While perusing the internet today, I stumbled upon an incredible article in The New Yorker entitled "The Mark of a Masterpiece." Over the course of the piece, a tale unfolds that centers on a man named Peter Paul Biro, who has made a reputation and fortune for himself by authenticating paintings and drawings as the works of famous artists through the analysis of fingerprints that he finds on the work.
More than anything, this story brought to mind the blind reliance that many of us place on science. Biro himself is a sketchy character and his work appears to have little validity, but it is also worth noting that the discipline of fingerprinting itself is not entirely reliable. For one thing, it has never been definitively proven that every human being has a unique fingerprint. No two identical ones have ever been found, but that is a far cry from making the fundamental assumption that every fingerprint is one of a kind (Zabell, 164). Additionally, most fingerprints taken from crime scenes are 'latent prints,' meaning that they are accidental impressions left by friction ridge skin (I'm not entirely sure exactly what that means, I copied it from Wikipedia). The import of this is that most fingerprints are partial, overlapping, smudged or distorted, and that all of these transformations greatly increase the chance of error on the part of the analyst. And indeed, analysts do make mistakes. In a proficiency test designed by the IAI (International Association for Identification) and administered in 1995, 22% of the participants made 'erroneous identifications' (i.e. identified a latent print incorrectly as matching a finger that it did not come from) and only 44% correctly identified every latent print (Zabell, 167 - more reports on the proficiency of fingerprinting analysts can be found here).
Over the course of the article, it becomes clear that Biro's operation is really a simple scam, cloaked in the authenticity of science. Very few of his clients (or critics) have taken the time to actually examine the science of fingerprinting and how he employs it. David Grann, the reporter, writes, "Biro told me that he was now “pushing into the gray areas.” When he first revealed his findings on “La Bella Principessa,” Biro did not use the term “match,” as is standard among law-enforcement analysts, and as he had done in his reports on the paintings owned by Horton and the Parkers; rather, he said that the fingerprint on “La Bella Principessa” and the print on Leonardo’s “St. Jerome” were “highly comparable.”" This stands in stark contrast to how Biro has characterized his work elsewhere ("Biro asserted that he had uncovered the painting’s “forensic provenance,” telling a reporter, “The science of fingerprint identification is a true science. There are no gray areas.”") as well as what the science of fingerprinting aims at: "Science is not just one of several competing, equally valid forms of knowledge. Scientific procedures have evolved, and science is accorded great respect precisely because it is recognized that one can only obtain truly reliable knowledge by using its protocols and practices (Zabell, 152)." At this point, I must take a step back and point out that if some of the world's wealthiest people and most storied cultural institutions cannot take the time or expend the capital to identify bad science and simple fraud, then I don't see what hope there is for the valid use of fingerprint evidence in our criminal justice system, and (even more disturbingly) the sound use of any technology in the future. Admittedly, I must qualify this last statement. It seems to me that fingerprinting is a prime example of a science that promises the truth, particularly in arenas where that truth is hotly contested because of the substantial individual interests that are tied up in it (i.e. in a courtroom life and death hang in the balance, and in the world of international art sums of money that might suffice to purchase small tropical islands are at stake).
Ironically, it seems that science, initially meant as a method and procedure for observing the world and divining its underlying mechanisms, lends itself easily to deception in our modern era. The acronym DNA and other forensic fireworks (all of which we have become accustomed to in the course of watching CSI or Law and Order) appear not as tools for discovery, but instead as magical words that conjure our credulity. One need only conduct a simple Google search in order to find that the same charlatans and snake-oil salesmen who litter human history still exist, only now they mask their miracle panaceas behind the opaque facade of science.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Toy Story 3
It's been a long time since I last posted - longer than I would like - but between interning with the Michigan State Bar, attempting to tackle my summer reading list (I have finished Insectopedia, and am now working on Memoirs of Hadrian) exploring the UP with Mara and paying a visit to the Stratford Shakespeare Festival I've been quite busy. Beyond that, my mode of living seems to have shifted this summer. Usually I find myself unable to not reflect on my life. At the very least (and I think this is somewhat related - mostly because my tools for self-analysis are directly transported from what I've learned about analyzing texts; a notion that, as I write it, strikes me as slightly disturbing, all the more so because "analysis" derives from the Greek ανα-λυειν, meaning to take up and destroy, which is sometimes what I find my analysis doing to my experience), I'm always looking forward and impatiently anticipating what's coming next. It's the same force that compels a reader in the grip of a thrilling novel to continue reading, no matter how many hours past their bedtime it is (I don't mean to imply that my life is thrilling). This summer has been entirely different though. I find myself much more content to live in the moment and enjoy events simply, without reflecting on them afterwards. None of this is to say that I'm not looking forward to events over the summer (or even in the fall), or that I've been intellectually unengaged. It is tempting to conclude that I'm so content right now that I feel no desire for the future, or need to reflect, but I don't think that's it either. And, as this post itself attests to, that state of mind may be gone already, and so I will never quite suss out what inspired it. Fittingly enough, this current fit of self-examination was brought on by a narrative text (and a masterful one at that): Toy Story 3.
I sat down to watch Toy Story 3 last night with Mara and her mother Janet, a tub of popcorn and box of Junior Mints at the ready (both remained untouched for longer than usual; we had all just consumed generous portions of Italian food). Having read the laudatory Times review and noted what people were saying on Rotten Tomatoes, my expectations were high. And the movie didn't disappoint. I found it whimsical, hilarious, poignant and profound. I won't delve too much into the plot of the film, because that wasn't the interesting part. This movie, more so than the previous two (It's been a while since I've seen them), confronted the question of why toys are meaningful to us. Of course, through a sort of categorical metonymy, toys can be understood to stand in for a certain type of material object: those that had much value in the past, but are no longer quite as loved (I actually think that the film-makers try to cast an even wider net - there is an interesting scene to this effect near the end of the movie where Woody watches on while Andy's mother bids him farewell before he drives off to college).
