D4Y574R

The sun is one of humanity's oldest and most enduring symbols. Reconstructing it through AI and ASCII brings together an ancient icon and one of computing's earliest visual languages, connecting distant pasts through technology.


Forecast Loops

If we want to understand what’s happening to video art right now, one way to think about it is that video has changed from a physical object into the very air we breathe. But how in the world did we get from Nam June Paik’s 1963 Zen for TV to here: 24/7 scrolling visual media on portable screens where military targeting footage of an air strike and sparkling poolside cat memes about our personal struggles arrive through the same interface at the same size, and yield to the same movement of a finger?
Well, early video artists like Paik wrestled with a tangible apparatus of cameras, physical tapes, and bulky monitors, where the technical limits were impossible to ignore. But a rapid domino effect has dissolved many of those boundaries: from digitization and networks to smartphones, cloud storage, software, and platform algorithms. 
The camera lens hasn’t gone away, but recording is no longer the only way a moving image is born. As this exhibition makes visible, video can be filmed, scanned, code-generated, or literally predicted into motion. The screen no longer just receives the world; it reorganizes, simulates, and anticipates it. It has become the ordinary current of modern life: produced non-stop, stored remotely, and fed into systems that shape what we see. And it all happens so smoothly and almost imperceptibly.
Yet even as these systems stretch across the entire globe, they don't mean the same thing to everyone. Things like wealth, infrastructure, age, language, and power shape  who gets to make and circulate images, who becomes visible through them, and whose histories the algorithms recognize. For some, this environment means swimming in a constant stream of high-speed, synthetic media. For others, it is something encountered mostly through surveillance, gig labor, targeted ads, institutional decisions, or images imported from elsewhere. The artists in Forecast Loops bring very different visual histories, memories, rituals, and relationships to the body and public space. Their worlds interact in a global image system but are differently lived. Contemporary video doesn't occupy one shared timeline, but is instead several unequal presents unfolding alongside one another.
Against this uneven ground, what is specifically at stake in video? Video is time, sound, movement, and the relationship between one moment and the next. While video has always messed with time through editing, montage, reversal and loops, today’s tools ever-increasingly multiply and automate those options. A moving image can now reconstruct a timeline or space from a few loose clues, or generate fluid motion without any real event having ever happened. Generative video forecasts what should happen next to keep motion smooth, while platforms forecast our attention to keep us scrolling. Prediction is happening on both sides of the glass.
Seen this way, the contemporary moving image brings to mind a living palimpsest, a surface written over repeatedly, where the ghosts of earlier writing bleed through. Across distinct practices, this exhibition shows us how video is being rewritten through memory, prediction, ritual, performance and trace. Older machine languages return as active structures, physical objects survive as incomplete 3D scans, and intimate memories return through new code. As art historian Georges Didi-Huberman pointed out, an image is a montage of times. The past enters as archive; the future enters as prediction, simulation, or imagination; and both meet in the unstable present of the screen. The loop does more than repeat content. It causes past, present, and anticipated futures to pass through one another over and over again, while the viewer’s memory of the previous cycle changes every return.
Taken together, these ideas are where the title Forecast Loops becomes legible.
Finally, the loss of friction - material, temporal, psychological and ethical - hasn’t just changed how we watch video. It’s changed how artists make work in the studio. When images can be captured, generated, altered, and replaced almost endlessly, and at high velocity, it can get weird for artists trying to figure out reflection, real judgment or emotional attachment. Where does attachment gather when the material offers so little resistance to our desires?
When Nam June Paik placed a giant magnet on top of a TV in 1965, he bent the electronic signal, altering the very conditions through which the picture appeared. Today’s video apparatus is far less visible, but as the artists here help reveal, artists are stepping in by redirecting, slowing, repeating, or letting a system's incompleteness remain seen. Their gestures form a quiet, provisional clawback of friction. 
In an online world organized around fast swipes and autoplay, the works in Forecast Loops ask if a video can become a genuine encounter again. Maybe the work of video art now begins wherever the seamless passage of an image is interrupted long enough for attention, attachment, and consequence to once again take root. 
Can it?
Barbara Chira