LEGO Representations of Nature

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Rose by Sean Kenney in situ

Suppose we had secretly played a trick on a lover of the beautiful, sticking in the ground artificial flowers (…) and suppose they then discovered this deceit.  The direct interest they previously took in these things would promptly vanish… [i]

Immanuel Kant wrote this in 1790 in the Critique of Judgment, arguably the book that began the modern intellectual engagement with art.  One of Kant’s philosophical aims was to differentiate between what is beautiful in nature and what makes a work of art beautiful.  He stated that art should never literally recreate nature.  Instead the flower that the artist crafts always announces that it is a representation of nature; the art being in how close the representation is, how near it seems to nature, without deceiving us in any way.

Sean Kenney’s[ii] LEGO sculpture Rose (2012)[iii], illustrates Kant’s point beautifully.  A LEGO flower planted in a landscape garden, which at first glance appears completely at home in its surrounding.  The bricks expertly arranged to capture the organic flourishes of leaves and petals.  Yet there is something uncanny about this picture; this rose is two meters tall.

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Rose by Sean Kenney

Kenney’s use of scale recalls the playful juxtapositions found in Claes Oldenburg’s sculptures, between over-sized everyday objects and the natural environment.[iv]   But where Oldenburg’s work makes us look again at mass-produced objects by removing them from the human scale of ready-to-hand use, Kenney’s work reflects on a different aspect of modern life, the humble LEGO brick.

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Vitra Balancing Tool by Oldenburg & Coosje

The choice of scale for Kenney is dictated by both artistic vision and the practical limitations of the bricks. To achieve the arabesques and fluid shapes of nature with basic recta-linear pieces, Kenney has to build at a ratio where the individual steps between parts are less pronounced when realised as part of a larger curve.

As a result the minutia, the dainty flower, the butterfly or the elegance of a tiny humming bird, if modelled in LEGO, to achieve an adequate approximation of its natural form has to be rendered at a giant scale.  This highlights for the LEGO artist the particular dilemma of trying to exactly replicate the natural form in bricks.  The LEGO artist becomes trapped between two forms of failure: to render at a 1:1 scale is to see nature as LEGO, blocky and determined by the shape and form of bricks; to try to break the conventions of the recta-linear form, the 1:1 scale must be exceeded.  But perhaps this isn’t a problem at all?

To represent nature in LEGO is always to begin from a position where exact replication is denied.  Accepting Kant’s thesis the LEGO artist does not try to deceive their audience by making dissimulations of nature.  LEGO creations explicitly show us that they are made from individual elements.

Kenney’s Rose works as an artwork to a large extent because its scale is compensated by the context in which it is shown.  By allowing the viewer the space to stand back and grasp it as a singular image it succeeds in representing nature.  But as with all such images it attracts its viewers to look closer.  As the viewer approaches the sculpture, the success of the representation is replaced by a demonstration of the artist’s LEGO building skill.  Standing in front of the LEGO flower they are confronted by a close-up view of thousands of connected pieces.  The wonder we feel here comes from correlating this detailed view of discrete pieces that no longer hold together as an image of a flower, with the previous unified perception.  The irony being that to show its true LEGO form, the artwork that represents nature has to give up its power to represent and instead declare itself made of bricks.

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Rose (close up) by Sean Kenney

The audience that attends Kenney’s exhibition applaud his talent when they realise that the representation fails to be a flower, only then can they declare “I can’t believe it is made of LEGO.”  And unlike Kant’s lover of the beautiful who no longer found interest in the artificial flower when its ruse was rumbled, the LEGO flower by openly declaring its constructed origin retains our interest.

This idea can be further analysed in the 2014 exhibition of prehistoric animals shown at Milestones Museum[v].  Created by Bright Bricks[vi] the UK based professional team of LEGO builders headed by Duncan Titmarsh and Ed Diment, these life-sized creations of dinosaurs and mammoths offer another encounter with the LEGO representation of nature.

