In this post, I spoke with Alexander Rosenberg, artist and neuroscientist about the perspective of neuroscience as the white cube of the brain. This interview follows my collaboration with Rosenberg over the last months, in which we interchanged emails, skyped and shared many ideas about drawing, arts, science and education. Rosenberg expressed his view of neuroscience as a lab, where we can display our knowledge of the brain, similar to an art exhibition, which comes with a concept and fictional setting. The interview is published verbatim to be truthful to his ideas.
Ana Mendes (AM): How/why did you come up with the idea of neuroscience as the white cube of the brain?
Alexander Rosenberg (AR): After a BA in fine art at Central St. Martins, it’s hard not to consider any kind of observation without considering the role context has to play. Once you put those goggles on, everything becomes ‘site-specific.’ So, by the time I was studying neuroscience, I was struck by the parallels between the spaces used for observing art and those used for observing the brain. The ‘white cube’ as an exhibition space arguably aspires to be a kind of contextless context; a place to experience art in a vacuum. Of course, that’s not really possible. In the same way as any other space does, it acquires its own baggage over time. We see it in the way the white cube became a stimulus for artists to respond to, rather than just a place to display the art. As such, you cannot separate the exhibition space from the viewing of the work. In a comparable way, I struggled with formal critiques at art school; not because of the brutal feedback, but because of how the setup provided a very specific lens through which we were allowed to view the work. It didn’t feel like we were allowed a ‘real life’ interaction with the art (whatever that might be). Similarly, the spaces used for conducting neuroscientific paradigms fail to be the neutral spaces they aim to be. That’s not a criticism of the field – it’s just the nature of looking at functioning brains in real time. Cognitive neuroscience is all about observing how the brain behaves in given situations or how certain human experiences are underpinned by neural activity. But how do we know we are observing the authentic experience when it’s being simulated in the gigantic, noisy, magnetic donut of fMRI (functional magnetic resonance imaging) machines? This is not a new idea – the Observer Effect is a theory within Physics that states that the simple act of observation of any phenomenon, actively alters the phenomenon being observed.
AM: To what extent do you think that people in general are aware of the fragility of the studies developed in science?
AR: I think people often don’t appreciate how fragility is fundamental to science. In my experience, scientists relish uncertainty more than anyone else. And yet, maybe because of of its formidable image in people’s minds – particularly neuroscience – science can easily be misrepresented, misunderstood or exploited. You see the prefix, ‘neuro’ everywhere now, used to sell products and justify dodgy ideas. The icon of the brain looms large in people’s imaginations. But I think the mistake works both ways: some see science as infallible dogma and others are wary of it as arrogant or elitist. In my understanding, (though I don’t really consider myself a scientist – I suppose I’m a scientifically literate artist) the scientific process is a game with certain rules, by which we can figure out how seriously to take any given claim, explanation or observation of nature. The last few decades have seen fMRI bring neuroscience along in huge strides, but I think people would be surprised to know more about the fragility of this method of understanding the brain. First of all, it’s the perfect example of how misconceptions about brain science can be exploited. It’s easy to find sloppy research and even easier to find sloppy reporting, where claims are made about specific brain regions being responsible for specific experiences. If you pop someone in an fMRI machine and show them a picture of Donald Trump, observing activity in certain parts of the brain, you’ll see a headline, ‘Scientists Find Evidence for the ‘Donald Trump Lobe’ in the Brain.’ This is obviously rubbish. But there’s a more interesting issue with fMRI, being that it only observes a correlational relationship between brain regions and experiences, rather than a causal one. I’ll explain this in a nutshell: when you use a part of your brain, this requires energy. This creates a demand for oxygen in that part of the brain. fMRI observes the increase in oxygen-rich blood rushing to that part of the brain after the activity has taken place. Not only is there a delay, but there are other reasons why the brain may demand more or less oxygen at different times, making the observation less reliable. This doesn’t make fMRI invalid as a technique, but it definitely relates to the fragility of scientific studies. Like I said, it’s more about weighing up how much the evidence allows us to reasonably take a claim or observation seriously, not about cementing things into the realm of objective, undeniable, irreversible fact.
AM: What do you think that artists as thinkers could share with scientists that could be of good use?
AR: I think it’s always positive when people take an interdisciplinary approach and listen to minds from different fields. My masters in neuroscience was in relation to language and communication and so I find it fascinating how different native languages influence/dictate the ways in which people perceive the world. Just as an example, languages that use feminine and masculine words (like Spanish and German) shape the attitudes speakers have towards the things those words represent. It informs their understanding of their surroundings. This makes it very useful when thinkers from different parts of the world get together to solve problems and share ideas. However, when it comes to the meeting of art and science, I often feel that great opportunities are lost by simply using art to describe science, or using science to explain or justify art. For example, the field of neuroaesthetics, which looks at art to understand the brain and its perceptions, is fascinating and gives lots to the pursuit of cognitive understanding. But does it contribute much to the making of art? Equally, ‘Sci-Art’, which sees artists inspired by science and nature, is often beautiful and thought-provoking. But does it contribute much to the endeavours of science? I think there are ways of artists and scientists collaborating in interesting ways and learning from each other. Scientists are often profoundly creative and artists can work empirically. Equally, there are lots of interesting ways in which intuition and data can work for both. But I’m comfortable in their different objectives. For me, when art or science function comparably in achieving their objectives, that’s when the relationship is most curious. When science elegantly uncovers understanding, it has an aesthetic beauty of its own. When art engages truth elegantly, it has a revelatory effect.
