|
→ View in browser
I recently read a book that made me think a lot about technology’s role in my life: "Ways of Being" by author, artist and technologist James Bridle (2022). By questioning the forces and assumptions at the base of technological progress, Bridle nudges towards a symbiotic relationship between humans, animals, plants and machines in which nature is a co-conspirator in technological advancement. The lesson ultimately is about learning to live with the world, rather than seeking to dominate it. Bridle calls this an "ecology of technology", reframing technology’s position in the ecosystem. Because ultimately, as they write, "There is only nature, in all its eternal flowering, creating microprocessors and datacentres and satellites just as it produced oceans, trees, magpies, oil and us. Nature is imagination itself."
When I look at the technological messaging around me, I see an aesthetic absence of nature. Think of the shiny, sleek surfaces appearing in empty white or black voids, the swishes and twirls that show off extended features in Apple keynotes, Tesla unveilings, Samsung campaigns. Nature appears occasionally as part of sustainability claims, but even then as an entity opposed to technology: something that needs to be protected from the production of our devices.
This detachment is deeper than just marketing. When looking at most of our devices, the average person—myself included—cannot tell what materials the objects are made of. The aesthetic distance between final product and original materials is vast, the result of countless processes scattered across the world. Only slowly have people begun reclaiming awareness of the raw materials needed to produce the technology around us, pushing companies to use certified minerals and recycled plastic wherever possible.
But it would be incorrect to place nature and technology at polar opposites. There is already an impressive array of technology aimed at supporting nature's cycles and processes, and natural forms have often been the muses of technological design. Biomimicry, permaculture principles, and renewable energy systems all draw inspiration from ecological intelligence. But the balance has been off, tipping towards a hegemony of technical progression that considers nature as something to manage, optimize, or transcend rather than learn from.
While researching this topic, I came across something called “solarpunk”: an ideological, literary and artistic movement that tries to unite nature and technology in a harmonious way. It envisions a utopian future powered by solar energy, where green-tech and social cooperation are the main characters. Born in the late 2010s as a response to cyberpunk's dark corporate dystopias, it incorporates elements of science fiction, environmentalism and social activism. Funnily enough, the best visual representation of it comes from a Chobani yogurt ad. The Golden City of Wakanda from Marvel's "Black Panther" is also a good example: gleaming towers wrapped in greenery, technology that doesn't erase nature but enhances it, public services built around the community. There are also video games and SoFi music inspired by solarpunk.
With technology evolving as fast as it is, and its leading role in shaping daily life—personally, I spend over eight hours a day behind a screen for work—I wanted to take some time to build a better consciousness about its impact on the world. A fully realized solarpunk society may be distant, but its core insight feels urgent: that we can choose to build technology that works with nature, that makes it visible rather than hides its origins, that enhances rather than replaces our connection to the living world.
Sanjna
|
