Camp Grounded |
An
intriguing essay appeared on Atlantic.com last week. It ran under the headline, "'Camp Grounded,' 'Digital Detox,' and the Age
of Techno-Anxiety." The subhead was "What to Make of the New
Naturalism."
The piece was a reflection by the Atlantic's technology
editor, Alexis Madrigal, on Camp Grounded, a three-day retreat
that offered 300 or so people in California an opportunity to disconnect completely
from their technologies. Reporters from The
New Yorker, the New York Times,
and National Public Radio covered the event. Digital Detox was the name of the
group that sponsored it.
As
a rule I find Alexis Madrigal a thoughtful and insightful writer. I'm
predisposed to that opinion, given that he's published an essay of mine in the past, and I hope he'll do so again in the future. On
this occasion, however, there were some points I disagreed with.
Madrigal
began by describing the rules in place at Camp Grounded (no digital devices of
any kind, no watches, no talk about work, no discussion of people's ages, no
real names) and listed some of the activities offered there, including yoga,
"laughing sessions," journaling, and conversation. NPR said the
conversation option was especially popular. Madrigal noted the connection to
other middle class manifestations of tech anxiety, among them the organic food
movement and the quest for authenticity. No processed foods, no processed
relationships.
Although
he said he takes tech anxiety seriously, you had a sense Madrigal was probably smiling
as he typed, and who could blame him? There's something irresistibly humorous
when grown-ups shed their dignity along with their inhibitions in search of rejuvenation
and release. The Times quoted a
45-year-old camper, a CEO, who, after spending the retreat asking
himself, "Who am I?" concluded he's "a man with an open
heart." Expect that line to appear in the Adam Sandler movie that's even
now being written.
Madrigal
also couldn't resist the opportunity to draw a comparison between the digital
dropouts at Camp Grounded and the hippie dropouts of the 1960s. Here, too, the
temptation to cynicism is understandable. The counterculture was an inexhaustible
reservoir of silliness, and thus another easy target.
Madrigal
seemed to feel that a comment from one of Digital Detox's founders captured the
point of the exercise, and the essence of techno anxiety. "People," the
founder said, "are feeling like something's not right." Madrigal
found the fuzziness of that sentiment annoying. "We need more specific
criticisms than the ever-present feeling that 'something's not right,'" he
wrote.
That's
when I started to get uncomfortable. My guess is that, if asked, pretty much anyone
who harbors misgivings about technology, including the attendees at Camp
Grounded, would have no trouble ticking off a long list of specific reasons
they feel that way, from the 24/7 work cycle and the surveillance society to
the impact of automation on employment and the fact that our children don’t go
outside anymore. These aren't inchoate concerns.
Madrigal
went on to suggest that the Digital Detox campers were using technology as a
scapegoat for the inherent challenges of existence. "Who doesn't want
depth in their relationships?" he asked. "Or to be judged by the
content of one's character, not the company on one's business card? Why won't
life slow down and be still? Why can't I figure it all out?" In other
words, the problem isn't in our technologies but in ourselves. "My own
view," Madrigal wrote, "is that life, itself, is the toxic and addictive
bit. You cannot stop doing it and doing it and doing it until eventually you
die from too much living."
Madrigal
acknowledged that this is a familiar argument. What he didn't
acknowledge was that it's also an unsatisfactory one. It suggests that techno anxiety
is baseless, which it's not. Fortunately, he abandoned this tack almost as soon
as he adopted it. In what amounts to a complete reversal, he went on to argue
that the problem isn't that the digital detoxers are blaming technology for
their troubles, but that their response to the problems of technology is
inadequate.
"Our
social networks and smartphones are not 'neutral' tools," he said. "We
may be able to manage our relationships with them, but we need to know what
they are trying to do, technically, culturally, and financially." The failure
of the of the 60s counterculture, he added, was that the back-to-the-landers
wanted to abandon technological culture, but they didn't go far enough. They
hadn't disconnected from the technological society but merely "lengthened
the umbilical cord."
The
gist of Madrigal's complaint seemed to be that disengagement is a copout. We've
got to take the technological bull by the horns. "There's nothing really
wrong with escaping to the boonies," he said. "But individuals
unplugging is not actually an answer to the biggest technological problems of
our time just as any individual's local, organic dietary habits don't solve
global agriculture's issues. These are collective problems that will require
collective action based on serious critique."
In
some ways I can wholeheartedly agree with that sentiment. Again, who wouldn't?
But in other ways I found myself thinking maybe there were some problems with
Madrigal's own critique.
One
thing that bothered me is the implication that Camp Grounded's attendees believe
a weekend unplugged constitutes a solution to their problems with
technology. I doubt that's the case, and Madrigal's piece drew comments from a
couple of those attendees who confirmed as much. They were looking for a
breather, a break, a respite from the digital onslaught. Few of us go on
vacation expecting we'll solve all the problems at the office while we're away,
and we're depressed but not surprised to find they're still there when we
return. At best what we hope for is a little perspective.
I
also wondered whether Madrigal meant to reject withdrawal as an effective antidote
to tech anxiety, or an effective weapon against the sources of tech
anxiety. Another word for withdrawal is boycott, and it's a strategy that
worked pretty well for Gandhi. The
tricky thing with withdrawal—the reason it didn't revolutionize the culture the
way the hippies hoped it would—is that you have to stick with it, in numbers
significant enough to matter. Madrigal correctly pointed out that we're so
deeply enmeshed in the technological society at this point that total
withdrawal would probably be fatal.
You
don't have to withdraw completely to make a difference, however. I don't think
there's much question that the organic food movement, by encouraging millions
of consumers to eat healthier foods, has had an impact. Of course it hasn't
solved every problem, not by a long shot, but it's been a step in the right
direction. Imagine if half the people who use Google decided they were tired of
having their search data tracked and sold and started using Duck Duck Go
instead. For those who want to strike a blow against the empire, refusal to
participate may be one of the best means of resistance there is.
