The central question running through this essay is as simple as it is persistent: why does art seem to arrive systematically late in responding to major technological innovations? This is not merely a matter of temporal lag, but of a recurring asynchrony that has accompanied nearly two centuries of Western visual culture and creative practice. From the emergence of photography in 1839, which challenged the very foundations of pictorial representation, to the rise of generative artificial intelligence in the 2020s, passing through cinema, television, the computer, and the internet, a pattern emerges that many observers regard as structural: technology radically transforms the conditions under which images are produced, circulated, and perceived long before the art world succeeds in developing mature, self-aware, and fully integrated responses.
This perception of delay is more than a commonplace observation. It is grounded in a clear empirical reality: technological innovations often penetrate social and productive systems at a pace that the artistic field, understood as the interconnected ecosystem of practices, institutions, criticism, and education, struggles to absorb. Photography, for instance, rendered the documentary and portrait functions of painting largely obsolete within a few decades, yet it took at least forty years for a fully conscious artistic response such as Impressionism to emerge. Cinema, born as a popular form of entertainment at the end of the nineteenth century, had to wait until the 1910s and 1920s before artistic avant-gardes, from Futurism and Dada to Soviet Constructivism and the experiments of Vertov, embraced it as an autonomous medium rather than a mere technical curiosity. Today, with the advent of generative AI, we are witnessing an intense debate over the aesthetic value and authorship of algorithmically generated images, while markets and cultural institutions still struggle to establish stable criteria for recognition, validation, and collection.
According to a widely held and extensively argued thesis, this recurring lag can be explained by a series of conservative tendencies and structural distortions embedded within the art system itself. The art market, historically organized around uniqueness, authorship, and scarcity, finds it difficult to assign value to works generated through replicable, algorithmic, or participatory processes. Institutions, museums, academies, biennials, operate on lengthy cycles of validation, often shaped by curatorial and funding structures that privilege continuity with tradition over disruption. Art criticism and education likewise tend to reproduce established categories and canons, delaying the recognition of practices that require new conceptual and linguistic frameworks. These mechanisms are not necessarily malicious or intentional; rather, they are the byproducts of a field that relies on stability and established hierarchies of value in order to sustain and reproduce itself.
Yet the picture is far from one-sided. There are compelling counterarguments and numerous historical examples in which art not only kept pace with technological change but actively anticipated, celebrated, or even co-designed it. Italian Futurism, from 1909 onward, made the machine, speed, and industrialization the foundation of its aesthetic and political program at a time when much of official culture still viewed mechanical modernity with suspicion. During the 1960s and 1970s, artists such as Nam June Paik and collectives like Videofreex adopted portable video technology almost simultaneously with its commercial diffusion, transforming it into a tool for social critique and formal experimentation. More recently, the net art and software art movements of the 1990s explored the creative possibilities of networked technologies well before the internet became a mainstream infrastructure or a focus of institutional attention. These examples suggest that artistic “delay” is not an iron law but rather the outcome of specific historical, economic, and institutional conditions, conditions that can be bypassed or overturned when artists maintain a more direct and less mediated relationship with emerging technologies.
The purpose of this article, which we began several weeks ago and have only now completed, is precisely to explore both perspectives without prejudice. In the chapters that follow, we will examine a range of concrete cases of asynchrony, from photography to artificial intelligence, in order to illuminate the mechanisms through which it is produced and reproduced. We will consider arguments that attribute this delay to the conservative biases of the art system, its markets, institutions, and critical apparatus, as well as opposing views that emphasize art’s capacity to anticipate, adapt to, or co-evolve with technological innovation. The goal is not to deliver a definitive verdict, but rather to understand the conditions that make a greater synchronization between artistic thought and technological change possible, or impossible.
At a time when artificial intelligence, extended reality, and biotechnology are redefining not only artistic tools but also the very notions of author, artwork, and audience, the question of delay is no longer merely a matter of historiography. It has become a question about the future.
The Phenomenon of Delay: Definitions, Historical Evidence, and Common Perceptions
When discussing the “delay” of art in relation to technology, the issue is not simply that artists are slow to adopt new tools. The phenomenon is more specific: the art system itself, in its institutional, critical, educational, and market dimensions, often requires considerable time to recognize, absorb, and fully integrate the implications of technological innovation. The challenge is not merely one of adopting a new machine or software platform. It involves redefining what counts as art, what constitutes a work, who qualifies as an author, and how artistic production should be evaluated, preserved, and collected. This process of redefinition is almost always slower than the pace at which technology transforms the material conditions of image production, circulation, and reception.
