Hothouse’s PRIMAL INSTINCT confronts the theme of pure intention through a trans-disciplinary lens — an approach not born of method, but of necessity, shaped by the velocity and violence of the now. This is not an exercise in critique, but in compression — where understanding moves beyond the analytical and becomes a reckoning: emotional, pressurised, and yet strangely clarifying. The photosynthescript that is ‘Nature’ is no longer a neutral backdrop, but a fractured archive of possibility. We subvert the idea of (one-)nature not with answers, but with gestures to gradually replace it with a multiplicity of models grafted and woven in its cracks. This is not an appeal to idealism, but a recognition of what already is: tangled, emergent, and forever forking paths. These cracks are not simply structural flaws, but generative spaces: signs of strain in the imposed coherence of a singular worldview. They are the places where tension accumulates, where the fiction of unity shows it can split, where suppressed knowledges, alternative ecologies, and hybrid ontologies find room to surface. Cracks become not a symbol of failure, but a site of possibility, as they speak other languages, they are not direct interruptions of the master’s discourse, they are points of diffraction, sort of movable topologies difficult to represent. We are interested in finding those moments of intensification, to have a peek at what hides beyond, running parallel to, subjected to, yet countering, the bluntness of a pure intention. We are lured towards that that ultimately gets things in motion: the latent drives, the sub-versions kicking, the PRIMAL INSTINCT and informal strategies of re-production, myths of re-definition, possibly minor acts/sites, indexes showing the possibility of radical inventions and activations, art speaking through primal screams, pointing to or gesturing towards a certain ontological rebelling. Cracks and folds are to be discovered for marking the entry points, or the curvatures for unruly growth. They are meta-static fissures, allowing a polyphony of perspectives to take root and sprawl — for a subtle yet radical rewilding of thought.

PRIMAL INSTINCT, our curatorial framework, is thus a manifesto to analyse and question the monolithic, orderly and tamed definition of “nature” (the model of nature) embraced through leaps of “pure intention” — the moves foundational to the nation-state's vision of becoming a planetary reference point: a Garden City. The (one-)nature of the designed garden brutally strips (other-)nature(s) of its potential openness, of the virtual possibility of true unpredictability, and of course, of the sublime and uncanny beauty of the inform, the deformed, the transformed. We looked and searched for instincts, to select ultimately a few, to subvert and reimagine this (one-)nature, to activate (an-other-)natures, promoting definitions that defy ideological containment. Three instinctual responses were therefore selected to be part of our curatorial framework, three very different yet possibly converging models of nature: Field Notes & the Ecology of Chance [Tini Aliman], TOTAL-PLEASURE-SUITE [Elizabeth Gabrielle Lee] and Square Forest [Salad Dressing].

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Tini Aliman

Field Notes & the Ecology of Chance (2025)

Stainless steel, aluminium & soil

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Field Notes & the Ecology of Chance unfolds at the confluence of acoustic ecology, environmental history, and decolonial sound practice. Informed by Singapore’s botanical colonial legacy and rapid urban transformation, the installation uses field recording, archival research, and spatial sound to uncover what is  termed “colonial acoustemologies”— sonic knowledge systems rooted in imperial control. This practice reframes listening as a mode of resistance and relationality, transforming technologies of capture into instruments of re-sounding, return, and ecological speculation. The installation functions as a speculative instrument of listening, proposing a mode of sonic engagement that resists colonial taxonomies and reclaims sound as a relational, embodied method, an infrastructure for catalysing care and memory.

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Salad Dressing

Square Forest (2025)

90 native plant species of Singapore

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Square Forest is an inquiry into the ethics of rewilding, displacement, and spiritual ecology within the Anthropocene. Responding to the paradox of the “City in Nature” initiative — where native biodiversity is restored through the importation of wilderness — the work interrogates the logics of control and domestication underpinning ecological restoration. Drawing from posthuman and decolonial thought, Square Forest treats soil as an archive of more-than-human memory and plants as sessile refugees, vulnerable yet resilient. It asks: can an imported forest ever truly take root, spiritually or ecologically, in a land remade by capital? And if plants had a voice, what would they say of exile, adaptation, and longing? In invoking the “sessile instinct,” the work gestures toward a vegetal mode of being — rooted, receptive, and relational — that resists mastery and reclaims belonging through ritual, care, and speculative kinship.

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Elizabeth Gabrielle Lee

TOTAL-PLEASURE-SUITE (2025)

School tables, tape, carabiners, cable ties, rubber tyres and diamanté strings

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TOTAL-PLEASURE-SUITE reimagines how desire operates within engineered environments shaped by safety, control, and knowability. It challenges the rhetoric of nature as pure and determined by the divine, instead proposing a feral transformation that emerges from entangled ecosystems and material excess. It explores the tension between nostalgia and novelty, between green-washed restoration and techno-futurism, advocating for forgotten pleasures that lie outside dominant narratives of progress. 

Everyday objects are transmuted into tools of expression and rebellion, idols, signs of immanent pleasure that get animated by non-normative gestures to confront how desire is managed, repressed, or redirected in public space. It questions whether instincts are pure, or if they are enmeshed in a diffuse, messy, underground, one shaped by sensory and material excess, what the artist calls the “tropical gothic” — a space where flesh, long disciplined by invisible catechisms or any form of realism, reclaims its right to excess, interrupting the dominant systems of order.

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PRIMAL INSTINCT: Delirious and Other 

In-formal Models of Nature

“My childhood was elegant homes, tree-lined streets, the milkman, building backyard forts, droning airplanes, blue skies, picket fences, green grass, cherry trees. Middle America as it's supposed to be. But on the cherry tree, there's this pitch oozing outsome black, some yellowand millions of red ants crawling all over it. I discovered that if one looks a little closer at this beautiful world, there are always red ants underneath.” […] “I learned that just beneath the surface there's another world, and still different worlds as you dig deeper. I knew it as a kid, but I couldn't find the proof. It was just a kind of feeling. There is goodness in blue skies and flowers, but another forcea wild pain and decayalso accompanies everything.” – David Lynch¹

“Noise cannot be a phenomenon; every phenomenon is separated from it, a silhouette on a backdrop, like a beacon against the fog, as every message, every cry, every call, every signal must be separated from the hubbub that occupies silence, in order to be, to be perceived, to be known... As soon as a phenomenon appears, it leaves the noise; as soon as a form looms up, or pokes through, it reveals itself by veiling the noise. So noise is not a matter of phenomenology, but of being itself.”  – Michel Serres²

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The Designed Garden and Other Forms of Nature

What forms of natureinconvenient or resistantwere erased, tamed or ignored in the creation of our landscaped utopia? What tangled histories, buried ecologies and ungovernable voices haunt the cracks of the (one-)nature imposed by design? How might we reimagine nature through hybrid, emergent and impure models that resist commodification, purity, and control? What alternative rituals, instincts and material encounters could reopen space for contingency, unpredictability and ecological plurality? How can human and more-than-human actors navigate spaces freed from premeditation and imposed order, allowing for unregulated growth and entangled belonging? ³ Taken together, these questions form not a map, but the setting of terrain in motion. Hothouse sets forth this framework for another nature to speak, asking what kinds of alternative growth might take root in the fractures of our designed environments, if space is left for other natures and PRIMAL INSTINCT to emerge.

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The Cracks of (One-)Nature — What Leaks Through Refusal

PRIMAL INSTINCT opens another relation to pure intention through a transdisciplinary lensan approach not born of method but of necessity, shaped by the velocity and violence of the now. This is not an exercise in critique but in compressionwhere understanding moves beyond the analytical and becomes a reckoning: emotional, pressurised, and yet strangely clarifying. The photosynthescript that is “Nature” is no longer a neutral backdrop; it has become a fractured archive of possibility. We subvert the idea of (one-)nature ⁴ not with answers but with gestures that gradually replace it with a multiplicity of models grafted and woven into its cracks. This is not an appeal to idealism but a recognition of what already is: tangled, emergent and forever forking paths. These cracks are not simply structural flaws but generative spaces: signs of strain in the imposed coherence of a singular worldview. They are places where tension accumulates, where the fiction of unity shows its fiction, where suppressed knowledge, alternative ecologies and hybrid ontologies surface. Cracks become not symbols of failure but sites of possibility. 

Points of rupture are foreign by default. They are not direct interruptions of the master’s discourse but inflections—points of diffraction. They are movable topologies, non-identities which are difficult to represent. We are interested in finding those moments of intensification, to have a peek at what hides beyond, running parallel to, subjected to, yet countering the bluntness of a pure intention. We are lured towards what ultimately gets things in motion: latent drives, subversions kicking, the PRIMAL INSTINCT and informal strategies of reproduction, myths of redefinition, …possibly minor acts and marginal sites, indexes showing the possibility of radical inventions and activations, art speaking through primal screams, pointing to or gesturing towards a certain ontological rebellion. Cracks and folds are entry points, the topological complexity or point of rupture for unruly growth. They are metastatic fissures, allowing a polyphony of perspectives to take root and sprawlfor a subtle yet radical rewilding of thought. 

An invitation is extended to enter terrains where nature is no longer singular or polished, but multiple, unresolved and insistently alive. We begin from the recognition that the leaps of pure intentionso foundational to the nation-state’s Garden City visionwere not neutral gestures, but acts that narrowed the field of possibility, that set boundaries on what could be seen, felt, or allowed to grow. In this (one-)nature of the designed garden, other potential natures were stripped away: the unpredictable, the deformed, the uncanny, the sublime.

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Against this backdrop, we searched for instinctsnot as answers, but as cracks and countercurrents, in-formalities ⁵ through which alternative natures might surface. From this search came three instinctual responses, each proposing its own model of nature: Field Notes & the Ecology of Chance, TOTAL-PLEASURE-SUITE and Square Forest. Though divergent in form, they converge in their refusal of containment, offering ways to sense what lies beyond the monolithic coherence of a singular “nature.”

The field sits in suspension. Once the site of formal educationtrimmed hedges, ordered timetables, the measured repetition of drillsit now waits, unsure whether the next gesture will be preservation or erasure. Raffles Girls’ School: the name carries the layered weight of colonial commemoration and the nation’s own elite histories, its playing fields long used to train discipline, stamina and collective display. Today, the grass is left to its own rhythm, neither fully wild nor entirely maintainedan in-between that resists certainty.

In this pause, three works have taken root. They are not posed as answers or puzzles to be solved. They remain open to shifting encountersappearing, in different moments, as interruptions, echoes, or temporary definitions.

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From across the expanse, a towering cube of green draws the eyeSquare Forest by Salad Dressingits trees rising well above head height, their canopy forming a dense, shaded volume. Approaching, the temperature drops, light fractures, and the atmosphere turns inward. The perimeter is visually dense and seemingly impenetrable, prompting hesitation and detour. One finds an entrance, and at the volume’s heart, a large, unmoving figure shaped from foliagea lucky catanchors the space. Severe in outline yet porous to the elements, it sits as both guardian and witness. The forest’s stillness carries its own pressure, a sense of endurance that is as contemplative yet unyielding.

Nearby, Field Notes & the Ecology of Chance by Tini Aliman takes shape as a loose ring of stainless steel poles etched with random numbers and embedded in the earth, their surfaces catching the sun briefly before sliding back into shadow. Rising at their centre is a mast fitted with four horn speakers, each facing a cardinal direction. At intervals, bird calls break the airfamiliar yet never quite belonging to this moment. The sound slips from different directions, displacing the present with echoes of other hours, other landscapes, other histories—temporalities and identities.