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Mammoth by Bright Bricks

The huge prehistoric creatures of the Bright Bricks exhibition retain an expected relation to their viewer.  Unlike the flower, the scale of a real mammoth or dinosaur unsurprisingly dictates that we stand back from them so as to accommodate their whole form in our field of vision.  It is this hugeness that in part fosters our fascination with these archaic beasts.   Their rendering in bricks providing a way of aesthetically increasing our awareness of their size, in a manner that a traditional museum model might not.

As with Kenney’s work these prehistoric recreations also ask us to move closer and inspect them at a face-to-brick proximity.  As with the flower, as we approach the dinosaurs and mammoths, they give up their rendered coherence.  Standing shoulder to shoulder with the leg of a mammoth made of LEGO one is left confronting a wall of brown bricks.  Yet, this is not a negative experience.  By understanding the link between the mass of bricks and the previous image of the mammoth, we feel something about the complexity of pre-historic nature.

LEGO bricks when used to represent living things are perfectly placed to explore the concept of nature as a complex system, which immediate human sensory perception is ill equipped to understand.  Over the last two hundred years we have become increasingly more sophisticated in our scientific understanding of nature, as a way of overcoming these sensory limitations.  Stepping back from the unintelligible immediate encounter, and instead relying ever more on rational codes and scientific systems to explain what our senses have difficulty comprehending.  LEGO offers an important alternative to this conceptual knowledge, an aesthetic idea of the complexity of nature.  By showing us the disconnect between the discrete elements of a LEGO sculpture and the image the sculpture forms, it allows us to feel something about the building blocks of nature without deferring to a scientific system that stands in place of the contingent and real thing.

In the case of the long-dead creatures of the Bright Bricks exhibition, the feeling we obtain about the scale and complexity of these once majestic animals, allows us to feel something about a time we can no longer access.  Where a more traditional model of a dinosaur might try to convince us that it is as close a representation of a real dinosaur as science currently offers us, the LEGO model of a dinosaur activates a wonder and awe for their scale and majesty.   By remaining resolutely a LEGO creation and failing to fully realise the dinosaur, it lets us feel speculatively how much greater than our attempts to recreate it, the dinosaur must have been.

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Roaring Megalosaurus Head by Bright Bricks

To be a LEGO artist that chooses nature as a subject is to take on the challenge of nature’s complexity, knowing that they will fail to replicate it. It is for this reason, as Mike Doyle eloquently put it in an article published in the magazine Bricks Culture[vii], that we value the technical skill of the LEGO artist.  An appeal to virtuosity has special significance for the LEGO builder, as a large part of the encounter we have with a LEGO artwork revolves around the fact that it is seen simultaneously as a singular form and as something constructed from elements.  The artist’s technique is always exposed if it is recognised as LEGO, and consequently those skilfully articulated LEGO elements become a crucial structural component of the work.

This differs from more traditional art forms where on most occasions the virtuosity of the artist is put secondary to the unified vision they create.  It is only really the art historian who stands close enough to the Rembrandt self-portrait to delineate the impasto brush stroke of white paint that perfects the depth and form of the face.  With the LEGO sculpture, every viewer aims to get close enough to recognise that the form is made of bricks.  This dual state of comprehension, between image and individual elements becomes the foundation of appreciating LEGO art.

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Rembrandt Self Portrait 1660

Extending Doyle’s claim, technique is integral to the LEGO experience: but, building skill in itself does not define the LEGO artwork.  Although we marvel at the skill of a builder like Sean Kenney, it is not simply his skill we want to experience when we approach his LEGO rose.  Virtuosity is a handmaiden for a deeper experience.  To represent something as complex as a natural form in LEGO bricks requires skill.  Without the application of technical skill there would be no correspondence with nature.  However, for the work to succeed, the skill used to create it needs to fail and its original LEGO construction be exposed.   This is what makes the LEGO brick such an enticing creative tool, its utility and almost endless reusable ways of being connected to other elements also signifies why it can never be mastered if instated as part of a representational art form.  The LEGO brick understood as a part of a building system stands in opposition to an idea of an organic thing that cannot be separated into constitutive parts.