Photography offers one of the earliest and clearest examples of this asynchrony. When Louis Daguerre publicly unveiled his process in 1839, the ability to capture an image without manual drawing had already become a practical technical reality. In the decades that followed, photography rapidly spread through portraiture, reportage, scientific documentation, and even warfare. Yet throughout much of the 1840s, 1850s, and 1860s, academic painting continued largely as if nothing fundamental had changed. Painters remained committed to competing in the domains of optical realism and historical narrative, areas that photography was already occupying more efficiently and at a lower cost. Only in the 1860s and 1870s, first with Manet and later with the Impressionists, did a distinctly modern pictorial response emerge, one that no longer sought to compete with the camera on its own terms, but instead accepted the loss of painting’s documentary function and relocated the meaning of artistic practice elsewhere. Nearly forty years separate Daguerre’s announcement from the emergence of a form of painting that fully confronted the implications of photography. This was not a delay in technical adoption, it was a delay in conceptual processing and institutional recognition.
A similar pattern can be observed in the history of cinema. The first public screenings by the Lumière brothers took place in 1895. Within a few years, cinema had become a mass entertainment industry, a powerful medium of popular culture, and an effective instrument of propaganda. Yet for more than two decades, most artists and intellectuals regarded it as a marginal or purely commercial phenomenon. The historical avant-gardes began to take cinema seriously only during the 1910s and 1920s: Vertov in the Soviet Union, the Dadaist and Surrealist experiments in Europe, and the theoretical reflections of Epstein and Canudo in France. Before then, cinema already existed as a mature technology, but artistic thought had taken decades to develop a language and a theory capable of treating it as something more than an extension of theater or animated photography. Once again, the delay concerned not the occasional use of the medium, but the moment at which cinema came to be understood as an autonomous aesthetic problem.
With the arrival of digital and networked technologies, the phenomenon reappeared in a compressed form while maintaining the same underlying structure. When Tim Berners-Lee made the World Wide Web publicly available in 1991, some artists immediately began exploring the internet as a medium in its own right. Projects by figures such as Olia Lialina and the collective JODI emerged as early as the mid-1990s. Yet for at least a decade, museums, biennials, and the art market largely treated these practices as marginal curiosities or as forms of “electronic art” confined to separate categories. Only in the mid-2000s did more systematic recognition begin to emerge through exhibitions, acquisitions, and academic programs. The medium already existed, the artworks already existed, but the institutions responsible for determining what enters the canon of art history required time to adjust their evaluative frameworks.
The same pattern is now unfolding, albeit in an accelerated form, with generative artificial intelligence. Tools such as DALL·E, Midjourney, and Stable Diffusion became widely accessible between 2021 and 2022. Within months, thousands of artists had begun using, debating, and contesting them. Yet by the mid-2020s, discussions within major artistic institutions, museums, academies, art fairs, and specialized journals, were still largely focused on foundational questions: authorship, attribution, the value of AI-generated works, and the relationship between prompts and outputs. Many major exhibitions and public collections only recently began engaging seriously with these practices, while the market has proceeded even more cautiously, oscillating between limited experimentation and explicit resistance. The technology is already widespread and technically mature; the art world is still in the process of defining the categories through which it can be understood.
What emerges from these cases, despite the vast differences in historical context and technological form, is a recurring constant: the delay does not primarily concern the speed with which individual artists adopt new tools. Rather, it concerns the time required for the field as a whole, including criticism, art history, museums, markets, and educational institutions, to revise its conceptual frameworks and evaluative criteria. Until this work of redefinition takes place, artworks produced through new media risk remaining at the margins, treated as anomalies or as phenomena somehow external to “proper” art. This is the core of the phenomenon that this chapter has sought to describe through several pivotal moments in recent history. The following chapters will examine the mechanisms that produce and sustain it.