Further along the grass, skeletal metal frames mark the groundTOTAL-PLEASURE-SUITE by Elizabeth Gabrielle Lee. The components, once the most ordinary of canteen tables, have been unscrewed, disassembled and reconfigured into lean, repetitive structures. Their linear discipline is softened by small irregularities: tilts, bunches, the occasional leaning away. The table frames recall their former service without nostalgia, their current form slipping between architecture and choreography, workaday object and improbable ornament. 

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For some, this may suggest how the neatness of planned landscapes often mutes the vivid saturation of what is patchy or leftover. (One-)nature makes it difficult to encounter these residuesobjects, sounds or fragments that do not fit the designyet it is precisely in such encounters that the possibility of instinctive gestures arises. What altars could be assembled from mud, from chance fragments, from stray acoustics?

An audience might come to sense how (one-)nature, with its norms and standards, restricts such possibilities, standardising value and forbidding serendipity. In this light, the cancelled encounter, the wasted time, even the instinctive impulse to repurpose or misuse, become part of what is repressed. Perhaps then, what emerges is not a fixed conclusion but an open question: what does it mean for spontaneity, for contingency itself, to be disallowed by (one-)nature?

“Nature” is at once all and nothing, a prism of complexity, a constellation of concealed models awaiting exploration and collective redefinition. It is a ciphergeneric and open at its base, yet always inscribed with multiplicities within its folds. What matters is not the recovery of a singular truth, but the emergence of alternative modes of speaking and making nature, to see what blossoms through hybrid interpretations and representations, by attending to the marginal characters left aside when one model (of nature) is privileged over the very many left aside.

We are interested in the collective dimension of definition, in the acts of translation, invention, and negotiation that bring new social and environmental ecologies into being. Natureentropy, necessity, feral drivesand the humanstory, abstraction, feral drivesstand here as co-constitutive forces, entwined in a dance between unpredictability and structure. To be human is not only to chase rational progress but to honour the unknown, to stay with what is fragile, futile, or unresolved, and to discover meaning within unlikely motions. In this light, the works become both elegy and invocationa quiet rebellion against the tyranny of certainty.

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On Site: Former Raffles Girls’ School Field—You Built This, It Doesn’t Care

The site is marginal, an informal infrastructure, strangely liminalneither abandoned nor fully tended. The former Raffles Girls’ School field remains after the school has moved, a patch of ground now loosened from the regimentation of drills and chalked lines. The grass is uneven, untrimmed, brimming with weeds and untamed growth. Trees edge its perimeter, and the surface carries faint echoes of its past: the memory of games, the discipline of routine, the performance of order. Without daily care, it has softened, rewilded in parts, and begun to drift towards entropy.

In it, with it, on it, we envision a mediated occupation of a field unshackled from precisiona ground open to the chance of becoming. This is not mere abandonment but a deliberate inquiry into the tension between control and autonomy. What might flourish when systems of dominance are surrendered? How do human and more-than-human actors navigate uncharted ecologies, where time and change carve their paths unchecked?

The gestureof letting go of control, of reframing, rewilding, shifting, parasitising ⁶becomes both conceptual and visceral: an ode to ecological autonomy, primal impulse, and the infinite possibilities of contingency—the unregulated. It asks us to reconsider the entangled relationships between species, spaces and the forces that bind and unbind them. What was built persists, but it does not care.

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Salad Dressing Team with Square Forest (2025)

Intention and Instinct

Singapore, a city built on ingenuity, has lost more than 95% of its native forests and nearly 40% of its biodiversity over the past two centuries. To soften this loss, the nation has spent the last fifty years greening its streets and parks—often by importing plants from elsewhere.

Yet this creates a paradox. To become a City in Nature, Singapore must purchase fragments of nature from abroad to replace what urban growth has erased. Can nature truly be imported? Is greening an act of pure intention, or does it speak to something deeper—our primal instinct to return to the earth?

A Lucky Cat in a Square Forest

Within a 9m x 9m Square Forest, 90 native species imported from Malaysia surround a giant bonsai-like lucky cat. One paw gathers sunlight through a panel, the other clutches coins that flicker with four numbers drawn from weather. The lucky cat is not instinctive; it is a cultural artefact, a kitsch totem of luck and commerce. Yet what it triggers is more primal: the sudden surge of anticipation in the body, the dopamine-fueled spark that bypasses rationality and latches onto chance.

Both the cat and the square forest are split forms. The cat’s raised paw is a pure intention of luck, yet behind it lies the circuitry of desire and risk. The forest, too, begins as a designed square, but its instinct presses back, swelling, consuming form into matter. Together they stage a tension between culture’s clarity and nature’s appetite—revealing how intention and instinct are never separate, only folded into one another

A Smug Grin Left Behind

Vines curl like serpents, branches fork like antlers—prosthetic devices coaxing this domesticated garden toward wildness, a playground for the unchained mind. 

In time, the lucky cat itself will grow wild, dissolve and be absorbed into the imploding forest, leaving behind only an enigmatic trace-- and a smug grin. Yet the numbers persist, endlessly generated by sun and weather.

In this loop of energy and chance, a fleeting tutelage is transfigured into a profuse algorithmic blessing, intention dissolving into instinct, yet sustaining belief in untamed nature. But when the cat is swallowed in the square, what truly remains—sacredness, superstition, or only our own need to believe?

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Drive(s) Through (Talks + Presentations)

Extending PRIMAL INSTINCT’s inquiry into human, non-human, and more-than-human nature(s), Drive(s) Through was a hybrid live–virtual symposium that situated and expanded upon the positions and practices presented in the exhibition. Through conversations among artists, scholars, curators, and audiences, the event deepened engagement with the exhibition’s conceptual and eco-cultural concerns. Its discussions traversed several of the discourses that informed the exhibition and its artworks, including ecocritical practice, premodern and post-naturalist cosmologies, more-than-human entanglements, and strategic speculation. The first panel brought art historian Minna Valjakka into conversation with Tini Aliman to consider Aliman’s work in relation to ecocritical sonic practices in the region. The second paired cultural studies scholar Katarzyna Ancuta with Elizabeth Gabrielle Lee to examine how the Gothic emerges within Southeast Asia’s eco-cultural imaginaries. The symposium concluded with a keynote by Jason Bahbak Mohaghegh, who explored tactics and ciphers for escape and engagement in an era of advanced simulation technologies. Each session included an extended discussion with the audience, facilitated by symposium conveners Federico Ruberto (formAxioms / Hothouse) and Helios Singh Bajwa (The Opens).

Drive(s) Through continues Primal Instincts, a curatorial contribution to Singapore Biennale pure intentions. Our take: to subvert the idea of (one-)nature not with answers, but with gestures to gradually replace it with a multiplicity of models grafted and woven in its cracks. This is not an appeal to idealism, but a recognition of what already is tangled, emergent, and forever made of cracking topologies and forking paths. These cracks are not simply structural flaws, but generative spaces: signs of strain in the imposed coherence of a singular worldview. They are the places where tension accumulates, where the fiction of unity shows it can split, where suppressed knowledges, alternative ecologies, and hybrid ontologies find room to surface. Cracks become not a symbol of failure, but a site of possibility, as they speak other languages, they are not direct interruptions of the master’s discourse, they are points of diffraction, sort of movable topologies difficult to represent. We are interested in finding those moments of intensification, to have a peek at what hides beyond, running parallel, subjected to, yet countering, the bluntness of a pure intention. We are lured towards that that ultimately gets things in motion: the latent drives, the sub-versions kicking, the PRIMAL INSTINCT and informal strategies of re-production, myths of re-definition, possibly minor acts/sites, indexes showing the possibility of radical inventions and activations, art speaking through primal screams, pointing to or gesturing towards a certain ontological rebelling. Cracks and folds are to be discovered for marking the entry points, or the curvatures for unruly growth. This points are meta-static fissures, allowing a polyphony of perspectives to take root and sprawl, for a subtle yet radical re-wilding, of thought.

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Re-presentation #5
Singapore Biennale ,

Ecologies of Listening

Tini Aliman in Conversation with Minna Valjakka (summary)

In the Ecologies of Listening, Tini Aliman and contemporary art historian, Dr. Minna Valjakka, discussed sound as an artistic medium and a critical method for engaging with environmental, colonial, and botanical histories. The discussion was part of the series of interviews in Dr. Valjakka’s on-going research project on contemporary arts’ engagements with plants and knowledge.

Centred on practices of sonic rewilding, acoustic ecology, and acoustemology, the conversation examined how listening might recover ecological relationships and historical narratives obscured by colonial and extractivist systems. The discussion began with Alimans installation Field Notes from the Ecology of Chance, presented at the former Raffles GirlsSchool as part of PRIMAL INSTINCT and the Singapore Biennale. Aliman described the work as a sound installation with a live-performance activation, with both components forming part of the same compositional ecology.” Combining manipulated field recordings with live performance, the installation enacted a form of sonic rewilding within the colonial ecological landscape of the Tanglin–Orchard district.

The sonic material brought together recordings of the disused school grounds, their residual architectural and urban sounds, and earlier recordings made at nearby sites such as Fort Canning Park and Gillman Barracks. Although these locations do not constitute a single ecological entity in a strictly scientific sense, they belong to an overlapping historical zone shaped by colonial cultivation, extraction, managed greenery, and persistent vegetal life. By layering these temporal and spatial registers, the installation approached “the site as an acoustic afterlife of occupation, cultivation, and ecological survival.”

Central to the work was the planting of Ficus microcarpa seedlings. Aliman situated the species within Singapores colonial and urban botanical histories, describing the ficus as a resilient plant that grows through walls and masonry, evading the monocultural logic of the plantation. Its planting functioned simultaneously as an ecological intervention, a political gesture against the regulation of landscapes, and a form of musical notation.

The performers physical movements shaped the sound composition in real time, transforming planting into both a choreographed action and a generative score. Repetitive and durational gestures—crawling, digging, placing, and tending—became a form of live notation to which Aliman responded sonically. Through this interplay of bodies, plants, movement, and sound, rewilding emerged not as a return to an imagined untouched nature, but as a situated process of restoring suppressed relations and unsettling inherited structures of control. Aliman further reflected on sound as both a material substance and a methodological instrument. Sound possesses “density, weight, and a spatial footprint”: it occupies a site, interacts with elements and atmospheric conditions, and resists being fully contained.

This approach led the conversation towards acoustemology: an understanding of sound as a way of knowing not only past and present conditions, but also, how they have been modified. Field recording consequently becomes more than an act of documentation. It asks what has been removed from an acoustic environment, who or what has been silenced, and what a place continues to remember through sound. Listening can thus make perceptible historical strata and ecological connections that dominant accounts have rendered silent, enabling more engagement with the land.

Responding to a question about recording techniques, Aliman described several methods used to register vibrations and activities that ordinarily remain beyond human perception. These included measuring galvanic conductance in leaves, attaching stethoscope microphones to tree bark, and using geophones to capture vibrations transmitted through the ground. These processes do not claim to reproduce a plants voice”; rather, they translate otherwise imperceptible activity into sonic relations. Such techniques extend listening beyond the conventionally audible, allowing plants, trees, and soil to participate in the work as active presences rather than as background or subject matter.