Almost everyone experiences reluctance when asked to throw out objects from their past, and on the surface it seems a logical response. But I think that it's actually a bizarre reaction. Why do these objects hold value for us? Objectively, old toys have very little value. They're usually beat up and outdated. They have little functional value to older children, who (probably) don't play with toys at all. The meaning, I think, lies in the relationship that these objects have with the past, and the access that they give us to earlier stages of our life. Objects from the past definitely have value as aids to memory. Much in the same way that photos provide us with a portal to the past, even in a physical sense (the light captured through the aperture creates a chemical reaction - a physical process), objects from our past allow us access to what has already happened. While photographs document, old toys strike me much more as totems (I would almost call them magical items) that can be used to summon lost memories and mental states. I think that this status, as an aid to memory, is the basis of our ongoing relationship with old objects that have "personal value." Toy Story 3 presents a picture of our relationship with toys that is much more closely modeled on human relationships and, I would argue, not quite accurate (though certainly necessary in a movie that personifies toys).
One of the greatest anxieties in the film - one that, in real life, is not limited only to toys - is the notion of being replaced. During a noir-style flashback, one toy recalls how, having been accidentally left along the side of the road, he and and his compatriots struggled back to their original owner and found that she had replaced one of them with an exact replica. The toy turns away, disillusioned and heartbroken. I don't think that it's too much of a stretch to read into this scene the concerns of a self-aware consumer culture. How much meaning can objects, and our relationships with them, have if it is all replaceable? Beyond that, if we cede that we define ourselves (partially or totally) through what we buy, what does it say about our conceptions of our own identities if they are constructed out of identical parts? I think that the notion of these objects as aids to memory and physical connections with our past provides a satisfying answer. If that toy had returned to its owner it still would have had value and meaning for her. In that same vein, it is important to note that initially we are the ones who imbue objects with meaning, not vice versa. A purchased object, particularly a toy, seems to me to be always already a subjective object, one that is unique from all others because of what its owner attributes to or connects with it (and the memories and emotions that attach to an object accumulate over time).
Tangentially: having lost my favorite pair of sunglasses, I found them under the pilates machine in Mara's room, and am very happy about it.
I sat down to watch Toy Story 3 last night with Mara and her mother Janet, a tub of popcorn and box of Junior Mints at the ready (both remained untouched for longer than usual; we had all just consumed generous portions of Italian food). Having read the laudatory Times review and noted what people were saying on Rotten Tomatoes, my expectations were high. And the movie didn't disappoint. I found it whimsical, hilarious, poignant and profound. I won't delve too much into the plot of the film, because that wasn't the interesting part. This movie, more so than the previous two (It's been a while since I've seen them), confronted the question of why toys are meaningful to us. Of course, through a sort of categorical metonymy, toys can be understood to stand in for a certain type of material object: those that had much value in the past, but are no longer quite as loved (I actually think that the film-makers try to cast an even wider net - there is an interesting scene to this effect near the end of the movie where Woody watches on while Andy's mother bids him farewell before he drives off to college).
Almost everyone experiences reluctance when asked to throw out objects from their past, and on the surface it seems a logical response. But I think that it's actually a bizarre reaction. Why do these objects hold value for us? Objectively, old toys have very little value. They're usually beat up and outdated. They have little functional value to older children, who (probably) don't play with toys at all. The meaning, I think, lies in the relationship that these objects have with the past, and the access that they give us to earlier stages of our life. Objects from the past definitely have value as aids to memory. Much in the same way that photos provide us with a portal to the past, even in a physical sense (the light captured through the aperture creates a chemical reaction - a physical process), objects from our past allow us access to what has already happened. While photographs document, old toys strike me much more as totems (I would almost call them magical items) that can be used to summon lost memories and mental states. I think that this status, as an aid to memory, is the basis of our ongoing relationship with old objects that have "personal value." Toy Story 3 presents a picture of our relationship with toys that is much more closely modeled on human relationships and, I would argue, not quite accurate (though certainly necessary in a movie that personifies toys).
One of the greatest anxieties in the film - one that, in real life, is not limited only to toys - is the notion of being replaced. During a noir-style flashback, one toy recalls how, having been accidentally left along the side of the road, he and and his compatriots struggled back to their original owner and found that she had replaced one of them with an exact replica. The toy turns away, disillusioned and heartbroken. I don't think that it's too much of a stretch to read into this scene the concerns of a self-aware consumer culture. How much meaning can objects, and our relationships with them, have if it is all replaceable? Beyond that, if we cede that we define ourselves (partially or totally) through what we buy, what does it say about our conceptions of our own identities if they are constructed out of identical parts? I think that the notion of these objects as aids to memory and physical connections with our past provides a satisfying answer. If that toy had returned to its owner it still would have had value and meaning for her. In that same vein, it is important to note that initially we are the ones who imbue objects with meaning, not vice versa. A purchased object, particularly a toy, seems to me to be always already a subjective object, one that is unique from all others because of what its owner attributes to or connects with it (and the memories and emotions that attach to an object accumulate over time).
Tangentially: having lost my favorite pair of sunglasses, I found them under the pilates machine in Mara's room, and am very happy about it.
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