The Conservative Biases of the Art System: Markets, Galleries, and Collecting
The art market is not merely a distribution channel. It is the arena in which economic and symbolic value is assigned, and that value is built upon a set of highly specific principles: the uniqueness of the object, the authorship of the creator, scarcity, ownership, and the possibility of inheritance and transfer. These principles function effectively when the artwork takes the form of a painting, sculpture, or physical installation. They function far less effectively when the work emerges from replicable processes, collaborative systems, software-based production, or networked distribution. It is here that one of the strongest drivers of artistic delay originates.
Private and institutional collecting, by its very nature, seeks certainty. Collectors want to know who created the work, how many copies exist, how it can be preserved, and how it might be resold in the future. When a new technology makes perfect reproduction easy, or shifts value away from the final object and toward a process, a system, or a prompt, these guarantees become less secure. Photography encountered precisely this form of resistance for decades. Throughout much of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, galleries and collectors regarded photographs as commercial or documentary products rather than artworks worthy of acquisition and preservation alongside paintings. Only when the concept of the “authorial photograph” emerged, supported by limited editions, signatures, and provenance, did the market begin to embrace the medium. Even then, acceptance came significantly later than the technology’s widespread adoption.
The same mechanism reappears with more recent media. Video art of the 1960s and 1970s struggled to enter the gallery system because it required equipment, maintenance, and forms of presentation that did not easily fit the logic of the unique object that could be displayed on a wall or stored in a vault. Many collectors and dealers preferred to wait until video could be transformed into a more manageable commodity through limited editions, certificates of authenticity, and stable formats. As a result, video works remained largely outside the primary market for many years, finding support instead through festivals, experimental centers, and public institutions operating with relatively modest budgets.
With internet-based art and digital practices of the 1990s and early 2000s, the conflict became even more visible. A work that exists on a website, can be copied by anyone, changes according to browser conditions, or requires an internet connection to be experienced directly challenges the notion of stable ownership and value based on material rarity. Galleries that attempted to sell such works often faced practical questions from collectors: How can I display it? How can I resell it in ten years? Technical answers existed, but cultural and economic answers did not. For this reason, many early net art projects remained outside traditional commercial circuits for extended periods, supported primarily by residencies, festivals, and public institutions committed to experimentation rather than market validation.
Generative artificial intelligence is now reproducing the same pattern in accelerated form. An image produced by an algorithm can generate thousands of variations within seconds. Value no longer resides primarily in manual execution or the physical uniqueness of an object, but in the selection of prompts, the training of models, and the curatorial decisions that shape the final outcome. The market, however, remains largely structured around the principles of individual authorship and scarcity. When collectors or galleries encounter AI-generated works, familiar questions immediately re-emerge: Who is the author? How many versions exist? How can provenance be established? How should the original file be preserved? Until these questions receive accepted and standardized answers, the market tends to proceed cautiously. A number of high-profile auction experiments have taken place, but they remain exceptions, often framed as publicity events rather than evidence of a genuine paradigm shift. Most galleries continue to favor works that fit more comfortably within existing categories.
This does not mean that the market is inherently hostile to innovation. Rather, it requires time to adapt its mechanisms of valuation, authentication, and trust. In the meantime, practices that do not easily conform to prevailing standards tend to remain at the margins or rely on alternative support structures such as artist residencies, independent platforms, specialized collectors, and public funding programs. These parallel circuits allow works to exist and circulate, but they do not fully integrate them into the primary system of economic and symbolic recognition. The result is a structural delay: the technology exists, the artworks are being produced, yet the market, one of the principal mechanisms through which the art world assigns value and visibility, often takes years or even decades to fully absorb them.
The strength of this mechanism lies precisely in its internal consistency. The market does not need to be actively opposed to innovation in order to produce delay. It only needs to continue operating according to its established rules. As long as uniqueness, authorship, and scarcity remain the dominant criteria of economic evaluation, any technology that challenges those criteria will inevitably generate friction and prolonged periods of assimilation. This is the core of the argument that attributes a central role to the market in producing artistic delay. In the following chapters, we will examine how this mechanism interacts with other components of the art system, including institutions, criticism, and education, and under what circumstances it can be bypassed, transformed, or overcome.
Structural and Institutional Distortions: How Academies, Criticism, Recognition Mechanisms, and Artistic Bureaucracy Can Hinder Technological Avant-Gardes
The market is not the only arena in which artistic value is determined. Alongside it exists a vast institutional and educational apparatus that shapes which practices are taught, studied, exhibited, funded, and ultimately recognized as legitimate forms of art. This apparatus, composed of academies, universities, art criticism, museums, biennials, funding bodies, and selection committees, operates according to its own rhythms and priorities. These rhythms are often slower than those of the market and, in many cases, even more resistant to change when emerging technologies are involved.