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Re-presentation #5
Singapore Biennale ,

Asian Gothic, Tropical Gothic, and the Ecologies of Impurity

Elizabeth Gabrielle Lee in Conversation with Katarzyna Ancuta (presentation summary)

Katarzyna and Elizabeth’s intervention examined how the Gothic emerges within the eco-cultural imaginaries of Southeast Asia. Moving between cinema, animism, ecological thought, urban development, and artistic practice, they considered how Gothic concepts might be applied to Asian texts, media, landscapes, and built environments—particularly where the boundaries between human and non-human life become unstable. Drawing on more than two decades of research, Katarzyna introduced “Asian Gothic” as a critical framework through which locally specific histories, cosmologies, and cultural forms might be considered without treating the Gothic solely as a European literary inheritance. Both “Asia” and “Gothic” encompass diverse and sometimes incompatible traditions; Katarzyna therefore proposed the term not as a fixed genre or externally imposed category, but as a productive mode of reading that allows the Gothic to escape conventional classifications. Animism provided a central point of departure. In much Western theory, “new animism” has emerged as a philosophical framework for reconsidering relationships between human and more-than-human subjects. In Southeast Asia, however, animism cannot be reduced to a theoretical rediscovery of non-human agency: spirits remain embedded within everyday life and modernity. Through examples drawn from Asian cinema, Katarzyna examined worlds in which humans, animals, plants, spirits, objects, rituals, and landscapes coexist without being separated into stable ontological categories. This perspective informed Katarzyna’s distinction between eco-horror and eco-Gothic. Eco-horror frequently presents nature as a threatening force that turns against humanity, preserving a confrontation between “us” and “them.” Eco-Gothic is instead concerned with entanglement: the unsettling recognition that human and non-human lives cannot be cleanly separated. Its affective register is not limited to fear. It encompasses ambiguity, existential unease, and the destabilisation of human exceptionalism—the disquieting recognition that humanity does not occupy a privileged position at the centre of the world. The tropical forest becomes particularly significant within this framework. Where conventional Gothic traditions depict the forest as a dark and hostile space harbouring unknown threats, the tropical environment introduces another kind of excess. Its accelerated growth, density, and capacity to reclaim constructed space destabilise the boundary between nature and city. Humans do not enter this ecology from the outside; they are already entangled within it. Katarzyna concluded by turning to objects and possession. In Gothic narratives, things frequently acquire agency: they resist destruction, disrupt human intentions, and redirect the stories in which they appear. Possession becomes more than a supernatural event. It provides a model for entering an ecology larger than the human, in which bodies, objects, and environments may be animated or transformed by forces exceeding individual control.

Elizabeth took possession as an entry point into Total Pleasure Suite (TPS), asking who—or what—possesses whom within the installation. Possession was approached not only in its supernatural sense, but also through questions of ownership, occupation, attachment, and control: who possesses a space, and how might a space, object, or material system possess those who move through it? This perspective unsettles the assumption that designed environments remain fully governed by human agency. Elizabeth situated TPS within Singapore’s developmental landscape, where extensive terraforming, biological management, climate control, smart-city technologies, and urban planning contribute to the production of nature as an engineered biome. The nation’s pursuit of purity, efficiency, and perfection creates tension with the ecological, industrial, and material processes that resist complete regulation. Within an environment designed to appear seamless, controlled, and perpetually renewed, the Gothic emerges through what cannot be eliminated: residue, entropy, interruption, decay, and repressed histories that continue to return. Against a developmental logic of “displace, destroy, and replace,” TPS proposed a feral transformation arising from entangled ecosystems, material excess, and forgotten forms of pleasure. Elizabeth outlined four intentions underlying the project: to create paradoxes through the coexistence of stasis and acceleration; to interrupt the appearance of seamlessness; to remove entropy from pathological narratives of decline; and to sustain rupture as a continuous spatial and conceptual condition. Rather than presenting a complete vision of the future, the installation asked how space might accommodate what does not conform to the plan—the unintended, excessive, obsolete, or other. Elizabeth situated the work within what she called the “Gothic Gap,” a horizontal and liminal space between Singapore’s repressed past and its projected future fantasies. TPS neither nostalgically returned to a primordial landscape nor pursued a perfected urban Eden. Instead, it occupied the contradiction between enhancement and entropy, holding bodies in a condition that resisted both transcendence and collapse. If the classical Western Gothic asks what happens when the past refuses to remain buried, Elizabeth’s Tropical Gothic asks what happens when the future is already here—and is composed of the industrial debris that modernity sought to transcend.

Tyres, school furniture, tapes, cable ties, and fluorescent lights formed the installation’s impure material vocabulary. These industrial and institutional elements were not treated as inert objects, but as participants in a “less-than-human” world operating beyond the fantasy of pure intention. Their presence complicated distinctions between natural and artificial, living and non-living, useful and discarded. Removed from their original purposes, they revealed the afterlives of systems and objects that persist beyond intended functions, exposing the impurities upon which seemingly perfected environments depend. Precariously stacked school furniture redirected bodily movement rather than submitting to conventional use. Elizabeth described this material agency as a kind of “brutal animism”: not a romantic attribution of spirit to all things, but an acknowledgment of matter’s capacity for resistance, deception, adaptation, and survival. The less-than-human was therefore not less intelligent, but differently intelligent, operating beyond the categories that pure intention can recognise or control.

The concluding exchange returned to questions of being “more or less than human.” Katarzyna and Elizabeth considered how human presence is constructed within designed spaces and how the ego determines whether a space appears occupied or empty. An abandoned object or industrial environment can appear haunted because it was made for human use but no longer contains a human body. Yet this perception may reveal a desire to remain necessary even in one’s absence. References to industrial environments, Gothic figures, and the Lorax extended the discussion towards who is authorised to speak for the non-human—and whether such advocacy can inadvertently reproduce the human-centred structures it seeks to contest.

Tropical Gothic ultimately emerged as a way of reading Singapore through the tensions between design and disorder, aspiration and repression, purity and contamination. Elizabeth proposed destiny not as a movement towards clarity or transcendence, but as a condition operating in “dark mode”: one shaped by intelligent impurity, material persistence, and a refusal to resolve contradiction. From this perspective, the Gothic is not merely an aesthetic category. It becomes a critical method for designing, inhabiting, and interpreting spaces whose apparent coherence depends upon what they suppress.

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Re-presentation #5
Singapore Biennale ,
Re-presentation #5
Singapore Biennale ,

Elizabeth's slides

The Barred Subject

Federico Ruberto (a response) / Both interventions questioned the epistemological categories through which reality is made stable and intelligible. More importantly, they addressed the tools that maintain this apparent stability, beginning with the comfortable coherence of anthropic identity. We assign ourselves a privileged position from which we determine what can exist, what counts as living, what possesses agency, and what belongs within the world. In doing so, we risk denying the other not only the possibility of existence, but also the capacity to construct another model of the world. The human subject is therefore destabilised not simply by encountering non-human entities, but by recognising that objects, materials, spirits, environments, and infrastructures may organise relations according to logics that do not depend upon human recognition. Elizabeth’s industrial materials exemplify this displacement. Removed from their assigned functions, they cease to appear as passive matter awaiting human use. They begin to operate tactically: persisting, contaminating, redirecting bodies, and generating spatial conditions of their own. This shift complicates the distinction between subject and object. The question is no longer only how we perceive or possess the world, but how the world might perceive, condition, or possess us. Agency becomes distributed across an ecology of relations rather than concentrated within the autonomous human subject. What appears to us as decay or dysfunction may be another system’s mode of persistence; what we classify as disorder may already be the construction of a different order. This does not entail a romantic return to nature as an idyllic, harmonious, or benevolent totality. Nature appears instead as the place of the Other—in a Lacanian sense, an Other that is barred, incomplete, and never fully available to knowledge. It cannot guarantee meaning or restore a lost wholeness. It remains caught in a semiotic excess that continually exceeds the concepts through which we attempt to contain it. The Gothic becomes especially productive here. It holds us at the point where inherited distinctions begin to falter but no replacement has yet solidified. It makes impurity, contradiction, and ontological instability available not as failures to overcome, but as conditions through which other worlds might acquire form. The task is not to speak for these worlds or absorb them into an expanded humanism, but to preserve the gap through which their distinct forms of agency can emerge.

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Re-presentation #5
Singapore Biennale ,

Enter the Secret Society: Codes of Disappearance and Future Escape

Jason Bahbak Mohaghegh (presentation summary)

Philosopher and literary theorist Jason Bahbak Mohaghegh presented ideas drawn from his research into secrecy, disappearance, and the speculative formation of future secret societies. Beginning from the apparent contradiction of discussing “primal instinct” through a virtual interface, Jason proposed that ancient and primordial forms of thought might provide unexpected strategies for navigating the digital and artificial future. What, he asked, did the earliest humans dream before they believed themselves real—and how might those dreams help us escape an age of simulation? Jason situated the presentation within his research on secret societies across cultures and historical periods. His forthcoming work moves among underground movements, mystical orders, intelligence agencies, lost cities, outlawed artists, forbidden books, political prisoners, anonymous hackers, horror folklore, and architectures of failed utopias. Such material cannot be approached through conventional scholarly research alone. It requires following rumours, whispers, half-truths, superstitions, and peripheral glimpses—pursuing not the mastery of knowledge, but modes of “unknowing” the world. From this research emerged Night School, a speculative secret society designed for an era of compulsory transparency, continuous surveillance, and infinite digital archiving. Rather than attempting to destroy digital civilisation or retreat from it altogether, Night School would introduce irregularities into its logic: moments when prediction fails, identities multiply, meanings fracture, and familiar architectures reveal concealed dimensions. Secrecy would no longer mean becoming invisible. It would mean moving through illuminated systems while carrying what Jason described as a kind of “portable dusk.”

The presentation developed sixteen concepts organised into four code sequences addressing identity, digital disruption, space, and embodiment. The first sequence considered how agents might destabilise the self to resist algorithmic capture. “Anti-capture moves” proposed becoming an atmosphere rather than a readily identifiable subject. While algorithms can model preferences, emotions, and decisions through causal patterns, moods remain ambient, impersonal, and difficult to trace. Night School would therefore communicate through tonal ambiguities, incomplete observations, non-symbolic gestures, and shifting atmospheres rather than explicit signals. The “Black Moth Simulacrum” extended this destabilisation by proposing the deliberate production of a double that counters one’s decisions and desires, confusing systems that rely on a coherent and continuous identity. “Controlled hallucination” imagined orchestrated visions as both an internal discipline and an external form of subterfuge, compelling computational systems to generate increasingly unstable interpretations. “Energetic waste” proposed uselessness as resistance to optimisation: the cultivation of actions whose value cannot be measured through efficiency, productivity, or predictable outcomes. A second sequence introduced techniques for disrupting digital environments. “Blackout” did not seek to destroy surveillance, but to exhaust it through signal starvation, contradictory information, abrupt absences, and discontinuous patterns. “Eclipse psychology” proposed introducing irrationality and madness into machine interpretation, while “exit strategies” centred on “runners”—figures who abandon an environment at the precise moment when a system believes it has understood them. Departure, in this sense, becomes neither failure nor retreat, but an active refusal to remain available for capture.

The third sequence addressed space through ideas such as errant planning and impossible architectures. Jason imagined physical and digital environments organised around contradictory geometries, concealed infrastructures, rearranging exits, and uncertain relations between proximity and distance, presence and absence. Drawing an analogy with the volatility of Drunken Fist boxing, these spaces would turn apparent disorientation into precision. Their faltering movements and unstable coordinates would prevent surveillance from fixing its map of the real.