The importance of proximity between viewer and work is now more readily understood.  A LEGO sculpture of nature appears to succeed when the viewer remains at a distance, where individual bricks cannot easily be distinguished form one another.  However, once the spell is broken, and the discrete bricks are revealed to the viewer so too is another important issue pertaining to scale. LEGO bricks are made at a human scale; best understood by the relationship they have to a human hand.

When we are presented with a LEGO creation, and recognise that it is made from a collection of connected elements, this other understanding complements it: that the pieces of LEGO have been manipulated and connected by a person.  The complexity of the creation is relative to an act that can be manually carried out by us.  In this revelation our own powers of creation are compared to those of the natural world. It shows us the limits of scale available to the human hand, and by proxy how the real world exceeds our physical abilities.

Yet despite these limitations, there is for the LEGO artist a desire to make something natural from a host of manufactured bricks, a drive that sees a square brick and wants to build a circle.  A builder’s tenacious skill momentarily seems to make the square peg fit the round hole.  This human attempt is essential in the LEGO representation of nature. For an audience to continue to feel something from this encounter with the LEGO sculpture the point of failure needs to be approached again and again.  And the more skilful and complex the approach, the more it engages us and opens the possibility of the aesthetic experience of its failure.  To paraphrase the writer Samuel Beckett, the aim is to build better so as to ‘fail better’.[viii]

If this somewhat technical account of how we understand a LEGO representation of nature works seems a little abstract, it can further be seen played out, sometimes unconsciously, in the value judgments made by the LEGO enthusiast.  Take for example the debates that have perpetuated in both the adult fan community and the media more generally, relating to The LEGO Group’s development of specialised pieces.  There seems to be little conflict when a specialised piece is developed with the aim of replicating a form within the fields of industrial or architectural design.   I am yet to encounter the rejection of the development of wheel or window parts.  Equally when such parts are used according to their specified use, even when articulated by the most masterful of builders, a LEGO creation rarely receives negative feedback.  A wheel, is a wheel, is a wheel.[ix]  Whereas the use of specifically created rock or tree pieces is seen as lazy, lacking in skill and fundamentally falling below the bar of creativity expected of the LEGO artist.

As a result the big ugly rock pieces, as they are colloquially referred to in the LEGO communities, have become a focus for what is deemed undesirable in the building fraternity.  In its place sub-genres of landscape building have sprung-up, and the ability to form detailed rock formations or foliage has become a badge of success.

Whether it is a space base, built into a lunar landscape or a castle nestling in an idyll,[x] the comments that accompany the creations focus as much, sometimes even more, on the terrain the creation sits in, over the architectural forms.

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Peace Sells by Luke Watkins

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M:Tron Magnet Factory by Blake Foster

The LEGO builders who stick to building recreations of human designs, the car, vehicle and architectural builders, use LEGO bricks in a way reminiscent of Oldenburg’s project.  Instead of scaling-up, they minaturise the places we live and work in, and the machines we drive and use, so as to allow a fresh aesthetic perspective.  The bricks, cogs and axels they use still reflecting the original forms they draw inspiration from.  The builder of landscapes has other aims.

Thinking speculatively about the boundaries LEGO art might be crossing, the aspirations of landscape builders define one important expanding horizon.  It comes as no surprise that the third instalment of Mike Doyle’s curatorial project Beautiful LEGO[xi] takes inspiration form nature.  However, it is perhaps one of Doyle’s own creations that most successfully show us what building LEGO nature might achieve.

Speaking in 2014 on the LEGO podcast Beyond the Brick,[xii] Doyle explained that his LEGO creations always begin from a political basis.  And that he believed that they should not simply be a building experiment or declaration of skill, but initiate a discussion around an important issue.  The work he was completing at the time engaged with the ecological debate around mountaintop removal.

