Few have made more comprehensive creative use of these devices than Ruff, whose works have anticipated and riffed off key developments in photography over the past 40 years, from ubiquitous surveillance to face-swapping apps. In the 1980s, for example, he blew passport-style headshots up to colossal proportions that shockingly revealed every detail of his sitters鈥� features 鈥� detail that can now be captured by anyone with a high-resolution smartphone camera.

But it was those portraits that soured Ruff on conventional photography: he disliked the sense that he had staged the images to be 鈥渢he view into Big Brother鈥檚 camera鈥�, as he says at the opening of a retrospective of his works at London鈥檚 Whitechapel Gallery. So for his next project, Sterne, he set out to take 鈥渢he most objective photograph possible鈥�, procuring deep-field images of the night sky from the European Southern Observatory. Ruff, who says he struggled to choose between studying astronomy and art, cropped those images and created monochrome compositions that loom over the viewer with a kind of chilly grandeur.

The realisation that he lacked the equipment or skills to take such pictures himself liberated Ruff to make use of other archive and found images, ranging from internet porn to decontextualised newswire pictures. His reworks invite the viewer to reflect on the production and uses of such images, often taken for granted. Nonetheless, an artist reconfiguring astronomical images might raise hackles: aren鈥檛 they self-evidently beautiful already?

For a more recent series, ma.r.s., Ruff took images from the HiRISE instrument mounted on the Mars Reconnaissance Orbiter, the most powerful camera ever sent to another planet. haven鈥檛 been bashful about promoting the beauty of their images themselves, turning them into a and a coffee-table book. But for Ruff, 鈥渃olour in space doesn鈥檛 exist, it鈥檚 nonsense鈥�. The colours in the official HiRISE images don鈥檛 represent what human eyes would see; introducing colour to space-probe imagery has become a rather competitive hobby for online enthusiasts.

So Ruff added his own colours to the raw HiRISE images 鈥� sometimes conforming to what was known of the Martian landscape, sometimes according to his own whim. 鈥淭here are no green sands on Mars,鈥� he laughs: the features in many of his pictures aren鈥檛 what we would see even if we viewed them with our own eyes. The photographic prosthesis can take us only so far. 鈥淏ut aliens could have completely different access to the electromagnetic spectrum,鈥� he says. 鈥淪o perhaps I鈥檝e also made images for aliens.鈥�

runs at , London, until 21 January 2018

It is probably safe to assume the slime mould Physarum polycephalum doesn鈥檛 long for the limelight. It normally spends its life quietly eating microbes surrounded by decaying wood and leaf litter. But this humble single-celled organism has nonetheless found itself centre stage in an unusual musical movement.

thinks we鈥檝e spent too much time building wacky instruments and touchscreen controllers for making music, and not enough thinking about new ways to generate musical ideas. In his bid to shake up composition, he鈥檚 turned to everything from DNA sequencers to quantum computers, but such cutting-edge technology is usually difficult to access and use. In P. polycephalum, Miranda thinks he鈥檚 found a collaborator that鈥檚 every bit as ground-breaking, but asks only to be fed a few oat flakes each day.

Passing a mild electrical current through this slime mould makes it behave akin to an electrical component 鈥� and not just any component, claims Miranda, but the elusive memristor. These are a long-theorised electrical component, only physically realised about 10 years ago. Memristors have something like a memory for current; their electrical resistance depends on the amount of current that has passed through them in the past.

That makes them interesting for those trying to create thinking machines that work differently from the ones we鈥檙e used to: there鈥檚 good reason to think memristors could be used to to make certain sorts of advanced artificial minds. But the mechanism behind the slime mould鈥檚 apparent memristance is unknown, and no one is sure how it鈥檚 connected to its to do things like navigate mazes or direct robots.

Neverthetheless, Miranda and his team at the Interdisciplinary Centre for Computer Music Research at Plymouth University, UK, are excited by its potential. The mould鈥檚 memristive behaviour means its electrical output is related to the input, but in ways that can be hard to predict and which vary from mould to mould 鈥� almost as though individual moulds are each riffing off the original.