A fourth sequence, “material immateriality,” focused on the body. Artificial intelligence, despite its computational capacities, remains largely disembodied. Touch, balance, fatigue, pressure, vibration, and spatial awareness therefore retain forms of opacity. Rather than simply returning to a supposedly pure or primal body, Jason proposed intensifying embodiment through haptic technologies, treating future headsets and sensory devices as animals understand horns or insects their antennae. “Counterfaciality” similarly challenged the conversion of the face into a biometric signature, while hiding in plain sight transformed visibility itself into camouflage.

The internal organisation of Night School would also resist the flattened structure of digital networks. Jason provocatively proposed a “virtual aristocracy” composed of tiers of initiation, invisible masters, intermediaries, and unexpected figures elevated from the margins. This hierarchy was not offered as a model of conventional authority, but as a means of concealing actual centres of influence from systems that measure power through visibility and popularity.

The framework culminated in “metaversal racing”: a struggle over who will imagine the virtual worlds that humanity may eventually inhabit. Artificial intelligence can rapidly recombine existing data into landscapes and avatars, but Jason argued that it cannot independently originate the expressive drama, mythology, or ritual that gives a world access to a beyond. Night School would therefore race to construct mythic architectures and immersive spaces shaped by philosophical inquiry and aesthetic mystery. The decisive question would not be who could build these worlds fastest, but who could dream them first.

In the discussion that followed, Federico connected Jason’s proposal to the symposium’s earlier inquiries into sound, opacity, non-human agency, and alternative models of perception. He asked whether Night School should be understood as a singular formation or as a model capable of generating many schools. This opened a discussion about the tension between molecularised perspectives and the need for collective or universal responses to planetary crises such as climate collapse. Jason proposed that a school might contain its own “molecules of heresy”: internal forces capable of breaking from the institution before it hardens into a new orthodoxy. The exchange also considered artificial intelligence as a “universal mirror”—a system increasingly capable of documenting not only what humanity is, but what it has been. Such a mirror may reveal assumptions and behaviours that conflict with humanity’s preferred image of itself. Rather than resisting that encounter, Jason suggested that it might be approached through transformation, surprise, and a willingness to lose against one’s own double.

Questions from the audience connected Night School to misinformation, eco-Gothic, folklore, and the contemporary return of superstition. Jason reflected on political violence in Iran and the wider Middle East, emphasising that artists living through extreme conditions often move towards abstraction not to escape reality, but to exceed the systems of reality that constrain them. Folklore, delirium, and superstition can provide marginalised communities with alternative structures of agency when conventional channels of power remain inaccessible. The discussion concluded by tracing a shift from horror organised around a monster that can be confronted or escaped to cosmic horror, in which violence or malevolence appears embedded throughout reality. Within this horizon, Night School emerged not as a universal solution or a retreat into darkness, but as a speculative discipline of disappearance, misdirection, imagination, and future escape—a form of “darkened hope” committed to preserving the possibility that something remains unsaid, unseen, and not yet captured.

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Re-presentation #5
Singapore Biennale ,

the power of forgetting

Federico Ruberto (a response) / The intervention introduced figures of escape and narratives that do not attempt to portray the world as it is. Instead, they model the possibility of un-languaging and unknowing it, diagramming alternative futures without claiming to determine their final forms. These gestures do not offer another definitive image of reality; they interfere with the systems through which reality is made visible, intelligible, and available for capture. There is a pervasive power of darkened hope within these speculative worlds. This is not the constructive optimism of a positivist sociology seeking to establish the foundations of a new world order. Such projects, however emancipatory their intentions, frequently conclude by producing another universal system—another set of fixed categories through which experience is classified and governed. The hope of Night School lies elsewhere: in the possibility that transformation might occur without crystallising into another totality. What emerges is a form of construction performed through deconstruction—an unbuilding that makes room for fluid classifications, shifting identities, and non- or meta-imperatives. Its opacity does not indicate an absence of political or ethical commitment. Rather, it prevents that commitment from hardening into a final doctrine, preserving movement, divergence, and the possibility of becoming otherwise. The construction of Night School consequently requires a form of hope grounded in pluralisation: in acts of self-abjection, divergence, withdrawal, and the right to opacity. It recognises the agency of noise within the signal and the generative potential of whatever a system dismisses as error, waste, hallucination, or uselessness. These are not merely failures of legibility. They can become techniques for preventing identity and thought from being captured by systems that demand continuous transparency. At the same time, this proposition brings us to an impasse. Acts of refusal may lead towards the construction of singular secret worlds—micrological orders, sects, crews, or alternative models of existence. If this logic is followed to its furthest point, it produces a molecularisation of perspectives: a necessary fracturing of universal viewpoints into a plurality of situated worlds. Yet such pluralisation must still discover modes of coordination and collaboration. We inhabit one materially finite planet, increasingly shaped by ecological collapse, uneven access to resources, and forms of violence that cannot be confronted solely through isolated acts of escape. The challenge is to hold molecular difference together without subsuming it beneath another universal order. How might multiple night schools collaborate while preserving their opacity? How might singular worlds act collectively without surrendering their internal differences? Perhaps what is required is a sympoietic form of universality: not a universality imposed from above, but one made together through contingent relations among different bodies, worlds, and forms of intelligence. Such a universality would remain provisional and revisable. It would emerge through coordination without demanding sameness, allowing each participant to retain the capacity for refusal, divergence, and disappearance.

The presentation also opened a wider reflection on the power of forgetting. Oblivion might be understood not as a deficiency of intelligence, but as one of its most radical capacities. To forget is to interrupt accumulation, loosen fixed identities, and prevent the past from becoming a complete predictive model of the future. Forgetting creates the space in which something genuinely unforeseen can occur. This becomes especially urgent when considering the possible forms of artificial intelligence. Contemporary systems are built around retention, extraction, pattern recognition, and increasingly comprehensive archives. Yet an intelligence that cannot forget may remain trapped within what has already been recorded. A more profound intelligence may require the ability to discard, obscure, misremember, and allow parts of the world to remain unknown. Intelligence may ultimately depend not upon possessing total information, but upon knowing when to let information disappear.

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Hot House
Re-presentation #5
Singapore Biennale ,

Lukáš Likavčan - Arts and Architectures of Astronomical Sensibility (summary)

Drive(s) Through invited philosopher Lukáš Likavčan to consider how astronomy might cultivate new aesthetic, philosophical, and ecological sensibilities. Drawing on his background in philosophy and environmental studies, as well as his work advising space agencies, cultural institutions, and other organisations on the ethical implications of outer-space activities, Lukáš presented astronomy not simply as a scientific discipline but as a repository of techniques for reorienting human perception within planetary and cosmic contexts. The presentation extended research initiated in Lukáš’s 2019 book Introduction to Comparative Planetology. That project examined the different visual and philosophical cultures through which Earth is imagined, asking how political divisions and principles of sovereignty produce distinct versions of planetary ecology. His subsequent collaboration with Waag Futurelab on the Planetary Public Stack, developed as part of the More-than-Planet project, explored how artists and cultural institutions might use satellite infrastructure, space-based data, and other technologies to expand the public imagination of the planetary. Lukáš’s research gradually moved beyond Earth as the primary model for understanding what a planet is. Encounters with astronomers and exoplanet researchers led him to challenge the Earth-centred assumptions of environmental thought. Comparative planetology, he argued, operates in a manner analogous to comparative anatomy: by studying planets that differ radically from one another, it becomes possible to identify general characteristics that would remain invisible if Earth were considered in isolation. This cosmic approach to ecology informs his forthcoming book, Environmentalism Beyond Earth, which brings environmental humanities into dialogue with astrobiology and exoplanetary science.

Astronomy and philosophy, Lukáš proposed, are both optical practices. Astronomy uses telescopes, mirrors, sensors, models, and observatories to construct perspectives on the universe. Philosophy operates as a form of intellectual lens-grinding, producing concepts through which reality can be perceived and navigated differently. This optical understanding of philosophy has a long history, extending from Ibn al-Haytham and Buddhist theories of knowledge to Descartes, Hobbes, Leibniz, and Spinoza—the latter a philosopher who was also literally a lens grinder. The images produced by the James Webb Space Telescope provided an initial example. The distinctive diffraction spikes surrounding stars appear to be features of distant space, but they are artefacts produced by the geometry of the telescopes mirrors. Each image therefore contains both an observation of the universe and an indirect image of the apparatus that made the observation possible. Astronomical representation is never completely separate from its instruments; what is seen bears traces of the technologies, models, and perspectives through which it becomes visible. Invoking Stanisław Lems Solaris, Lukáš reflected on the human tendency to seek mirrors in outer space rather than genuinely other worlds. Yet the distortions returned by these mirrors need not be treated only as contamination to be removed. They can become part of a productive feedback loop through which humanity learns something about itself. Astronomys gestures of cosmic relation,” to borrow Lisa Messeris term, connect observations of outer space to terrestrial modes of existence. This proposition also carried a political caution. The contemporary Second Space Age” frequently reproduces terrestrial inequalities through universalist claims made in the name of all humankind.” Commercial spaceflight and technologically triumphant narratives can obscure the unequal distribution of access, resources, and decision-making power. Outer space should therefore not become another projection surface for colonial fantasies, private accumulation, or inherited myths of conquest. Its more valuable potential lies in offering new perspectives on how Earth might be inhabited and cared for.

Lukáš described astronomy as a form of aesthetic education. Here, aesthetics did not refer narrowly to beauty or artistic judgement, but returned to its broader sense as an education of perception—almost a synonym for epistemology. Astronomy calibrates the senses, even when perception is mediated through instruments and computation. It trains observers to recognise traces, infer absent causes, interpret partial evidence, and remain in relation with phenomena that cannot be directly encountered. Two forms of astronomical sensibility structured the presentation: the indexical and the negative. Indexical sensibility begins from traces. Drawing on philosopher of science Carol Clelands account of smoking-gun” evidence, Lukáš observed that historical sciences such as geology, palaeontology, archaeology, and astronomy often study events that cannot be reproduced experimentally. They proceed by identifying present traces that distinguish one account of the past from another.

The cosmic microwave background offered a paradigmatic example. This radiation functions as a present index of an event that occurred billions of years ago. Its recognition depended on an appropriate cosmological model, the development of radio astronomy, the construction of specific observational infrastructures, and a degree of serendipity: what initially appeared to be meaningless noise was eventually understood as evidence of the early universe. The episode demonstrates that a trace may always be present without becoming legible until a suitable constellation of theories, instruments, architectures, and observers emerges.

Exoplanetary astronomy similarly depends upon indirect signs. Distant planets usually appear as little more than faint points of light, yet astronomers can infer aspects of their atmospheres by analysing the spectrum of starlight that has travelled through or reflected from them. Peaks and gaps in that spectrum provide traces of different chemical compounds. The interaction between planet and star becomes an information metabolism, with light carrying an archive of the environments it has encountered. Lukáš consequently proposed starlight as an ancestral archive: a repository of information extending across much of the universes history.