AM: How do you think that technology will affect the brain in the future?
AR: Unfortunately, I’m not aware enough of the fast moving steps in technology and research to feel confident making predictions. But technology is already affecting the brain: in the ways it has adapted how we read, learn, interact socially, and understand the world. So we could talk about it in terms of how everyday, accessible technologies are changing us. Or, we could look at research methods like TMS (transcranial magnetic stimulation) which literally alter the firing of neurons – both to inhibit and enhance brain activity and therefore, our abilities – in real time. Or, maybe more abstractly, we could discuss how we will use technology to simulate new kinds of brains through the development of Artificial Intelligence. This is increasingly thought of as the fast-approaching, most pressing issue of our time. With all we have learned about the brain, we truly have barely scratched the surface – the question of consciousness is still one of the greatest mysteries. The merging of science and philosophy has perhaps more to say about this than art, although that’s not to underestimate the value of art as a means to articulate what it is to be a conscious creature. Then again, there are artists whose work functions as visual philosophy and ‘philosophy of mind’ is a hot topic. I look at all art as language, with the underlying aim being to somehow bridge the gap between consciousnesses. We use our flimsy words, objects, images, gestures and interactions to make an attempt at plugging in to each others’ minds. It’s arguably a drive to share ‘qualia’ (moments of conscious experience). Research into mindfulness is very interesting on this topic, as it seems to have more and more to say about notions of free will, individuality and a sense of self (when I spent two months in Boston, shadowing researchers at Harvard’s neuroimaging lab, I was lucky enough to learn about cutting-edge research being done in this area and there is lots of reason to take mindfulness seriously). Maybe if we can dissolve the experience of the self, through techniques in mindfulness and/or neuroscience, perhaps we can get to that essential goal of sharing qualia?
AM: Nowadays the NHS considers to use art as part of their medicine treatments – do you think that it can be useful?
AR: I’m sure it can, although I must admit, I don’t know the specifics. My studies in neuroscience had very little direct connection to clinical neurology. However, I have friends who are art therapists and I know they do great work. My first experience of neuroscience and considering how our perceptions can be altered, were as a 17 year old, visiting a relative with a brain tumour in a neurology unit. I met people with different types of brain lesions, resulting in all sorts of interesting malfunctions. There were two ladies, named Doris and Angela. Doris could speak, but often failed to find the right words and spoke in a kind of muddled mix of English and gobbledygook. Angela had full access to language and could string normal sentences together mentally, but had lost her ability to form the words orally – she could only grunt. The two of them formed a kind of double-act, each with a complementary aspect of communication they could share with the other. If Doris couldn’t find the right word, Angela would type it out on her speaking machine for her. If Angela couldn’t get a nurse’s attention or struggled type an answer quickly enough, Doris would step in and speak it for her (I now know about the two brain regions – Brocca’s Area, used for speech and Wernicke’s Area, used for semantic language – which are what were respectively damaged in Angela and Doris, resulting in different types of Aphasia). My experiences with these kinds of people influenced my interest in neuroscience and, when a tutor at art school introduced me to the writing of Oliver Sacks, things really spiraled into obsession. My point is, my curiosity about neuroscience came about through case studies and the clinical side of things, so I am aware that looking at these things through the lens of art meeting medicine is very interesting. I know that methods in mindfulness are finding popularity in schools, showing great results in calming and focusing students. I’m sure the same is true of art therapies. I’m also sure that engaging in art has therapeutic and mindful qualities, but I can’t say I have had first-hand experiences of it.
AM: In conceptual terms, how are artists and neuroscientists are alike? Meaning, to be a neuroscientist requires some abstraction skills, the ability to think behind the problem. Also artists deal with a certain level of representation, translation of reality into a concept that exceeds everyday life.
AR: In my experience, artists and scientists are strikingly similar. Particularly those at the avant-garde of their fields. Both require an ability to ‘play’ in the most creative sense of the word. There’s an inherent creativity in wanting to understand stuff and I have always found it frustrating that education systems talk about people with artistic inclinations as ‘creative’ and those who are scientifically minded as ‘academic.’ I’m not suggesting they use the same processes or play by the same rules, but the best scientists are highly creative, with an ability to bounce between ‘diffuse modes’ of thinking, where free-association and lateral thinking can flourish, and ‘focused modes’, where their mind is more concentrated on particular tasks in problem-solving. This is also true of artists: famously, Dali used to hold a bunch of keys in his hand as he fell asleep in an armchair. When he dozed off, the keys would fall and clatter against a metal tray he had placed on the floor. This, he knew, was time to go to work and start painting. It was his tenchique for entering a diffuse mode of thinking, in order to access his best ideas. Although this seems like quirky behaviour reserved only for eccentric artsy types, it is consistent with what we know about how the brain best learns and produces prolific, creative work. As an analogy, think of the brain as a pinball machine, with the pinball being a thought and the bumpers separating areas of the brain. The two modes of thinking have a different number/concentration of bumpers. In focused modes of thinking, the thought can only bounce around one, tightly-packed region of the brain. In focused modes, it can fling itself freely around and make use of many, disparate parts of the brain. There are many stories of accomplished thinkers, both in the sciences and humanities, that developed techniques in toying between these different modes when working. The ‘eureka’ moments come for those who are good at this interplay between brain states. This is where I think scientists and artists are similar.