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Mountain Top Removal by Mike Doyle

Mountaintop removal is the process commonly employed in the United States, where mining operations asset strip natural resources by literally removing the summit or summit ridge of a mountain.  Controversy has followed this process, which suggests that after the removal of natural resources such as coal, nature reclaims the mined and damaged land.  Critics suggest that this does not occur in the ideal manner that the mining corporations suggest and that biodiversity is irrecoverably damaged as a result.[xiii]

Doyle by choosing this subject matter for a LEGO creation is able to use the medium to directly represent nature undergoing this assault, and by proxy also makes us feel something more about the ecological issue at stake.  Where scientists have been able to provide the rational arguments that show how the technique harms nature, the LEGO artists opens the door on a fallacy that sees nature as nothing more than a resource.  Building blocks ready to be used.

If as was argued, that the representation of nature in LEGO creates a perception where a viewer realises the extent to which nature exceeds his or her own creative powers, in Doyle’s work it also reveals the accepted truth about how we as a society think of nature.  It is common shorthand in a scientifically industrialised capitalist society to think of nature in terms of base elements, fuel and resources that can be utilised.  A way of thinking that the German philosopher Martin Heidegger presciently termed ‘standing reserve’.[xiv]   This concept sees existent things as materials with utility: the river that is dammed ceases to be understood as a river, and rather becomes a calculable hydro-electrical power source.

Of course the irony is that the LEGO brick reduces all representations of nature to reusable elements.  But in doing so, it not only allows us to feel something about the way nature exceeds our technical comprehension, it also exposes the limits of human understanding that seeks mastery through the application of productivity-validated systems over living things.

There is no doubt that science and technical understanding have done much good.  Our medical mastery of ourselves, and our material mastery of our environment, has made life safer, easier and longer.  But what a creation such as Doyle’s mountaintop removal does is make us feel something about how these skills might and ought to be used.  Understanding and mastery of nature is one thing, but how to deploy these skills ethically another.  How surprising then that such an opportunity to grapple with these questions should become possible through perhaps the most obviously manufactured and industrialised of creative mediums, basic LEGO bricks.

Thinking about how and why LEGO artists continue to seek to build and represent nature, the answer is perhaps a simple one?  The medium is so ill suited to capturing the sophistication of nature that it cannot help but present the impossible challenge of such a task in every built attempt.  LEGO representations of nature reveal a necessary human deference towards our world, through the willingness to fail, to make our representations of nature, just that, representations and not explanations of living things. They have the potential to temper the modern proclivity for the technical reduction of things to resource, and as such stand to remind us what might be lost in every failed representational attempt.

 

Endnotes

[i] Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgment, translated by Pluhar, Werner S., Hackett, Indianapolis/Cambridge, 1987, p.166.

[ii] See Sean Kenney’s website Art With Bricks http://www.seankenney.com/

[iii] Sean Kenney’s Rose, installed at Reiman Gardens in Iowa April 2012, as part of the touring exhibition Nature Connects.

[iv] As evidenced in an artwork like ‘Vitra Balancing Tools Oldenburg & Coosje van Bruggen’. Photograph by smow blog (flic.kr/p/6t3gY4), used under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic (creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0), cropped from original.

[v] LEGO – The Lost World Zoo, Bright Bricks exhibition, Milestones Museum, February 2014.

[vi] See the Bright Bricks webpage http://bright-bricks.com/

[vii] Mike Doyle, ‘Plastic Fantastic’ in Bricks Culture Issue 2, 2015.

[viii] “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”  Samuel Beckett, Worstward Ho, Grove Press, London, 1983.

[ix] Or as Gertrude Stein famously stated: “A rose is a rose is a rose” in the poem Sacred Emily (1922).

[x] See Blake Foster’s M-Tron Magnet Factory (2014) https://www.flickr.com/photos/blake-foster/14623286658 and Luke Watkins Hutchinsons Peace Sells (2010) https://www.flickr.com/photos/45244184@N04/5062189530/in/dateposted/.

[xi] Beautiful Lego is a series of coffee table art books curated by Mike Doyle with the aim of showcasing the best artistic LEGO creations being made today.  The first volume was published in 2013 by No Starch Press.

[xii] Beyond the Brick, Episode 139 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WcpNchpBu28.