Federico Ruberto expanded upon the double structure of this index. An astronomical image contains both the trace of cosmic otherness and the trace of the apparatus that records it. Representation translates a phenomenon while simultaneously inscribing the conditions of that translation. The observer must therefore interpret not only what an image appears to show, but also how instruments, models, and infrastructures have participated in producing it. This led to a discussion of machines as cognitive infrastructures. Lukáš resisted treating the machine as an autonomous transcendental subject. Just as a brain does not produce cognition in isolation, knowledge emerges through systems and networks: constellations of human observers, telescopes, computers, institutional settings, models, and interpretative practices. Astronomy makes this distributed character of cognition especially visible. The second sensibility concerned negativity. Dark matter remains invisible and its physical composition unknown, yet its gravitational effects can be inferred from the movement and distribution of visible galaxies. Mapping dark matter therefore means modelling the negative space of the universe. Lukáš compared the relation between visible matter and dark matter to the relation between a carved pattern and the surrounding void in a traditional Chinese seal: emptiness is not merely an absence, but a necessary condition for meaning to appear. Dark matter demonstrates that opacity does not prohibit knowledge. Something may resist direct access while still entering into a productive relation through traces, effects, and models. Astronomy thus cultivates an ability to approach the unknown without reducing it to complete transparency. Its negative sensibility trains observers to work with absence, uncertainty, and incomplete understanding.

The discussion with Helios Singh Bajwa placed this proposal in conversation with speculative realism and philosophies of the outside. Astronomical phenomena such as dark matter and black holes can be understood as indices of contact with radical alterity: points at which direct phenomenological access fails. Yet Lukáš’s approach differed from philosophical positions that treat the outside as absolutely inaccessible. Astronomy follows a middle path. Through abductive inference, mathematical modelling, and continued theoretical revision, it negotiates opacity rather than attempting either to dissolve or romanticise it. Édouard Glissants right to opacity” provided an important reference. Opacity can positively constitute a relationship with another subject or object; granting that right does not mean abandoning engagement. A model can function as a way of imagining the opaque—a testing mechanism through which its effects may be explored without claiming exhaustive knowledge. Dark matter can be mapped through its gravitational footprint even while its composition remains unknown. It is possible, as Lukáš observed, to make a map of something one does not understand.

This approach resonated with Bogna Koniors work on darkness, negativity, and hidden intelligence, in which communication may occur indirectly through clues rather than explicit disclosure. Federico connected this position to François Laruelles account of non-reducible negativity: something may be indexed, translated, or modelled while remaining irreducible to any single representation. Each model presents a facet of the phenomenon, never its totality. Asked about his relationship to speculative realism, Lukáš described his practice as domain-specific rather than oriented towards fundamental metaphysical claims. He characterised his method as DJing with concepts”: selecting and recombining philosophical tools in response to concrete questions in ecology, technology, design, and outer-space research. His interest in Japanese philosophy, particularly traditions that begin with nothingness rather than being, similarly informed his account of emptiness and negativity as productive categories. The conversation also returned to Lukáš’s formative experience at the Strelka Institute. Working among architects, designers, artists, lawyers, and journalists taught him to understand philosophy as a service: a navigational and optical methodology capable of producing tools for real situations. While this experience connected his trajectory to Benjamin Brattons work on planetary-scale computation, Lukáš distinguished his current research through its emphasis on the forms of human subjectivity generated by computational infrastructures. The question is not simply what such systems can calculate, but what kinds of observers and planetary subjects they help to produce. Aesthetic education consequently became a practice of cultivating subjective competency. Drawing on Thomas Metzingers practical philosophy of mind, Lukáš described the self not as a fixed metaphysical substance but as a cognitive model that can be examined and modulated. Encountering phenomena that are radically larger, stranger, or less accessible than those of everyday life expands the subjects capacity to remain with uncertainty rather than retreat from it. Astronomy provides one such feedback loop between the self and phenomena operating at scales beyond ordinary experience. Peter Sloterdijks account of anthropotechnics and vertical imperatives” further informed this argument. Humans are beings who continually participate in their own formation, but that process is not entirely voluntary. Planetary existence imposes conditions that cannot simply be refused: organisms are already constituted through metabolic, ecological, and material relations with Earth. We are planetary subjects whether or not we consciously choose to be. Aesthetic education makes these constitutive relations more perceptible and opens them to deliberate transformation. Helios connected this approach to questions of secular spirituality, selflessness, disenchantment, and re-enchantment. Lukáš argued that the lesson of radical disenchantment is precisely that humans become free to choose their forms of enchantment. Naturalism does not remove subjects from the feedback loops through which meanings and attachments are produced; it makes those loops available for reflection and modulation. Astronomy can therefore sustain a rational form of enchantment without reverting to inherited cosmologies or abandoning scientific understanding. The conversation concluded by returning the cosmic encounter to ecology. Astronomy is a limit case of meeting the other: it confronts humanity with distances, durations, and forms of existence that radically exceed everyday experience. Yet the sensibilities developed through this encounter can be scaled back to terrestrial relations. Learning to interpret indirect traces, negotiate opacity, and recognise distributed forms of cognition may transform how humans relate to ecological otherness closer to home.

Astronomy thus emerged as an aesthetic education for the planetary era. Through indexical and negative sensibilities, it teaches us to read traces, attend to the architectures that produce knowledge, and approach opaque phenomena without demanding their complete legibility. Outer space, from this perspective, is neither an empty frontier nor a screen for terrestrial fantasies. It is a speculative medium through which to reconsider human subjectivity, environmental responsibility, and the fragile conditions that make Earth habitable.

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Lukáš - intro

Drive(s) through invites philosopher Lukáš Likavčan to discuss his research with a presentation titled Arts and Architectures of Astronomical Sensibility. Lukáš Likavčan is a philosopher focused on emerging technologies, ecology, and outer space. In his work, he traces intertwined histories of scientific infrastructures, ideas, and cultures mobilized in the production of knowledge that informs human efforts to sustain planetary habitability. Lukáš is currently a researcher at the Copernicus Institute at Utrecht University, and at the Institute of Philosophy, Slovak Academy of Sciences. He is also a co-founder of an outer space consultancy company Substrate, and a faculty at MA Information Design, Design Academy Eindhoven. In collaboration with his colleagues at UAL Central Saint Martins, he co-curates an R&D platform Earthsuits, and he serves as a venture partner at startup accelerator Restless Egg. His transdisciplinary research has been presented at CERN, Venice Biennale, Goldsmiths, Cambridge University, Vienna Biennale, Peking University and many other venues.

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Helios Singh Bajwa - Questions for Lukas

On the relation to philosophies of the Outside—

The presentations treatment of dark matter and black holes, qua "opaque, negative phenomena on the threshold of human understanding", seems to dovetail with discussions of the Outside in post-Landian and speculative realist philosophy. Both phenomena could perhaps be read as indices of contact with the Outside to the extent that they preclude direct epistemic or phenomenological access and, at least in the case of black holes, register a certain radical alterity or inhuman exteriority: a point where the given collapses, meaning is impossible, thought touches the unthinkable, etc. One could almost liken them to Meillasouxs arche-fossils: evidence of contact with spacetimes radically anterior and indifferent to thought.

For some SR philosophers, the whole challenge is to try to think the Outside as total, irreducible alterity, instead of drawing it back into the correlation or the realm of human access and legibility. For example, Graham Harman on withdrawal: the Outside consists in real objects that are insidephenomenal objects, but totally inaccessible, infinitely withdrawn from all relations, human or nonhuman, only knowable indirectly, etc. Hilan Bensusan is a more recent example of this disposition: his indexicalism registers presence in terms of the haecceity of things (their sheer this-ness as this thing at this place and this time) instead of subsuming them under predicates and concepts, because for Bensusan contact with the Outside requires a kind of hospitality that would allow the Others their opacity, instead of insisting they become transparent and accessible to us.

Your treatment of dark matter and black holes seems to stake a different way of relating to the Outside. The epistemic practices associated with the study of these phenomena seem to point to an interesting middle path between rendering transparent and respecting opacity: a kind of open-ended negotiation involving abductive inference via indirect observational evidence, mathematical modelling, cross-validation, ongoing theoretical revision… (--- but this is just the scientific method in general… Maybe the specific affordance of the black holes/dark matter starting point consists more so in highlighting how the intuitive association of knowledge with transparency is problematic…) The point is not to render the phenomena transparent, but to make their resistance to transparency productive. Opacity is negotiated rather than dissolved. There is also perhaps some resonance here with Reza Nagerastanis approach, particularly his extension of Peirces idea of abductive reasoning.

The way youve positioned dark matter and black holes as conceptual ingredients/ philosophical provocations (?) for the cultivation of new aesthetic and moral sensibilities also bears some resonance to how Brassier thinks of extinction (via solar expansion, entropic heat death). Of course, to Brassier, reckoning with his sense of the Outside and following the science to its ultimate conclusions yields a nihilism that strips life and meaning of all metaphysical privilege (in a way that, for him, is not despairing but enlightening…). By contrast, you want to use dark matter and black holes not to disenchant, but to reorient: as the starting point for a kind of re-education, a lever for cultivating a different kind of aesthetic and moral sensibility.

Can you elaborate on how your project speaks to the constellation of philosophical approaches to the Outside today?

On metabolism—

Metabolism figures prominently in this presentation, but also in many of your other papers. It seems to be a kind of keystone to the way you conceive of planetary thinking. Perhaps it is worth spending a bit more time on. Youve previously argued that metabolism represents a kind of cosmological shift in Bentley Allans sense (shifts in political thought triggered by changes in fundamental assumptions about the cosmos and our place in it). You specifically propose that metabolism supplants a first order cybernetics cosmology. Now we see the planet and its sub-systems in terms of self-creating agential system rather than homogeneous, controllable, equilibrium-seeking computational systems.

Can you elaborate on the difference between first-order cybernetics and metabolism as cosmological paradigms? It seems that the second-order cybernetics of Varela, Maturana, et al can model metabolic processes quite well and remains quite relevant in how we understand autopoietic/complex adaptive systems… How much of a shift is there really?

On the relation between the ideal of aesthetic and moral cultivation and the political ecology of actually existing science infrastructure— 

Observatories are sometimes built on contested land (Mauna Kea Observatory in Hawaii). Satellite constellations (Starlink) interfere with ground-based observation. Space agencies are entangled with military and commercial interests. Space debris creates commons problems. Aesthetics and ethics are not merely contemplative but materially embedded. How do/should these political issues factor into your vision for cultivating new aesthetic and moral sensibilities?

On the limits of the optics metaphor—

Opticality in your sense extends beyond the narrowly visual to encompass a wider range of observational and informatic practices. But optics implies a certain distance between observer and observed, a model of knowledge as clear-seeing, etc. Metabolism, on the other hand, seems more so a matter of immersion. The metabolism isnt positioned at a distance from the systems it is in material exchange with, but is constituted by them. Annemarie Mols distinction between the walker and the eater as figures of philosophical anthropology, which you rely on elsewhere, is illustrative here: not autonomous beings navigating their environments, but porous beings moving their environments through their bodies.

How do you see this tension? Is the optical metaphor ultimately provisional, merely a useful entry point? Is there a mode of optics adequate to the kind of entanglement you're describing (e.g. youve elsewhere discussed the idea that a kind of nonhuman photographic inscription is ubiquitous in the natural world: nature's surfaces are continuously inscribed by the events that occur near them…). Or do the limits of the metaphor precisely point to a real limit to both astronomy and philosophy, a need to exit both into more immediate or practical exercises in aesthetic and moral cultivation?