Another small but telling point I objected to arose in Madrigal's
discussion of "the New Naturalism." That was the term used by
pollster and social scientist Daniel Yankelovich to describe the collective set
of values that defined the 60s counterculture. Characteristics of the New
Naturalism included, in addition to a suspicion of technology, a rejection of
conventional notions of achievement, a "turning toward sensory
experience," a desire to adapt to nature rather than master it, and a
belief that what mattered was cultivating "honest relationships in small
groups" and "seeking self knowledge through introspection."
None
of this will surprise anyone who participated in the counterculture movement.
(None of it seems especially silly, either.) What stopped me was Yankelovich's
conclusion that the New Naturalism was a social, as opposed to a political, movement.
As Madrigal describes the argument, most of the hippies "wanted to change
their own lives more than they wanted to change society." This is simply
wrong. One of the reigning paradigms of 60s philosophy was that the personal is political. True, there was a split
between the activist contingent and the inner truth contingent. Adherents of both
approaches, however, hoped to remake American culture from top to bottom. One group
thought the work should proceed from the outside in, the other from the inside
out. From either perspective the distinction between social and political was
meaningless.
Madrigal
ended his piece by calling for "some sort of rubric" that would allow
us to adequately assess our technologies, that would open the way for "a
political agenda to remake, improve, or forbid" the technologies that are
so forcefully shaping the culture. "How can I judge what I'm using?"
he wants to know.
"What
are the deleterious impacts? How are they specific to these media and this
time? Which effects are *caused by* the technologies and which are *enabled by*
the technologies and which just happen to *occur through* the technologies?
What are the ethics? What are the mechanics? What is the baseline?
These
are huge and necessary questions, and surely Madrigal can't think he's alone in
asking them. It wouldn't surprise me if they're exactly the sorts of questions many
of the attendees at Camp Grounded had been pondering before they signed up.
Maybe they even discussed them while they were there, between yoga workshops
and laughing sessions. Indeed, they're the same questions the hippies of
the counterculture were asking, and before them the poets of the Romantic
movement, and before them the philosophers of ancient Greece. There's nothing
new about the New Naturalism.
The
Greeks considered technical skills dangerous as well as distracting because
technique threatened to bestow power upon those least likely to use it
responsibly. Classical Greek culture, writes the philosopher of technology,
Carl Mitcham, "was shot through with a distrust of the wealth and
affluence that the technai or arts
could produce if not kept within strict limits." Allowed to flourish, the
Greeks believed, technique led to excess, and then to indolence, so that those
who possessed it inevitably began to choose, as Mitcham put it, "the less
over the more perfect, the lower over the higher, both for themselves and for
others."
Sound
familiar? It should. Techno anxiety has been a fixture of the American
experience from the beginning. To be sure, the shouts of the enthusiasts have
always been louder, but they've always been accompanied by an undercurrent of doubt.
As Harvard historian Perry Miller put it some fifty years ago, as a nation we leapt
eagerly into the technological torrent, only to find ourselves "bobbing
like corks in the flood, unable to get our heads high enough above the waves to
tell whether there any longer solid banks on either side or whether we have
been carried irretrievably into a pitiless sea, there to be swamped and
drowned."
By
ending his essay with a series of questions Madrigal implies that if we just
get serious and put our heads together, answers will be found. It's possible to
endorse the effort while pointing out that it's easier said than done. I've
studied the history and philosophy of technology for more than twenty years,
and every one of the thinkers in those fields I admire most—Jacques Ellul,
Marshall McLuhan, Lewis Mumford, Neal Postman, Stephen Talbott—at one time or another
explicitly declined to offer prescriptions for taming technology's excesses.
They recognized that the scope and depth of the problems don't lend themselves
to programmatic solutions, and also that any proposal radical enough to make a
substantial difference doesn’t stand the slightest chance of being adopted.
That's
why we can't discount the power of personal withdrawal. Granted, it may not be
as powerful as concerted collective action, but concerted collective action
isn't easy to come by. Refusal to participate isn't the only defense we've got,
but it's certainly the most accessible. Even as I wrote this, one of our more
sensitive observers of technology, Michael Sacasas, posted an entry on his blog entitled "11 Things I'mTrying to Do In Order to Achieve a Sane, Healthy, and Marginally Productive Relationship with the Internet." His
suggestions range from "Don't wake up with the Internet" and "Don't eat meals with the
Internet" to my personal favorite, "Do one thing – one whole,
complete thing – at a time whenever it's reasonable to do so." Simple, modest steps, but important
nonetheless.
Alexis Madrigal
is absolutely correct that we need to think through the problems of technology in
order to derive meaningful solutions. I don't want to leave the impression I
have any quarrel with that. Just because we haven't managed to do so for the
past few centuries doesn't mean we never will. In the meantime, turning our
backs on the machine when we can can't hurt.
Camp Grounded photo, Scott
Sporleder
©Doug Hill 2013
Very helpful discussion, Doug.
ReplyDelete"[...] we need to think through the problems of technology in order to derive meaningful solutions [.... ] Just because we haven't managed to do so for the past few centuries doesn't mean we never will."
Agreed. And even if we never did find comprehensive and permanent solutions, which may end up being the case, it seems to me that the worst we could do is stop thinking/caring/questioning altogether.
By the way, where's that quotation from Miller from?
Thanks Michael. Miller quote is from his essay, "The Responsibility of Mind in a Civilization of Machines," originally published in The American Scholar (Winter-Spring 61-62), later published in a collection of his essays under that same title.
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