[xiii] See, Howard, Jason, We All Live Downstream: Writings about Mountaintop Removal. Louisville, KY: Motes Books, 2009

[xiv] Martin Heidegger, The Question Concerning Technology and Other Writings, London, Harper Perennial 1977.

 

This article was first published in Bricks Culture No.3 October 2015

Lego Lilliput or the Politics of Scale

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El Barto’s Mt Olympus (2014)

Looking down on a world in miniature, the Lego builder has a unique perspective on their creations.  Able to take in all that they have made in a single sweeping glance.  In the case of the 2014 VLUG collaboration[i], a mini-figure scale diorama that retells Homer’s Odyssey, they are quite literally Olympian.

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VLUG collaboration The Odyssey (2014)

For anyone who has had the fortune to attend one of the major Lego conventions, although they will have had the opportunity to view many different building types, considerably outnumbering nearly all other genres are the displays of the world builders.  Multiple base-plate wide sprawls, revealing tiny universes of every variety.  And parents, children, enthusiasts and fans gather round, pointing out favourite details to each other, sharing in that strange vantage that the scale provides.

Why have so many AFOLs (adult fans of Lego) gravitated towards this type of building?  Initially you’d be forgiven for thinking this is obvious, the scale of Lego’s mini-figures dictate this creative direction. As soon as you start to cater for these little people, a certain scale is set. But are the world builders simply supporting these tiny plastic denizens?

Evidence would suggest that mini-figures don’t hold the a priori position in relation to the worlds created for them. Lego had been producing sets long before the invention of the mini-figure, and these already established a scale that sees the world in miniature. Many of the sets from the 1960s, rather than relying on figures for scale took die-cast cars as their starting point. And there is the case of Miniland scale; the scale used at the Legoland parks to recreate the famous cities and landmarks of the world. Although all three of these scales, mini-figure, die cast vehicles and Miniland differ from one another, they retain the same vantage for their builders and audience, able to scan and see a world from a bird’s eye view.

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Lego in the 1960s sold with die cast cars

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Miniland London

There is something about Lego I would argue that brings out the creative desire to make worlds. Mini-figures were created by Lego to supplement this urge, and have become a core part of the company’s identity as a result. So in fact the chicken and the egg need to be reversed. World building created the need for mini-figures.

This initiates a shift in question, one from a need to build in a certain scale, to one that asks what is it about Lego that makes it such a compelling medium for the creation of worlds. Perhaps there is a root in the way Lego operates as a toy. As the image above from the 1960s shows, and is typical of how Lego has consistently depicted children interacting with its products, play often begins from the ability for a small hand to hold a complex model. To manipulate and control a world from a vantage not often afforded.

Of course this type of play is not unique to Lego, toy soldiers, dolls’ houses and model railways all call for a similar relationship. What however is unique about Lego is that these are not just little worlds that the child can manipulate, but little worlds they have built themselves. Where the doll’s houses asked the child to play lord of the manor, or the toy soldiers presented a chance to act as a general, the Lego world asked for an additional role, they asked the child to be a designer, creator and benefactor to their worlds.

The Lego community often talks about ratios and scales, that three plates equal the same height as one brick, but the most important ratio is that between a brick and a human hand. That what we make can fit in the palm of our hands. And this scale propagates the generation of a world at a scale smaller than our own, one we experience first and foremost as its creator and not as a participant or character immersed within it.

Lego world building creates distance, a way of understanding a world, even caring for and about it, but importantly not being a part of it. It is this care without immersion that makes Lego’s creative potential unique. Compare this to the most commonly found world building experiences popular culture offers us, those found in video games.

Cases studies could be taken from any of the first-batch of world building games, such as, Populous[ii] the archetypal god game, Sim City[iii] the city building simulator or Civilization [iv] the game of generals and kings. All of which invest the player in the worlds they make; you struggle to overpower other forces, whether these be other player generals, other gods, or even nature and economics in the case of Sim City. Your world is not a safe one, and your intentional actions as a palyer are needed for it to survive and thrive. The Lego world builders are not playing these games.