Art academies and university programs in art history and visual arts play a central role in reproducing the structures of the field. They teach not only technical skills but also an implicit hierarchy of what is considered worthy of attention, study, and preservation. For decades, photography was excluded from the core curricula of major European and American art institutions, relegated instead to technical courses or schools of applied arts. Only during the 1970s and 1980s did it begin to secure a stable place within academic programs as an autonomous discipline. Even then, it was often classified as a form of “new media,” separated from the traditional domains of painting and sculpture. A similar trajectory can be observed in the history of video art. For many years, video was treated as an experimental medium to be taught in specialized laboratories or peripheral programs rather than as part of the central artistic curriculum. When new technologies emerge, students who wish to work with them frequently have to seek opportunities outside official educational pathways, through residencies, workshops, or independent initiatives. This creates a first layer of delay: the very generation of artists most capable of advancing a new medium must first overcome the inertia of the educational system itself.
Art criticism and art history operate according to comparable dynamics. For a practice to be taken seriously, it must become legible through a critical language capable of situating it within broader intellectual frameworks. When such a language does not yet exist, or remains under development, the work often remains peripheral to critical discourse. Photography, for example, had to wait for the emergence of a dedicated theoretical tradition, from Walter Benjamin to John Szarkowski and later Rosalind Krauss, before it could be discussed with the same intellectual seriousness as painting. Prior to that, it was frequently described through borrowed categories: a mechanical form of drawing, a documentary instrument, or simply something that did not qualify as art. Video encountered a similar challenge. For years it was interpreted as filmed theater or as an extension of performance art, until a distinct critical literature emerged around the medium itself. Generative artificial intelligence is currently experiencing a comparable moment. Much contemporary criticism is still attempting to determine whether AI should be understood primarily as a tool, a medium, a collaborator, or a challenge to conventional notions of authorship. Until this conceptual work stabilizes, works produced through these technologies struggle to achieve full critical recognition.
Museums and major exhibitions follow validation procedures that require time, consensus, and institutional coordination. Acquisitions and inclusion in significant exhibitions typically involve curators, acquisition committees, conservators, legal advisors, and often extensive discussions regarding the relationship between new works and existing collections. These procedures are designed to ensure quality, coherence, and accountability. However, they also tend to privilege what is already familiar and recognizable. A video artwork from the 1970s that depends on obsolete equipment or requires ongoing maintenance presents practical challenges that a painting does not. A net art project that exists on a web domain and may disappear, evolve, or depend on external infrastructure raises questions of preservation and ownership that many collection departments have not traditionally been equipped to address. An AI-generated artwork introduces issues of attribution, version control, and authorship that existing museum protocols do not fully accommodate. As a result, many such works enter public collections years after their creation, if they enter at all. Frequently, institutional adoption occurs only after methods have been developed to make these works manageable within pre-existing frameworks.
Funding systems and support structures, including grants, residencies, awards, and public subsidies, often reproduce similar forms of institutional caution. Projects that receive support are frequently those that can present themselves through familiar formats and established vocabularies. A proposal centered on an emerging technology must often demonstrate that a community, discourse, or track record already exists around it. Otherwise, it risks being dismissed as excessively experimental or lacking sufficient foundation. This creates a self-reinforcing cycle: recognition is needed to secure resources, yet resources are often necessary to achieve recognition. Consequently, some of the most innovative artistic practices develop within independent, self-funded, or alternative environments precisely because they cannot pass through institutional filters quickly enough.
These distortions should not necessarily be interpreted as the product of deliberate conservatism. Rather, they emerge from a system that depends upon stable procedures in order to function. For that very reason, the integration of practices that require new procedures is often deferred. Academies educate artists through existing categories. Critics write using conceptual tools that have already been tested and refined. Museums preserve and exhibit works according to established protocols. When a new technology challenges those categories, tools, and protocols, the system does not stop operating. Instead, it continues functioning according to its established logic, while leaving outside, or at the margins, practices that do not yet fit comfortably within its structures. This is the mechanism through which institutions and artistic bureaucracy contribute, often unintentionally yet systematically, to the delayed recognition of technological avant-gardes.