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Uncanniness in the tropics

Title: Uncanniness in the tropics  

By Rodrigo Gonsalves

Introduction

Imagine you are taking some time off and you have decided to visit the countryside. Then, you have decided to hike into the woods. You would eventually find yourself calmly walking through the trees and branches through easier pathways. But now, imagine if out of distraction you've completely missed the familiar pathway you were used to and you simply couldn't find the way back. Or maybe, because of a sudden fog overtaking these woods, a growing sense of unfamiliarity would start to settle in, misshaping and reorganizing your senses, which could lead you to not recognize where you once were. What was once a cool and relaxing walk through the woods, could all of the sudden turn into something radically different. Perhaps the previous confidence you had over the pathway would start to crumble, your sense of direction would feel impaired and your attempts to get back on track would be proven ineffective. And what you thought was an impossibility, starts to become more like a percentual improbability, and the possibility of getting lost in the woods, would reveal itself actually as a hidden probability. You would try to find your way to a familiar spot, but if all attempts fail you  would end up in that unfamiliar route… the unknown would enlarge its dimensions and perhaps, a rather specific sense of hopelessness could invade, one which is not fear per se, but actually a certain uncanniness.

Whatever it is that haunts us, whatever fear is at stake here, it is a fear which reveals something about ourselves and we need to evoke symbolic conditions in order to address it. And to put it in a more provocative way: we still lack better alternatives to comprehend and to face the contradictions which haunt us. This scene could be taken out of any horror film from the 80s and 90s, and it reveals a certain immanent element of our societies and sensibilities. The mass production of horror films in our culture is telling in this sense, there is something traumatic which has not been fully subsumed, thus producing more and more films could be interpreted as a repetition that demands a work of elaboration of symptoms which are not yet resolved. Perhaps, there are ghosts in the forest. 

Freud's Uncanny

This imaginary example is an extrapolation from one of Sigmund Freud's hypotheses in his text The Uncanny of 1919. In this text, the psychoanalyst endeavors on an argument concerning the specificities of the uncanniness as an affect. And although it belongs “to the realm of the frightening, of what evokes fear and dread” (p.299), he investigates its nuances and particularities, in order to better understand its unique traits. Freud understands that something new or unfamiliar can be frightening, but also that not every single new experience will be deemed uncanny. Thus, something else must take place in order to provoke uncanniness. Freud will defend that the uncanny surfaces whenever something familiar turns unfamiliar, whenever something that should have been kept secret comes to light (relying on Friedrich Schelling's definition).

Basically, Freud establishes that the uncanny concerns the arising of an emotional impulse which is converted to fear if repressed. And the nature of this emotional impulse concerns animistic elements that were long familiar to the psyche, elements which have been estranged inside ourselves because of repression (pp. 340-1). One can see how uncaniness concerns the resurfacing of anismistic beliefs from our pasts, like moments of our childhood which were deemed to have been sublated but once faced with specific moments seem not to have been fully sublated: like the creepy feeling of walking along in the night, that nods to our fears of the unknown which can get the best of us. An usual misinterpretation of Freud's definition of the uncanny is that it concerns a child-like trait of the person who experiences it, but this is not Freud's key argument on the uncanny. The psychoanalyst defends how our animistic perspectives (and everything which compose are pasts) are still unconsciously shaping our daily lives without us realizing. It is only when we notice such animistic reminders clashing against our consciousness that such affect surfaces. Freud argues that the uncanniness surfaces from the return of a repressed content from our past. And since our most primitive convictions and our childhood complexes are closely linked to each other (p.354), the uncanniness may appear from when repressed childhood complexes are revived or when our surmounted primitive beliefs seem to be confirmed.

Now, examining our previous example from the standpoint of Freud's definition of the uncanny, we can better formulate an understanding of how getting lost in the woods could get the best of our consciousness and also, how it can spark this specific angst, how it could provoke such uncaniness. The fabrication of imaginary solutions to unexplainable random chance derives from animistic tendencies to fulfill reality with our narcissistic tendencies. So, when faced with an unexpected fog in the woods or when we get lost trying to find our path only to end up in the same place - we will use the subjective resources we have in hand in order to explain what seems unexplainable. The creepiness we may feel when we do not know where we are heading, the overwhelming sensation of tinyness against the oppressive fog that overdetermines the trees which almost completely deprive our senses could provoke uncaniness if it sparks our animistic subjective organization. Now, let's take this discussion to another direction, could the uncanniness we deposit over the forest reveal an aspect of our own oppressive past over nature? Perhaps, the ghostly apparitions which a foggy forest plays our tricks with, are actually more telling about ourselves. Maybe we are the ghosts that haunt us in the woods… perhaps what we encounter roaming and lurking in the woods are nothing but a reminder of our past, a reminder that other collectivities once marched and organized reality.

The repression of animism in capitalist societies

We are all beings constituted by and through language. Our (in)humanity derives from the fact that we are bodies traversed and immersed in language. To be within language and to become within it, means that we are constantly collectively modeling and shaping our ways of existence in reality. Thus, we still owe to ancient societal organizations as much as we do to ancient languages. The animistic tendencies that once provided fruitful explanations about our existence still survive in the symbolic foundations lying within all of us. On a more personal level, repression defines the unconscious mechanism which prevents us from experiencing our own primordial explanations about our past; but on a societal level, the continuous efforts of suppressing alternative sensibilities from our originary societies to arise or to be remembered for the sake of a dominating one is an ideological imposition. The dominant Eurocentric Enlightened tendencies which imposed itself through economical exploitation throughout the world, have also shaped our sensibilities and sense of collectivity (or to better put it, our lack thereof), usually forcing us to forget that other forms of collectivity and social organizations once ruled reality.

Freud pointed out that nature is experienced as a fundamental source of malaise. Indeed, nature can force upon us a sense of weakness and smallness, because we inadvertently know it can obliterate us at any point. But it mostly provokes this feeling from the crystalized memories we carry as a species, shaped by millions of years and through past civilizations to diminish our fragility against it. We might not think about it, but it lies unconscious in all of us. This is not the only way to experience nature, but there are other ways to live with nature. The knowledge from the tropics may have something to inform our sensibilities against this predatory posture over nature. It can tell us something about not relating to nature over fear, but to teach us a Freudian lesson: understanding this malaise means to establish new relations with nature, it means to go against domination through destruction and to conceive a viable coexistence with it. Basically, we can’t still justify our predatory relationship with nature based on our unconscious fears, we cannot still “normalize” this exploitative relation as the only possible relation to our planet's environment.   

When Davi Kopenawa and Bruce Albert (2013, p.382) made the point that the white men destroy the forest because they don't actually know it. They are telling us that from the standpoint of the white men's knowledgeable sensibilities, the forest is rather quickly misunderstood as a self driving force without purpose or reason. And perhaps this explains how a certain mentality has ideologically taken over reality perceiving the forest as a dead entity, a dead space or a territory which lacks life for the white men's standpoint. In short, the white men “know” the forest only through the scope of commodification and exploitation, from the dead to the deadliest. Therefore a certain deadness spreads throughout the world, not only devastating nature, but also reproducing a deadly logic for profit through this understanding.

This invites us to consider how different knowledge approaches to nature allows us to further speculate our understanding of it. How it can inform us of other sources of negativity and contradiction challenging and broadening our perspective of universality. But only if we ought to learn from otherness by respecting its radical alterity, instead of only persisting in imposing sameness onto it. We can make room for the Levi-Straussian approach of elementary traits of kinship which lead to the patriarchal structures in some cultures, but also recognizing that there are other approaches to myths and subsequently other forms of collective organizations. There is the totemic approach, but there is also the animistic approach. For instance, Viveiro de Castro's (2014) anthropological remarks in Cannibal Metaphysics reminds us that the myths which sustain the Old World don't necessarily share the same characteristics as the Ameridian ones. As he argues: “in the Old World, humans had to steal fire from a divine father, while Amerindians either had to take it from a father-in-law or receive it as a gift from a brother-in-law, both of whom were animals.” (ibid., 177) Thus, the role of gift-giving and other substitutive roles can shape affinity and exchange leading to different collective possibilities and also, to other approaches to nature itself. More accurately, if we consider that “...the content of Amerindian mythology consists in a negation of the generative impulse of myth itself, insofar as this mythology thinks in an active fashion, and nostalgically contemplates, a continuum whose negation is in Levi-Strauss' view the fundamental condition of thought.” (Castro 2014, 213) The proper recognition of all living beings which derive from originary knowledge sets another approach to nature, because it forces the dialectical interplay of consciousness out of its exceptionalist comfort zone and invites other ontological potentialities.

The uncanny in the tropics

The suppressed knowledge of alternative ecologies and hybrid ontologies lies in the cracks of our everyday life. When we engage with points of rupture against the ideological normalcy imposed by the meat-grinder of our economical constraints and turn the uncanniness into a pathway, a passage or perhaps, a portal towards another reality opens up. The ghosts that live in the forest may have a different meaning under another perspective, if we perceive these ghosts that haunt us as passages or portals, invitations to time-pockets to another way of imagining our futures. The British philosopher Mark Fisher examined Freud’s uncanny in a rather unique fashion; he was enthusiastic of Freud's proposals but somewhat disappointed about its outcomes. The first time Fisher engages with Freud's uncanny discussion was in his Ph.D thesis Flatline Constructs: Gothic Materialism and Cybernetic Theory-Fiction (1999) where he takes Freud's the animistic potential between the animated and inanimate in order to consider how gothic dimension to present fictions to imagine different processes of subjectivization and other ontologies. It is only in his last book The Weird and the Eerie (2017) that Fisher settles the score with Freud, explaining how “Freud’s unheimlich concerns the strange within the familiar” (11), while the weird and the eerie present another perspective, “they allow us to see the inside from the perspective of the outside.” (12) 

Fisher's specific desambiguation of the weird and eerie, allows us to approach the uncanniness of getting lost in the woods under eerier tones. It invites different aesthetic sensibilities approaching the forest as a proper unpolished, inconceivable propelling impulse, multiple with the animistic lives which generate its compelling force. The ghostly forces that reside in the woods can only haunt our narcissistic preconceived notion of strangeness, because these eerie ghosts are there only to remind us that other alternatives to imagine our future can be conceived (if we are not blinded by our past…). The animistic spectres of forest are a reminder that other collectives once inhabited reality and they were once aligned with all living things in the woods. Thus, we must first deconstruct our understanding of nature as a commodity and the forest as a product. Or as Žižek points out, we need to remind ourselves that nature itself is not nature: that it is actually naturalized. And that an ecology in different terms means an ecology oriented towards the inevitable catastrophe imposed by financialized capitalism.

The spectral presence of other animistic potentialities in the tropical forest are an invitation for our recognition of all living things. Such an invitation expands our own ability of recognition which makes room for strangeness and recognizes the dignity of images of beings which aren't matching with our own. To be affected by a territory is to be open to the multiplicity of all living beings, which spreads the conception of our own (in)humanity. Especially, because it pushes recognition beyond embracing similarity and sameness towards making (in)humanity something else.

The tropical forest actualizes the eerie. More than driving our sensibilities beyond the brutality of the physical terror caused by the uncontrollable trait of nature or our solitude of being shelterless outside, its eeriness derives from the nod of the disintegration of structural authorities and the hole of a pretense of safety in knowledges we are used to. Such recognition of strangeness drives another sense of autonomy, which propels more open ontologies, weirder, eerie and radically strange. Territories such as the Amazon forest as well as other territories which should be protected at all costs harbinger species and lives which we still know too little about. And instead of being governed by our fears, we should be ethically engaged by a non-predatory posture over the land. This gesture translates a different coexistence with the territory based on another experience with the uncanny.