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Populous

Sim-City

Sim City

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Civilization

Perhaps the best way of revealing this distinction is to compare the Lego world builders to the phenomenon that is Minecraft[v]. Erroneously Minecraft is often described as Lego realised as a video game. However, we can’t ignore the elephant in the room, which is the fact that Minecraft is a game. You begin as a character in a world who has to build a shelter there and survive their first night. From the outset the world-view is from the inside, of belonging to the world that you are making.

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Minecraft

When people asks why do we need a Lego Minecraft, the cynical voice might say, because there is a market. But the real question is why would the market, those people who play Minecraft, want to carry out this digitally immersive building experience in Lego? Perhaps an answer could be found in the scale it affords the builder, one that provides a distance, and an encounter with the tropes of the Minecraft universe without the investment of personal immersion?

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Lego Minecraft

These arguments are leading to an important question about the value of distance from a world, about a way of seeing that starts from the premise of seeing from a distance.

Take museums, which often provide dioramas of buildings or areas of archeological discovery, with the aim to show a world that no longer exists. The Museum of London[vi] for example offers a variety of experiences to its visitors. You have the immersion of a complete recreation of a Victorian street, replete with shop windows and a pub. But it also has exhibits such as a scaled diorama of aspects (the Basilica and Forum) of London as a Roman town. This recreation does not so much ask the visitor to feel what the ancient town was like, but understand it in a socio-political sense, in terms of architecture and the interaction this creates between its inhabitants. By seeing the town from above, you understand its political set-up, where the rich and poor lived, the importance of the barracks, the position of the trades people, and so forth. This is an understanding that can only be seen from a position as an over-viewer; and dioramas at this scale act as catalysts for this way of thinking.

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Basilica and Forum display at the Museum of London

Unsurprisingly, given the similarity between the projects of the Lego world builders and the museums’ diorama builders, Lego models are becoming ever more frequently found as displays. Ryan McNaught’s astounding Lego Pompeii[vii] being one of the most recent cases. McNaught has worked with the Nicholson Museum in Sydney since 2012, recreating the ancient world in brick form, Lego Pompeii being the most recent in this successful run of creations.

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Ryan McNaught’s Lego Pompeii

Craig Barker in his article on McNaught’s work, comments that the place of Lego in Museums is part of the tradion of recreative diagrams and exhibits. He notes: ‘Lego Pompeii and other models of this ilk are a fun and engaging tool for reaching audiences in an exciting new way.’[viii]

Whilst I agree with Barker’s proclamation on the validity of Lego in the museum, it opens up more questions than answers. Why does Lego, rather than any other model making form attract new audiences? And if it is attracting new audiences, is this because it is providing new experiences in the museum context?

Again, playing cynic, you might say Lego brings in a new audience of children and parents, fans of Lego, who traditionally wouldn’t consider the museum a fun destination. This I would agree is true, but can only really be made sense of if we understand further what makes Lego worlds connect so well with their viewers; that power that the museum is harnessing, normally only found in the Lego convention hall.

Perhaps an answer can be found in another tradition, where scale is used to critique, satirise and question our world rather than illustrate it.  I titled this investigation, Lego Lilliput, in reference the writer Jonathan Swift’s literary creation. In the tale Gulliver’s Travels[ix], Lilliput is the world the eponymous hero is shipwrecked on. A land inhabited by tiny people, who make Gulliver a giant in comparison.  He goes on to view their lives and ways of living, often with comic and satirical observations, from on high.

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Illustration from Gulliver’s Travels

To what extent are we stepping in Swift’s shoes when we build our Lego worlds? How many Gullivers trapse through the Lego convention halls?

Swift’s use of scale, as a device in Gulliver’s Travels, to open debates about the political and ethical concerns of his times, as well as the limits of human understanding, is well documented.   Gulliver appears as the mighty giant, but is ensnared by the little people, and his power harnessed by them to defeat their enemies. The idividual, the general or the leader, rendered the tool of the small folk. And the people themselves, the Lilliputians, are presented to Gulliver, as the most proposterously smug and self-satisfied race, whilst being the most puny and helpless. This parodic world embraces the bluster and hubris of humanity, small in the universe but determined to put themselves centre stage despite their failings and limitations.

