Andy Campbell’s “Spawn”

In the field of digital literature, media blur one into another.  A single piece of digital literature might draw on the literary tools of fiction, poetry, painting, photography, film, etc.  The best works, though, force us to question the distinction between media altogether.  The question “what is a poem?” becomes “what (if anything) does the medium tell us about a work?”  Because the very concept of the artistic medium is troubled from the start, the close-reader of a digital work has no predetermined analytical strategies or tools to bring to the work.  We are, instead, forced to either draw on techniques used in the analysis of existing media or to throw out those techniques and discover new ones.  As I approach the task of close-reading Andy Campbell’s “Spawn,” it seems sensible to do a little of both.

Andy Campbell, “Spawn”:

As it appears on screen, Campbell’s “Spawn” assaults the reader/viewer with it’s dull and incessant score, a drone (too amelodic to be called music) intermittently interrupted by an echoing rat-a-tat sound-effect.  The sound is so overpowering that I find it difficult to even engage with the visual components of the work.  In fact, when I first encountered “Spawn,” my immediate compulsion was to turn the audio off so I could focus more intently on the words and images.  Does the fact that this option is built into the work itself suggest the audio is not integral to the content?  Is the audio just an unnecessary backdrop upon which the rest of the work can be viewed?

My immediate response to both of these questions is “no.”  While you can turn off the sound, the work’s default is for the sound to be on, and (given it’s idiosyncratic and grating quality) it’s hard not to have the sound burned into your ears/head after hearing it for even just a few seconds.  The sound in “Spawn,” like the rest of the work, plays with the binary opposition of nature and machine.  The droning score sounds, at once, like the hum of a very large swarm of bees and like the electrical murmur of a thousand networked computers.  The rat-a-tat sounds, at once, like the regular click-clack of a machine gear and like a heart beat skipping a single “tat” every third beat:  dun duh, dun duh, dun . . .  dun duh, dun duh, dun . . .

“Spawn,” is in many ways about engaging us viscerally in the act of viewing/reading/watching/hearing.  It does its work by engaging many of our senses at once.  The grotesqueness of the image helps to engage our senses of smell and touch, because the sight of decay reminds us directly of its smell.  The horrors of the image and (some of) the text causes our skin to crawl, itch, break out in goosebumps, etc.  So many of the words Campbell uses are either physically assaultive or have a fleshy weight in our mouths:  “chunk,” “chipped,” “pinched,” “aching,” “click,” etc.  Likewise, the textures of the image engage our sense of touch vicariously.  The liquid spreading and bubbling across the dark surface, for example, looks positively 3-dimensional.



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