Finally, as Žižek (2015) points out reading McKenzie Wark's Molecular Red, Marx had already anticipated the reasons why ecology is a major battlefield: the “metabolic rift” caused by expanding capitalist productivity is under constant ideological dispute. Once capitalist societies organized themselves through the industrial revolution they became a geological factor and a clash with ecology was only a matter of time. Following Žižek, we must stop indulging the narrative that there is a balance in nature, because nature will always be unbalanced. Or as he argues: “the idea of Nature as a big Mother is just another image of the divine big Other.” We must reject the imaginary balance which is ideologically pushed towards nature, because it prevents us from realizing how we “denaturalize” nature from within. Instead of thinking about the world, there is a possibility of conceiving worlds from within by pursuing this understanding. 

The uncanny in the tropics: a brief bestiary

Walking through the heavy and dense South American forests of the Amazons is also to enter the realms of a very specific bestiary (Simas 2024). Creatures which were orally transmitted by the originary civilizations of the Tupis (the Tupiniquins and the Tupinambas), Sateré-Mawé, Timbiras, Guarani, Ticuna, Caingangue, Macuxi, Terena, Guajajara, Ianomâmi, Xavante amongst so many others. For instance, the anhangá as depicted by the Sateré-Mawé which is a shapeshifting spirit that can turn into a white deer with flaming eyes (but who can also assume the form of an armadillo, an ox, a fish pirarucu and even people) to pursue and haunt all of those who are cruel and vile to other animals (Simas 2024, p.17). For the Tupis, the anhangá haunts and brings misfortune to anyone who walks the forests hunting not for their survival but to dominate and exploit it.

We could also talk about the boitatá or “baetata”, which is a creature present amongst many different originary people, it is a spectral, ghostly force embodied in the shape of an enormous flaming snake. Following Simas (ibid., p.54), the boitatá crawls through the jungle attacking anyone who harms the forest. It has the power of driving people mad and to blind those who stare at its eyes. The Tupis also talk about the curupira, they describe it as a short statured creature which resembles a child, which has fire for hair and backward feet. The curupira is a trickster-like creature, which fools the hunters who walk into the forest without leaving treats in his honor. The curupira is a protector of the trees and the animals, he can assume the form of animals to trap hunters inside the jungle by leading them astray. These three examples compose the oldest portrayals of the bestiary of South American originary people, tracing back to 1560 when the first reports from Jesuit priests (José de Anchieta) during the Portuguese colonization were written.

There are numerous other creatures amongst the originary people that compose this bestiary like the caipora, the headless mule, the jaci jaterê, the saci-pererê, viara, and so on. But the three bestial proponents highlighted here assume a cautionary tale in its narrative. The anhangá, the boitatá and the curupira avenge the exploitative advances against the forest. The Tupinambas, the Tupiniquins, the Sateré-Mawéa name the vengeful spirit embodied in these specific creatures against the advances of exploitative destruction, but not aiming at the exclusion of alterity in this process, as Castro explains (2011). This brief bestiary displays how such creatures are actually the embodiment and the protectors of multiplicity which live through the amerindian oral traditions.

The animistic condition behind these beasts could provide us with a clue that echoes the anthropological research of Castro (2011), when he asks: what do the originary people from South America fear? Especially when the anthropologist reminds us that “the real fear others have of their imaginary monsters proliferate amongst us with the imaginary fear of real monsters” (2011, p.888)The animistic condition behind these beasts could provide us with a clue that echoes the anthropological research of Castro (2011), when he asks: what do the originary people from South America fear? Especially when the anthropologist reminds us that “the real fear others have of their imaginary monsters proliferate amongst us with the imaginary fear of real monsters” (2011, p.888) In short, the Amazonic societies live and breathe the difference all around them, consuming such difference in order to be. This animistic feast fulfills the destiny of multiplicity through imaginative openness against the European and North Americanized rational sensibilities of sameness. From Castro, we can speculate how this powerful engine of negativity found in otherness is an influx of forces and which sustains a “good living” for Amerindian sensibilities. Under the Deleuzian and Guatarrian inspired perspectivism defended by Castro, who summarizes that “the indigenous cogito, instead of the solipsist formula “I think therefore I am,” under animistic terms could be articulated as “this exists, therefore it thinks”” (p.911) pushing the “I” towards radical alterity and favoring a re-orientation of our own anismistic symbolic traits: our relationship with what exists can be radically different. This is (dis)orientation towards object par excellence (Zupančič 2017).    

  

The uncanny in the tropics: Brazilian modernism as a study case

The land now known as Brazil is a haunted space. Its 8.51 km2 is composed of historic violence, colonization and struggles. There is a constant haunting informing the anthropophagic pact which composes the symbolic and imaginary animistic traits of its people. The Portuguese genocidal colonization of its originary people and slavery process imposed a real violence which monopolized the fears against their own presence in the land. The spirits, spectres and ghosts were always present in the anismistic pacts of the originary populations and the anthropophagic feast that formed the local culture, but the horrors of colonization started to dispute that. The question surrounding which ghosts we fear can shape a communal sense to people. The imaginary that composes people can come from the fears which are kept hidden, from which ghosts are suppressed and omitted from the collective symbolic surface. But the psychoanalytic lesson is that what is repressed always finds a way to return… and in mind that the very moment in history when the philosophical project of modernity was established, Europe was colonizing the rest of the entire world, repressing and excluding ontologies from its universality. This is a wound against reason itself, since it carries a fundamental contradiction within. The beings of reason, fruits of the cogito born from the modern subject, determines the foundations of dignity through recognition, but it has done so by condemning racialized bodies and dominating genres, which contradicts any worthy dignity. The ghosts which haunt the tropical forests in Brazil, detain a powerful negativity that disturbs the positive project of modernity.      

In recent years, the attempt of implementing a “modernist” project in Brazil furthered this historic contradiction. By doing so, it showed that dealing with ghosts is a necessary element to any social composition. And in this particular moment of Brazil's history there was an opportunity to either exorcise structural wounds which harmed the collective composition of its society or to worsen it through the intensification of these hauntings. The “modernist” project in Brazil, as Vladimir Safatle (2023) defends, meant it could shake off “the material reproduction of symbolic tradition and our foundational myths [and] enable different aesthetical experiences as the foundation for creating new social forms”. Following Safatle, revolutions can hook “the popular belief towards new dynamics of constructing people [that] can emerge and enable structural transformation and imagination” (ibid., p.6). Thus, the aesthetic-political capabilities of engaging with sensibilities can interrogate given contradictions and lead towards a reflective practice that guides transformation, building a bridge between local change and the large-scale structures in our societies.

In the 1930s through the process of Brazilian “modernism”, the political background behind the rise of this aesthetic movement was composed by regional oligarchs who had the support of the military. They were aiming at benefiting from the utopic dimension of modernism in order to implement a modern conservative nation-state (ibid., p.6): a monopolization of the fear to reinforce the ghost of oppression against other relations with past ghosts. Thus, preventing the symbolic traversals required in order to make amends and healing structural wounds. “Modernism” in Brazil is an “ambiguous heritage” of violence resulting directly from this concoction between modernism and populist state. Brazilian “modernity” is branded with a fascistic root: the aesthetic emancipatory capabilities are tainted by this heritage (ibid., p.9). Nonetheless, modernism was also an aesthetic disruptive attempt, an attempt at opening a breach and challenging given sensibilities of its time. This ambiguity opened a possibility for a new configuration of the Brazilian identity which did challenge local oligarchic interests, leaving the promise of aesthetics towards emancipation; but all too quickly, the conservative project took over suppressing any radical alternative. And the normalized violence of the status quo was intensified in order to suppress any attempt to dispute the ghosts from the past, revealing the need for a local specificity of dialectics in order to sustain emancipatory transformation. 

The key argument from Safatle, one which we can certainly subscribe to, is that a “ghost can do a lot” (ibid., p.13). Indeed, ghosts are too close to nothing, they haunt us with the imposition of ideals and they haunt us with the menace from the past… Ghosts represent the disturbance of the present in its presence. The monopoly of State violence oppresses and prevents that other symbolic treatments of such ghosts may take place. But, as Safatle states, a ghost can introduce us to other dialectics. One which is singular to the process of colonization that took place in places like Brazil. Since the dialectical process behind our singular historic structure:

…starts from non-being and moves towards something which is not its opposite, it does not become being, it actually turns into otherness. The being-other appears, in reality, as another figure of non-being, which explains why, in this perspective, the only consequent position would be to recognize the excruciating construction of ourselves that could only be actualized at the moment when it recognizes its impossibility to be actualized, because there is no possible construction which can be done from the passage of non-being to otherness (ibid, p.17).          

We can understand how this singular haunting movement shapes another ontology, one which does not completely obey the Hegelian logic (demanding it to go further) from being towards nothing and opening the concept of becoming towards another actualization. Because it starts from non-being towards being-other. As Safatle explains, “it leads towards an always disavowalled expectation that being-other would be something different than alienation or… a developmental “myth”.” (ibid., p.18) But the acceptance of the non-being as a dialectical starting point makes room for other fundamental questions to arise, for example: which beginning a national dialectic recognizes and which one it neglects? Could common mean more than it does?

By acknowledging these reflections, one can interrogate the very structure of colonization that moves the ghostly ideal Brazilians had historically set for themselves: in order to be recognized one must be under the terms dictated by the master. Forcing the ghostly ideal of pursuing intangible European standards of recognition to its own people, has obliterated the past violences which shaped its own history. Interrogating the “starting point” of Brazil away from the Portuguese colonization, can push the contradiction of this very own ghost forward. And display how this ghost is actually the ghost of disavowal (Zupančič 2024), the ghost that names the efforts to deny the genocidal history of the originary people and the slavery in consolidating the capitalist wealth of colonization, one that still persist in the social disparity amongst people today. But when we set this particular dialectics as the driving force of this ghost, it forces its haunting contradictions over the living in their everyday lives. It prevents the mechanisms of normalization which softens the violences from the past to operate, thus pushing solidarity towards emancipatory capabilities. It reminds us that our past is much closer to us than we tend to think. There is no possible popular sovereignty through the persistence in the logic that produces further exclusion. The only possible politics comes through the voices that echoes these ghosts in their struggle. 

It is only through the realization of this non-being that a more gothic uncanny dimension reaches an anthropophagic dimension that rescues the ghosts that once ruled these lands. It is only through the cracks of ontological indoctrination, that a weirder, eerier, spookier grammar can arise and rearrange our symbolic commitment to the past (Gonsalves 2025). The expansion of the uncanny towards a more gothic dimension, one which translates its tropical potentialities, means to remember and unblock our memories that another sense of collectivity once ruled the land. The haunting of ghosts represents the repetition of the repressed content, but it only does so because it hasn't been symbolically and collectively subsumed. There is a structure of dessensibilization of our sensibilities that forces us to “normalize” all violences we experience. But our social bonds and forms of exchange predate capitalism, our capacity to communality was formulated under completely different terms: this is something that we tend to forget. Other emancipatory modes of existence once prevailed in the land but these were met with violence, oppression and death. This ghost that haunts the local tropics should belong to our local bestiary as a reminder of how another animistic pact with reality can set our ontological capacities free and this understanding could also push emancipatory universality in this process. 

Animism in dispute

Animism has always been in dispute. Our linguistic capabilities, our organizational capacities, which shaped our cognitions and our collectivities has always been a process of dealing with our animistic bearings. The fabric which composes our sociability is knitted by the animistic fibre of the collectivities from our past, which symbolically sustain our treatises. The imaginary guarantees act like knots which are only as tight as the strength of this very own symbolic fabric. But there is animistic elements all over our social composition, especially in how we tied these threads. There is animism present in our exchanges, in the way we delegate our satisfactions, in the way we find satisfaction through delegating, in the interpassivity that composes our everyday illusions and so on… And, even today, the beliefs which support our discourses aren't above animism, they mind as well be shaped by it.  Here, another crucial aspect of the Brazilian process of colonization should be addressed: the Christian catechization.