Through the transmogrifying lens of scale, Swift satirises his own world, revealing how limited and small we all our in our abilities. By making a world small, it simultaneously makes it ridiculous but also reveals connections and socio-political relationships less easily seen from the point of view of someone immersed in day-to-day life.

But the Lego Lilliput’s of the Lego world builders seem driven by another aim than Swift’s satirical spirit. Whilst they appear to do more than illustrate a world like a museum exhibit does, they do not seem to ask us to reflect critically on our own world either. So what does building Lego worlds at this scale achieve? What political vantage, or new way of understanding do they offer?

The Lego Movie[x], offered what on the surface might seem a parody of our world. Where the city realised in bricks, exaggerated the rule of hegomony, and our unblinking capacity to follow the rules and consume without question. But unlike Swift’s Gulliver, Will Ferrell remains outside the tiny world, perceiving himself as a god, a crerator of a perfect utopian world. The utopian vision fails, because he does not allow it its created status.   Glue effectively denying Lego bricks their unique creative potential. The Lego world is asked in the film to be allowed to be Lego  This is the crisis it faces, a crisis in the little world, and not in the real world in which we and Ferrell live.

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The Lego Movie

And from this example comes an answer to the question what political perspective does the Lego world provide.  As previously noted, a child does not simply play in the world they create, they act as its architect and benign (or sometimes not) creator. Where Swift created a world we understood by mirroring it against our own, the Lego world is understood by virtue of its mode of creation, in itself, as something that matters as a creation.

Returning once more to my central thesis, as I explored it in my article, ‘Building a Case for Lego Art’[xi], Lego creations always simultaneously reveal their unbuilt, or aggregate state in their composed forms. And when we view them, we understand them according to the process of their being created, by continuously seeing and understanding their composition from parts. By proxy we all become creators of these worlds we view, because to view them demands an understanding and activation of our own imagination. This brings with it a condition of care, to feel for that which one has made.

A world from the past, a Roman fort, a Saxon Castle, or a world of future possibilities, of moonbases and utopian cities, are understood politically as possibilities, as things that can be and as such places that one can care for, without belonging to them. We are drawn to them, their occupants and little details, facinated as Olypian gods might be with what can exist. On these terms the Lego model in the Museum, not only tells us about the past, illustrating what it was like, but relates us to a minature world we care for.  It literally makes history matter for us; to care for a time and place we are not from.

In summary, the distance these Lego Lilliputs create, is not one of cold observation or satire, but one that puts you in league with the process of creation. It is a distance that allows the political position of caring as a creator does for their world.  An experience all too often absent in our lives of individual immersed self-interest.

[i] More images of the VLUG collaborative build can be found on El Barto’s photostream here: https://www.flickr.com/photos/52907196@N07/14569438525/

[ii] Populous, Bullfrog, 1989

[iii] Sim City, Electronic Arts, 1989

[iv] Civilization, Microprose, 1991

[v] Minecraft, Mojang, 2009

[vi] See the Museum of London website: http://www.museumoflondon.org.uk/london-wall/

[vii] See Ryan McNaught’s website for more details: http://www.thebrickman.com

[viii] Craig Barker, ‘Museum recreates ancient Roman city of Pompeii — using 190,000 Lego blocks’ reposted on Rawstory, 2015. http://www.rawstory.com/rs/2015/01/photos-museum-recreates-ancient-roman-city-of-pompeii-using-190000-lego-blocks/ (site accessed 6 February 2015)

[ix] Jonathan Swift, Gullivers Travels, 1726

[x] The LEGO Movie, dir Phil Lord and Christopher Miller, (Fox Studios 2014)

[xi] David Alexander Smith, ‘Building a case for Lego art’, Building Debates (3 January 2015) https://buildingdebates.wordpress.com/20150103building-a-case-for-lego-art/ (accessed 25 January 2015)