/li>\n<\/ol>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

    By Triple Canopy<\/p>\n

    At first a convenience, then quickly a conundrum: Of course<\/em> we would publish on the internet. We came of age with the medium, it was our generation\u2019s default. Plus, financially speaking, it remained\u2014and remains, for now\u2014a wheat-paste endeavor: nine dollars a month to hold down a domain name. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":9,"featured_media":2678,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"kia_subtitle":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[74,8],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2644","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-archive","category-from-art-journal",""],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/artjournal.collegeart.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2644","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/artjournal.collegeart.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/artjournal.collegeart.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/artjournal.collegeart.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/9"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/artjournal.collegeart.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2644"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/artjournal.collegeart.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2644\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/artjournal.collegeart.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/2678"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/artjournal.collegeart.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2644"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/artjournal.collegeart.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2644"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/artjournal.collegeart.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2644"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}