鈥淔or me as a musician, this is a primitive creative process,鈥� says Miranda. 鈥淚鈥檝e spent my whole career trying to simulate this behaviour using computers, and now I have this little thing in a Petri dish which does exactly that.鈥�

Turn the pitch of a sound into electrical impulses, and the slime mould will produce its own enigmatic electrical response, which can be turned back into music. So far, Miranda has performed two pieces in collaboration with mould: 2015鈥檚 Biocomputer Music, in which it played a telegraphic duet with his piano playing; and 2016鈥檚 Biocomputer Rhythms, in which it provided percussive accompaniment.

As you might expect, these pieces are rather uncanny: 听both human and mould performers are improvising, while the audience has to work to find their musicality for themselves. Miranda says the key to keeping the music stimulating, rather than alienating, is to find precisely the right level of unpredictability in the output. This year, he and his doctoral student Ed Braund have ; an array of four such 鈥渂ioprocessors鈥� can respond to all the key parameters of each music: the pitch, duration, loudness of each note, and the time between notes. Miranda would like to be able to 鈥渢une鈥� the predictability of the output at will; that might be more feasible if the mechanism behind moulds鈥� memristance can be identified and replicated in a controlled manner using the tools of synthetic biology.

All this might be great news for fans of avant-garde music, but do Miranda鈥檚 mouldy musical memristors hold any clues about the future of computing for everyone else? He says there is 鈥渟omething magical鈥� about playing with a living organism whose behaviour is perhaps more compatible with our own than conventional computers: 鈥淭here is an edge that silicon-based memristors will miss鈥�. Biocomputing 鈥� perhaps using large networks of bioprocessors 鈥� won鈥檛 replace what conventional computers do, he suggests, but give rise to new kinds of applications that aren鈥檛 currently imaginable and new ways of interacting with computers, perhaps closer to negotiation than issuing instructions. If it catches on, we may all have to learn how to improvise.

JOURNALISM has famously been described as 鈥渢he first rough draft of history.鈥� New 女生小视频鈥榮 own brand of journalism 鈥� which is 鈥� is a bit different. We aim to provide a first rough draft of the future.

Over the past 60 years we have not just reported new discoveries and inventions in science and technology. We have also tried to explain why they matter and where they鈥檙e likely to lead. That鈥檚 not easy. There can be very fine lines between testable predictions, educated guesswork and flights of fancy.

Many early issues of The New 女生小视频 contain eerily prophetic stories about ideas and issues that would go on to shape the world 鈥� that rough draft of the future. We hope the same will be true of what we鈥檙e publishing today. But it is very much a rough draft: then, as now, attempting to predict the future in detail is a largely futile enterprise.

The internet, global warming, artificial intelligence and genetic engineering were all on our radar in 1956. But our ideas about how they might pan out bore little resemblance to how they have actually evolved, particularly when it comes to their social ramifications. Ubiquitous information has not created rationalist utopias, ecological catastrophes have not culled our population and we have neither super-human machines nor people, though we鈥檙e getting there.

Can we hope to do any better at predicting the future today? One way to proceed is to simply extrapolate: in other words, look at what鈥檚 happening now and assume that the trends you see will continue. This works well when you can expect a system to remain governed by the same principles. Celestial dynamics don鈥檛 vary much, so we can predict with confidence that Halley鈥檚 comet will return to our skies in 2061.

As systems get more complex, however, accurate prediction becomes more difficult. Long-term weather forecasting, for example, is fearsomely hard. When we think about social change, it becomes harder still. There are far more factors to take into account and they unfold in complex and interacting ways. Linear extrapolation invariably fails: it鈥檚 the kind of thinking that leads people to jokily ask 鈥渨here鈥檚 my jetpack?鈥�, a question borne of post-war trends in transport and the space race 鈥� none of them relevant today.

In some circles, extrapolation has given way to exponentialism 鈥� the belief not only that what is happening will keep happening, but that it will happen ever faster. Adherents of this view have elevated Moore鈥檚 law, which states that computer processors double in complexity every two years, to the status of a natural law governing all sorts of things.

Accept this and it makes for dizzying outcomes in surprisingly short order. You end up with a technological singularity, a point at which superintelligent machines usher in an age of runaway technological advance, with unfathomable consequences. This is perhaps the most transformative change conceivable in the next 60 years.

For what it鈥檚 worth, I don鈥檛 think that will happen any time soon, and nor do many AI researchers (see 鈥�The world in 2076: Machines outsmart us but we鈥檙e still on top鈥�). Moore鈥檚 law is not a law of nature but a self-fulfilling prophecy that has held because people strived to make it hold. They are now beginning to struggle because the actual laws of nature have intervened. And while the current pace of AI research is stunning, I expect there will be some bumps in the road there, too.