When Art Anticipates or Synchronizes with Technology
There are, however, periods and contexts in which artists and artistic movements have recognized the potential of emerging technologies before they became dominant, or have actively contributed to shaping their cultural meaning. These cases do not invalidate the pattern of delay described in the previous chapters, but they demonstrate that asynchrony is not inevitable. It depends on specific conditions: the availability of accessible tools, the existence of networks connecting artists and technologists, and the ability of a movement to develop a coherent discourse around a new medium.
One of the clearest examples of artistic anticipation can be found in Italian Futurism. When Filippo Tommaso Marinetti published the Manifesto of Futurism in 1909, mass industrialization in Italy was still in its early stages. Automobiles, airplanes, and large industrial factories were not yet everyday realities for most of the population. Yet Futurism placed the machine, speed, noise, and mechanical force at the center of its aesthetic and political program. The Futurists did not merely represent technology; they celebrated it as a vital force capable of destroying the culture of the past. In this sense, they were not reactive but proactive. They saw industrial technology not as a threat to art, but as the necessary condition for a new form of art. This perspective enabled them to influence how mechanical modernity was perceived across Europe in the years immediately preceding the First World War.
A different, but equally significant, example can be found in the Soviet avant-gardes of the 1920s. Artists such as El Lissitzky, Aleksandr Rodchenko, and Varvara Stepanova did not simply use photography and cinema as expressive tools. They integrated them into projects involving industrial design, propaganda, and mass education. Constructivism and Productivism did not separate art from technology; they viewed both as components of a broader process of social transformation. Many of these artists worked directly with emerging state industries and research laboratories, helping to define the visual identity of Soviet modernity. In this case, art did not arrive late. It actively participated in the construction of a new technological and visual landscape.
During the 1960s and 1970s, another form of synchronization emerged through the direct use of technologies that were still largely experimental. Artists such as Nicolas Schöffer, with his cybernetic sculptures, and Roy Ascott, with his interactive and telematic art projects, worked with computers and feedback systems at a time when such machines remained expensive, cumbersome, and largely confined to scientific or military environments. Similarly, Nam June Paik acquired one of the first Sony Portapak portable video recorders in 1965, only a year after its commercial release, and immediately transformed it into a tool for artistic experimentation and cultural critique. These artists did not wait for video or computing technologies to become accepted artistic media. They embraced them while they remained peripheral, helping to define their aesthetic possibilities before markets and institutions had codified them.
A more recent example can be found in internet-based artistic practices during the 1990s. As the internet was spreading as a commercial and communication infrastructure, artists including Olia Lialina, Alexei Shulgin, JODI, and the collective irational.org began treating the web as a medium in its own right rather than as a simple distribution channel. Their works explored hypertext, error, interface design, and the distributed nature of networks at a time when most users were still employing the internet primarily for email or static websites. These practices were not a later application of an established technology. They were attempts to investigate and question the technology while it was still taking shape. Many of these works have since been preserved and studied precisely because they captured, in real time, the distinctive qualities of a medium that was still fluid and undefined.
Even in the field of generative artificial intelligence, examples of early synchronization can already be identified. Some artists began experimenting with machine learning models in the late 2010s and early 2020s, when these tools were still unstable and relatively inaccessible. Projects by artists such as Refik Anadol, along with various collectives using AI to generate immersive environments or train models on specific artistic archives, helped shift the discussion beyond purely illustrative applications toward more conceptual and critical uses of the technology. In these cases, art did not wait for AI to become a mass phenomenon. Instead, it engaged with the technology while its cultural significance was still open to interpretation and actively participated in defining that significance.
What unites these examples is the presence of conditions that foster synchronization. Often, the artists involved have direct access to technical tools, either because they work within scientific or industrial environments or because they belong to informal networks where engineers, researchers, and artists exchange knowledge. In other instances, the strength of a movement lies in its ability to formulate an aesthetic and political discourse around a technology before it becomes standardized. In still other cases, the medium itself remains unstable and uncodified, creating opportunities for experimentation that disappear once conventions become established.
These counterexamples demonstrate that the relationship between art and technology is not always characterized by delay. Under the right conditions, art can anticipate, co-define, or even influence the ways in which a technology is perceived and used. The existence of such cases makes the thesis of structural delay less absolute. It shows that the art world can, under certain circumstances, move in parallel with technological innovation or even ahead of it. Understanding these circumstances is valuable not only for balancing the historical picture, but also for imagining how future forms of asynchrony might be reduced.