The Bandeirantes (name given to the participants of the expeditions which expanded the Portuguese domain over the previously agreed Tordesillas Treaty of 1494 with Spain) along with Christian priests had both nefarious, and yet, different purposes for their expeditions. While the bandeirantes wanted to explore mineral riches from the land (mostly gold and silver), reinforce slavery of originary people and of the enslaved Africans brought to do forced labor and obliterate the quilombos (communities of slaves who had escaped and the local force of resistance against Portuguese colonization); the Christian priests had also another “economy” in mind: the increase of new souls converted to Christianism. The Christian legacy in Brazil is ingrained by the engulfment of all other animistic figurations through the brutal process of catechization which violently suppressed all other animistic potentialities. Christian catechization had enforced an ontological project of existence, which bases recognition through intolerance. Thus, providing dignity only to those who sustain shared faith, missing the multiplicity of belief. Throughout the structural project of establishing Christianity as the only faith that can exist in the territory, all other beliefs or belief systems were persecuted almost to the point of obliteration.

The last official religious census in Brazil (IBGE 2022) reveals a picture painted by this past. The largest religion in Brazil is the Catholics (56,7%), seconded by Evangelicals (26,9%) and the African based religions, i.e., Umbanda and Candomblé are 1,05% of the population. Of course, we are not approaching or comparing structured faiths with the originary peoples belief systems. The encapsulation of animism under the structure of faith is the key providing power to such discourse, the dogmatic system only tries to control such animistic tendencies. Nonetheless, our point here is a much simpler one, it concerns a more Marxist argument (1970). Given the harsh and impoverished conditions of the proletariat, workers always had very little free time and free options for socialization and collectivization. Under this precarious scenario, religious discourse expands and conquers the hearts of the people providing meaning to this impoverishment. But the meaning provided by such discourse - and fundamental issue here - it ends up hyperprivatizing the commons, misleading their collectiveness in order to keep up with reality instead of inviting transformative change. It reinvents conservatism, leading to neoreactionary tendencies, which prevents collective alternatives beyond those sustained under capitalism. It reinforces a world told by one truth instead of opening up to truths, as Badiou (2020) puts it. Thus, the hyperprivatization of suffering prevents a structural consciousness towards creative transformation opening the common to other ontological potentialities.

Christianity was an integral part of the exploitative logic of colonization that took over Brazil. But the truth of the matter is that it still is. The specific negativity of non-being resultant from the ontological struggle that marks this territory has always been a struggle to face the imaginaries of being under identitarianism and symbolic insufficiencies to sustain it, which leads to the condition of being-other. The promise of Christianity is fully being (“in Christ”) as a sacred fulfillment that can put an end to this particular struggle. But given the ghosts which roam the land and given the structural contradictions which such ghosts reveal: this promise rather quickly reveals its insufficiencies as well.

In more recent years, we’ve witnessed the birth of neo-pentecostalists in Brazil (Gonsalves, Dunker, Estevão 2021). It is a religious branch of Evangelicals that have learned from North American tele-evangelists from the 70's that all efforts to adapt and dominate the media language is necessary to multiplying their numbers. They defend the theology of prosperity instead of liberation, aiming at self-improvement instead of collectivity. They became a powerful political force in Brazil, by electing deputies, mayors, governors, senators and shaping the future of the country. This only happened because of the failure of the government and State to sustain structural transformations against the current discontent, but there are brutal implications from these changes. There is a reactionary response born out of misery and in the name of survival, that only makes the local hauntings from the past get stronger. It is a capitalist realist (Fisher 2009) symptom, where the oppressed only desires to turn into the oppressor. They believe and preach that there is no other alternative.

  There is recently an increasing number of cases of violence related to religious hatred and intolerance against Afro-descendant religious branches in Brazil (Jornal da USP 2024). This is intrinsically related to a passion of being, which repeats sameness and the colonial logic of the past against any local sensibility towards emancipation. It goes against inviting multiplicity that could symbolically arise and give a different future to the hauntings of the past. What these acts of violence tell us, is that the hijacking of animism under the controlled narrative of Christianism is beneficial for capitalism and also, that any difference will be met with brutality and violence. To those who commit such acts, we can infer they unconsciously see it as a step towards becoming the oppressor under the false prerogative of escaping oppression. For them, any alterity that challenges the imaginary of oneness aligned with the Christian project must be obliterated. But now, it is not the Portuguese sustaining the violent oppression against the original people or the African descendants slaved, it is Brazilians that want to be more Brazilians than their fellow Brazilians by perpetrating these brutalities. The symbolic inability of facing negativity is met with a brute passion for imaginary patches placed to prevent any lack to appear. When difference points to lack, it pokes a hole in the imaginary unity sustained by the subject and the reaction is usually a violent one, either against himself or others.

Perhaps, a better way of framing this issue is that there is a contemporary struggle to free animistic tendencies in order to make peace with the ghosts which haunt the territory. The symbolic acceptance to face these ghosts, means to understand that the end of the world has already happened to the originary people from the forests of Brazil, as Ailton Krenak defends (2020). Following Krenak, the end of the world is not a recent project, it has already happened centuries ago. This general feeling of urgency about the world's demise can be now to white people, but the end of the world is nothing new to originary people. And they have been fighting it for much longer than the rest of us. To learn from them is to release the animistic capacities for different ontologies, allowing openness towards difference, sustaining multiplicity, embracing uncanniness, a weirder and eerier collectivity and perhaps, finding ways to re-establish our sensibilities to invent other worlds (to this world).    

Final Considerations   

The investigation of the uncanny can lead us to a clarity concerning our angst of facing alterity. To conceive the uncaniness as a hint to a portal, to a passage or a pathway, means to understand its eerie capabilities as a nod to another temporality which is spectrally placed within the chronologically oppression of reality. But also, as an affect of the fractures and gaps nodding to a real within reality, pushing us beyond our ideological limitations. The Brazilian forests and woods evoke the territorial specificity of an uncanniness from the tropics which sets the animistic directions towards a radical openness to alterity; one which bears the capacity of opening our recognition beyond the fear of all living things and our oppression over them, subsequently stirring our potentiality towards other ontologies.

   

References: 

Badiou, Alain.Lacan. New York: Columbia University Press, 2020.

Castro, Viveiro. 2011. Medo dos Outros [The Fear of Others] in Revista de Antropologia, São Paulo, USP, 2011, V. 54 No 2.

Castro, Viveiro. 2014. Cannibal Metaphysics. New York: Univocal

Fisher, Mark. 2009. Capitalist Realism. London: Repeater

Fisher, Mark. 2017. The weird and the eerie. London: Repeater

Freud, Sigmund. 2003. The Uncanny. London: Penguin books.

Gonsalves, Rodrigo. 2025. Monstrosity and the Psychoanalytic Dimensions of the Uncanny. London: Routledge.

Gonsalves, Rodrigo; Dunker, Christian; Estevão, Ivan. Neopentecostalism as a Neoliberal Grammar of Suffering in Continental Thought and Theory : a journal of intellectual freedom

v. 3, n. 1, p. 48-63, Jane 2021. ISSN: 2463-333X.

IBGE, 2025. 2022 Census: Catholics continue to decline; Evangelicals and those without religion are growing in the country. https://agenciadenoticias.ibge.gov.br/media/com_mediaibge/arquivos/3f1708b5d315aca50d5a7d8764469c45.pdf

Jornal da USP, 2024. Religions of African origin are the main targets of intolerance and racism in Brazil. https://jornal.usp.br/campus-ribeirao-preto/religioes-de-matriz-africana-sao-os-principais-alvos-de-intolerancia-e-racismo-no-brasil/

Krenak, Ailton. 2020. Ideias para adiar o fim do mundo/Ailton Krenak. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras.

Kopenawa, Davi & Albert, Bruce. 2013. The falling sky: the words of a yanomami shaman.

(trans. Nicholas Elliot & Alison Dundy) Massachusetts: The Harvard University Press.

Marx, Karl. [1844] 1970. Critique of Hegel's philosophy of right. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Safatle, Vladimir. 2023. A Construção estética do Brasil e seus colapsos: crítica, impasse e modernismo nacionais [The Aesthetic Construction of Brazil and its Collapses: Critique, Impasse and National Modernisms] Constelaciones: Revista de teoria crítica. Número 15. (2023) ISSN: 2172-9560.

Safatle, Vladimir. 2025. Os limites históricos da autonomia  e a recuperação da autoctonia.

Žižek, Slavoj. Ecology against Mother Nature: Slavoj Žižek on Molecular Red in Versobooks: https://www.versobooks.com/en-gb/blogs/news/2007-ecology-against-mother-nature-slavoj-zizek-on-molecular-red?srsltid=AfmBOoqBay1O30cErrUF6HortivhaDjHDTrc_q5eBg19NN_GTmK95NTa

Zupančič, Alenka. 2017. What is Sex? Cambridge: MIT Press

Zupančič, Alenka. 2024. Disavowal (Theory Redux). Cambridge: Polity Press

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Rodrigo's text - intro

Commissioned for Drive(s) Through, Rodrigo Gonsalves’s essay brings Freudian and Lacanian psychoanalysis into dialogue with Amerindian folklore to examine monstrosity, animism, and the tropical Gothic. Moving through the forests and spectral bestiaries of Brazil, the text approaches figures such as the anhangá, boitatá, and curupira as protectors of ecological multiplicity and embodiments of histories repressed by colonial modernity. Here, the uncanny becomes more than an encounter with fear: it opens a passage towards other forms of collectivity, coexistence, and ecological imagination.

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different modalities of the uncanny

Federico Ruberto (a response): The uncanny can function as a probe, a way of keeping things suspended and open rather than resolving them too quickly. Freud and Lacan provide a Western point of departure, but their concepts must be recontextualised, not simply revived or transplanted unchanged. The journey into the forest and the encounter with an unfamiliar territory always contain something uncanny. Such an encounter attempts to render legible what has not been signified. Yet the forest is not merely opaque or awaiting interpretation; it resists signification and does not necessarily want to speak the same language as the observer. This resistance may itself be understood as a form of postcolonial resistance. Nature, then, is irreducible. It is neither an abstract Other nor simply the material “out there.” It is constructed through a tension between these positions without being exhausted by either of them. The forest’s bestiary and the non-dual character of animistic ontologies offer access to a language of the Other, one that emerges from the blind spot produced by the uncanny encounter. Animism has always been contested because it mobilises belief and faith. Embracing its multiplicity, rather than reducing it to a Western conceptual framework, might propel a different form of collectivity.

One question remains, however. Is the neoliberal, capital-driven brutality of digital platforms, and the resulting diffraction of consensus reality, not also a process of uncanniness and weirding? If so, the uncanny cannot automatically be treated as positive or emancipatory. Perhaps we need to distinguish between different modalities of the uncanny: emancipatory and oppressive, generative and destructive. Alternatively, the uncanny may be intrinsically double. It suspends established meanings and exposes the instability of reality, but that opening can be exploited as readily as it can enable liberation. The political value of an uncanny encounter would therefore depend on how it is addressed, interpreted, and integrated into language—and on whether this process opens us to alterity or captures that alterity within new structures of domination.

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