So prediction and extrapolation are of limited use: fine up to a point if you need to place semiconductor orders, perhaps, but not so much if you want to work out how semiconductors are changing society.

Is it futile to think about the future, then? Not entirely. We鈥檙e bound to get most things wrong 鈥� although some futurologists have bucked the trend (see 鈥�Stanis艂aw Lem: The man with the future inside him鈥�). But perhaps we can get enough right to make a difference.

New 女生小视频 is an optimistic publication. We think the future can be better than today. But we are not Panglossian. We do not simply insist that we reside in the best of all possible worlds; we think we have to make it so. That鈥檚 what humanity has always striven to do. And we only succeed if we think about the future.

In that spirit, in this issue we鈥檙e indulging in some educated guesswork about what might happen over the next 60 years. We have chosen scenarios that look plausible today 鈥� which might mean they look as naive as those jetpacks tomorrow. Perhaps you should think of this as a guide to what the future will almost certainly not be like.

This article appeared in print under the headline 鈥淲elcome鈥� to the future鈥�

IT IS forbidden by law to die of natural causes in Longyearbyen, the world鈥檚 northernmost town 鈥� because the rock-hard permafrost makes it impossible to bury you. Nor can you be born here, due to the peculiar legal status of the Svalbard archipelago, a thousand kilometres north of Norway.

Forty-two nations, including the unlikely Arctic powers of Afghanistan and Venezuela, have the right to settle and exploit its resources: from whales in the 18th century, to furs in the 19th and coal in the 20th. Now, with coal on its way out, Svalbard is presenting itself as a location for scientific research, ecotourism and the arts. As such it may find itself at the nexus of a new global reality.

鈥淲ith the melting of the ice and thus new trade routes, Svalbard and places like it are really at the cutting edge of geopolitics,鈥� says Katya Garc铆a-Ant贸n, who runs Norway鈥檚 Office for Contemporary Art. That鈥檚 why OCA and the听Northern Norway Art Museum听last month brought artists and scientists there to discuss representations of the fast-changing global north.

It quickly became apparent that there are few simple narratives to be had. Early panels at Thinking at the Edge of the World focused on Arctic indigenes鈥� relationships with the land, and the value they place on it 鈥� attitudes that might be instructive when it comes to global stewardship of resources.

But Svalbard has no indigenous people, and its historic resources are increasingly worthless. So how do you represent the value 鈥� be it economic, cultural or ecological 鈥� of a place that belongs to everyone and no one, that鈥檚 both untamed wilderness and Anthropocenic canary, whose fate is both utterly solitary and entirely global?

Delightful horror

Part of the problem is that our impressions of such places don鈥檛 correspond with current realities. The 鈥渇rozen wastes鈥� of popular imagination don鈥檛 cut it today. Another part is that what we find pleasing isn鈥檛 always what鈥檚 wise: a neat lawn is an ecological horror.

Lisa Phillips, director of New York鈥檚 New Museum, which focuses on the dynamics of the 21st century, suggested that our aesthetic values might be out of date, failing to reflect today鈥檚 ethics. What might a more appropriate aesthetics be like?

In 1688, literary critic John Dennis took a Grand Tour of Europe, as was de rigueur for gentlemen of his station. During his passage of the Alps, he wrote that he experienced 鈥渁 delightful Horrour, a terrible Joy and at the same time that I was infinitely pleased, I trembled鈥�. A term used in transcendent literature seemed appropriate: such experiences were 鈥渟ublime鈥�.

The sublime caught on, with other adventurers extolling the terrible beauty of the wilderness. In 1757, the philosopher Edmund Burke defined it as an aesthetic category distinct from beauty, and it became a potent concept in 19th-century Romantic literature and art, in part as a reaction to early industrialisation.

Today鈥檚 visitors to Svalbard, Europe鈥檚 largest wilderness, might also be in search of the sublime, knowingly or otherwise. But the experience is not the same as it was for earlier adventurers. Gaze at the Arctic ice, and you become uneasily aware that it is vanishing, even if you can鈥檛 see that directly 鈥� and that your own presence is contributing to its thaw.