Is the Delay Structural and Inevitable, or Contingent and Surmountable? Toward a New Relationship Between Art and Technological Innovation
We can begin with a simple observation: the delay exists, and it can be documented across many pivotal moments in recent history. At the same time, it is neither a natural law nor an inevitable destiny of art. Rather, it is the product of specific conditions that can either reinforce or diminish it depending on the historical context.
The mechanisms examined throughout the previous chapters, including market logics based on uniqueness and scarcity, academic and curatorial systems of validation, and the slow rhythms of criticism and art history, are real and exert a tangible influence. They function as filters that determine what can be recognized, sold, taught, preserved, and ultimately legitimized. Whenever a new technology challenges these filters, the art system tends to postpone recognition. The result is a measurable delay, sometimes lasting decades. Yet these same mechanisms are not so rigid that they make synchronization impossible. The examples discussed in the previous chapter demonstrate that when artists have direct access to new tools, when networks of exchange exist between artistic and technical communities, and when a coherent discourse develops quickly around a new medium, the delay can be dramatically reduced or even reversed.
The decisive factor is not the technology itself but the conditions surrounding it. An accessible and still-fluid technology, such as portable video in the 1960s or the web in the early 1990s, creates greater opportunities for experimentation before protocols, standards, and hierarchies become entrenched. Likewise, a movement or collective capable of articulating an aesthetic and political language around a technological development can influence how that technology is perceived before institutional systems have fully codified it. Conversely, when a technology arrives already embedded within powerful economic structures, as is often the case with contemporary digital platforms, the art world finds it more difficult to intervene in a meaningful way and tends to react only after the rules have been established elsewhere.
Looking at the present and the near future, the question of delay takes on a different significance. Generative artificial intelligence, extended reality, and biotechnology are not isolated innovations. They are simultaneously reshaping image production, authorship, intellectual property, and modes of reception. The periods of adaptation that once unfolded over decades may become increasingly unsustainable if the art system continues to operate with the same degree of institutional inertia. At the same time, the speed of these transformations is creating new opportunities. Technical tools are more accessible than at any previous moment, communities of practice can form rapidly through distributed networks, and public debates surrounding artificial intelligence have already involved artists, critics, and institutions on a scale far greater than what occurred during the early years of video art or net art.
This does not mean that delay is about to disappear. Market forces, institutional validation mechanisms, and educational structures continue to operate and will continue to generate forms of friction. It does mean, however, that the conditions for greater synchronization already exist and can be actively cultivated. Some pathways are already emerging. These include the growing presence of artists within research laboratories and technology companies, the development of educational programs that combine technical expertise with critical reflection, and the rise of alternative platforms and economic models that do not depend exclusively on the logic of the unique object. Other pathways require deeper structural changes: revised evaluation criteria within institutions, greater flexibility in acquisition and conservation protocols, and forms of criticism capable of developing new conceptual frameworks before practices become fully stabilized.
The question of whether delay is structural or contingent does not admit a simple answer because it depends on how the term “structural” is defined. If structural means that delay arises from recurring characteristics of the art system, including its dependence on uniqueness, authorship, and consensual forms of validation, then the answer is yes. Delay possesses a structural dimension. If, however, structural implies something inevitable and unchangeable, then the answer is no. The historical counterexamples examined throughout this essay demonstrate that the system can behave differently when conditions of access, exchange, and discourse are transformed. Delay is therefore contingent in its concrete manifestations, even if it remains rooted in recurring institutional dynamics.
From this perspective, the future relationship between art and technological innovation is not predetermined. It may continue to be characterized by a chronic pattern of pursuit, with art arriving only after the cultural meanings of new technologies have already been defined elsewhere. Alternatively, it may evolve into a more active relationship in which artistic practice intervenes while technologies are still being shaped, contributing to the formation of their uses, values, and narratives. The difference will not depend solely on the vision of artists or the foresight of institutions. It will depend on the ability to modify, even partially, the mechanisms that currently produce this recurring gap. In our view, this is the terrain upon which the possibility of a less asynchronous relationship between artistic thought and technological transformation will be negotiated in the years ahead.