Longyearbyen鈥檚 residents attest to that thaw: the port opened months earlier than usual this year; last summer was sweltering; a polar bear had to be rescued from the bay鈥檚 thinning ice. 鈥淭he landscape has changed dramatically over the 30 years I鈥檝e been here,鈥� says Kim Holm茅n, international director of the Norwegian Polar Institute.

Many attempts to capture this have translated climate models into graphical or sculptural forms. The effects can be stimulating to the eye, but less often to the mind. Straight depictions of its effects can be misleading, hence the furore over all those photos of gaunt polar bears: are they tragic victims or unlucky individuals? The sentimental imagery beloved of tree-huggers is unhelpful, too.

Climate change 鈥� its impact, complexity and persistence 鈥� is hard for human brains to parse. In his 2013 book Hyperobjects, the philosopher Timothy Morton described how 鈥渢hings that are massively distributed in time and space relative to humans鈥� defy our intuition. Global warming is one such hyperobject: a panel about the ocean hinted at others.

Hidden depths

Anchorage Museum director Julie Decker talked in Svalbard about , a 2014 show based on how plastic pollutants travel the seas. 鈥淎laska has a reputation as a pristine wilderness,鈥� she said, 鈥渂ut we send trash around the world and receive the trash of the world on our shores.鈥� It is also found, like handfuls of candy, in the entrails of animals and birds.

Presenting this in a way that doesn鈥檛 simply induce despair is tough. Part of the problem is that we are used to durability being of a piece with artisanry and scarcity. Our aesthetics are off: we don鈥檛 readily grasp that cheap, mass-produced junk will circle the globe and last almost forever.

鈥淧art of the problem is that we can鈥檛 conceive that our junk will circle the globe and last almost forever鈥�

Camilla Svensen, a marine biologist from the University of Tr脴mso in Norway, described the challenges of understanding food webs based on plankton, which are more abundant in the oceans than insects are on land. 鈥淭he complexity is so huge: it鈥檚 like opening doors and doors to ever more universes,鈥� she said. Hardly anyone has personal experience of this vast marine biomass, for all that we are its beneficiaries. Our efforts to manage the land, of which we at least have somatic knowledge, are fraught enough 鈥� how are we to manage the oceans, or for that matter the atmosphere or the ice? A return to the sublime in art might help us process them 鈥� but what does the 21st century version look like?

V茅r茅na Paravel, maker of 2012 documentary Leviathan, fixed cameras to a North Atlantic fishing trawler, and to its crew. 鈥淲e were trying to diminish the men, or at least to portray them in a way that subsumed them in something larger,鈥� she said, to achieve a 鈥渟elf-portrait of the sea鈥�. The result is a visceral, occasionally poetic and frequently alienating film that captures both the hostile majesty of the seas and our impact on it. As Holm茅n said: 鈥淭he ocean is very big, but we are also very big.鈥�

The film鈥檚 imagery is at once appalling and beautiful: fish guts splatter, scavenging gulls wheel in the boat鈥檚 wake, torrents of scarlet blood and tumbling starfish are discarded as by-catch. Delightful horror and terrible joy, indeed.

The backup plan

Back in Svalbard, a tiny portion of the abandoned coal mines in the mountains around Longyearbyen has been converted into the Global Seed Vault, a geometric concrete wedge driven into the permafrost. It holds 864,309 seeds as a 鈥渂ackup鈥� against agricultural doomsday. Stand next to it, and you can hear the regular whooshing of air intakes, like the breathing of some gigantic, slumbering beast.

Last winter, the vault saw its first withdrawal: barley, wheat and grasses to replenish a gene bank damaged in the Syrian civil war. That was much earlier than expected: the vault is designed to last centuries, the permafrost protecting its cargo even if the power goes out, the climate heats up and the vault stops breathing.

Perhaps it鈥檚 not surprising that it was an artificial disaster, not a natural calamity, that prompted the move. With climate change continuing to surprise, in mostly unpleasant ways, the permafrost鈥檚 guarantee no longer seems so rock solid. Perhaps one day there will be bodies buried in it, as a new Svalbard emerges from the ice.

In an age where old certainties are collapsing, we need to find values and aesthetics more fitting for the times 鈥� or to renew old ones. Perhaps it鈥檚 time the sublime made a comeback. But if it does, it will have to include not just the horrors and joys of nature 鈥� but of humanity too.

This article appeared in print under the headline 鈥淭he terrifying faceof a new sublime鈥