In this radical essay, Examining the Murky Evolution of Digital Representation through Ed Atkins’ Video Works, Anastasia Chugunova (@Anastasiaa.chu) analyses how Ed Atkins’ phantasmagoric works, Ribbons and Safe Conduct, interrogate the tearing of digital avatars in expressing human vulnerability and mortality. Drawing on theoretical frameworks such as Julia Kristeva’s abjection and Freud’s uncanny, Chugunova unravels the intricate structures and multivalent interpretations within Atkins’ video works.
IN 1991, when the World Wide Web became publicly available, the Internet was seen as an incredible forum for exchange, free from the visible markers of identity and hierarchies. According to MIT professor Sherry Turkle, this new virtual world allowed people to act out different scenarios and explore new sides of their personalities, which they could then apply to 'real life' interactions. Additionally, it promised greater freedom through the constant construction and reconstruction of identity in a digital environment. [1] This new world offered a unique opportunity for anyone to communicate and build fairly intimate relationships with people from all over the globe, even those they might never meet in person. This raises the question: can our digital representation become a natural alternative to who we are in the physical world? The body of Ed Atkins’s work explores this question in particular.
Ed Atkins, Ribbons, 2014, three-channel HD video, color, sound, 13 minutes 18 seconds.
Ed Atkins, born in 1981 in Oxford, is a contemporary artist who works predominantly with high-definition computer-generated (CG) animations, elliptical writings, and syncopated sound montages. As part of his wider practice, he creates videos featuring digital avatars as the main protagonists. The artist utilises motion-capture technologies and incorporates his own voice to bring these avatars to life. This duality creates an uncanny quality in Atkins' avatars: on one hand, they appear as fully autonomous, computer-generated beings; on the other, they remain deeply tied to the artist’s physicality, conveyed through his somatic features and vocal tone.
I kind of have to believe that no matter the effort, technology fails to appear human. There’s an ineffable remainder that finally evades whatever attempts to capture it.
The notion of a cadaver, dead men, or surrogates plays a central role in Atkins' work, which he repeatedly problematises through references in the titles of his artworks (Us Dead Talk Love, 2012), interviews about his practice (Obrist, 2012; Guggenheim, 2012; Rafferty, 2017), and personal essays (Atkins, 2016). By doing so, he highlights the ontological impossibility of digital representation becoming an analogue to a living body made of flesh and blood, capable of aging and transformation. As he notes, 'I kind of have to believe that no matter the effort, technology fails to appear human. There’s an ineffable remainder that finally evades whatever attempts to capture it.'[2]
To emphasise the simulated, artificial nature of avatars, Atkins employs various visual tropes. These include depicting avatars as suffering, yearning, and crying beings, often covered with bruises, abrasions, and inscriptions of curses, with no apparent cause for these markings. The same approach is evident in the avatars featured in Ribbons and Safe Conduct.
Ed Atkins, Ribbons, 2014, three-channel HD video, color, sound, 13 minutes 18 seconds. Courtesy Galerie Isabella Bortolozzi, Berlin
Ribbons (2014)
One of the most famous works by Ed Atkins is the 2014 three-channel video installation Ribbons, first presented at Kunsthalle Zürich in Switzerland.[3] Across the three screens, the same 'plot' unfolds with minimal changes: a white male avatar named Dave, whose name was assigned by the Internet bank of avatars from which Atkins acquired him. Dave, with a body scrawled with obscenities, spends his time in a conventional bar setting. As the video progresses, Dave pours himself what appears to be whiskey or another type of alcohol, drinking more frequently while singing along to various well-known melodies, ranging from Bach's Erbarme Dich to Randy Newman's melancholic I Think It's Going to Rain Today.
As the sequence of vignettes unfolds—where Dave talks to us, urinates, peeks through a glory hole, or pushes parts of his body through it—he appears increasingly vulnerable and defenceless, as though demanding our empathy. However, while we may initially identify with the protagonist by recognising his human qualities, this identification becomes impossible by the video’s end. Several moments highlight the simulated nature of everything on screen.
Ed Atkins, Ribbons, 2014, three-channel HD video, color, sound, 13 minutes 18 seconds. Courtesy Galerie Isabella Bortolozzi, Berlin
The final scene confirms this: the protagonist, visibly drunk, lays his head on the bar table to rest while holding a cigarette between his fingers. The cigarette continues to burn down almost to the filter without the ash falling, defying the laws of physics. In the end, Dave goes silent, l ooking intently into the camera, his head suddenly deflates like a balloon, while his body remains intact.
The artist places particular emphasis on rendering three objects that are notoriously difficult to depict with accuracy and are often explored by photorealist artists: skin, liquid, and glass. However, in this context, their hyper-materiality serves a dual purpose. While showcasing technical mastery, it also casts doubt on their naturalness, creating a sense of artificiality. This effect is further heightened by the inclusion of fleeting 1-2 second text inserts, such as ‘A demand for love,’ ‘Empathy,’ and ‘Despair not, darling.’ These phrases ostensibly reflect the protagonist’s mood and inner state, serving as a tool for communication with the audience and conveying his anguish. Yet, the rapid appearance and disappearance of these inserts introduce a layer of disorientation and anxiety, amplifying the unsettling atmosphere of the work.
Abjection is above all ambiguity ... it does not radically cut off the subject from what threatens it—on the contrary, abjection recognises it to be in perpetual danger.
The concept of abjection, as formulated by philosopher, literary critic, and semiotician Julia Kristeva in her book Powers of Horror (1980), plays a unique role here. According to Kristeva, abjection manifests as a feeling of repulsion triggered by the collapse of boundaries between subject and object or between self and other. A primary example of such a reaction is the corpse, but other elements can elicit similar responses: an open wound, excrement, sewage—those visceral reminders of our materiality.[4]
The notion of abjection was pivotal in feminist art of the 1980s and 1990s. From the perspective of gender theory, it highlighted how female bodily functions were ‘rejected’ by a patriarchal social order. Artists such as Louise Bourgeois, Carolee Schneemann, Cindy Sherman, and others explored and reflected on this concept in their work,[5] making it central to their critiques of societal norms.
Ed Atkins, Ribbons, 2014, three-channel HD video, color, sound, 13 minutes 18 seconds. Courtesy Galerie Isabella Bortolozzi, Berlin
Kristeva's formulation of the abject draws heavily from Freud's concept of the uncanny, as described in his 1919 essay of the same title. [6] According to Freud, the uncanny carries a duality and ambivalence: it refers to something painfully familiar yet simultaneously strange and unsettling. The term Unheimlich in German, which translates to 'uncanny,' is the negation of Heimlich, meaning 'homely' or 'familiar,' and thus implies something both comforting and frightening.
While Kristeva distinguishes between the uncanny and the abject, she highlights their shared ambiguity. She writes, 'Abjection is above all ambiguity ... Because, while releasing a hold, it does not radically cut off the subject from what threatens it—on the contrary, abjection recognizes it to be in perpetual danger.'[7] Although Atkins' works can be interpreted through the lens of the uncanny, the concept of abjection offers a more suitable framework for analysis. Many of the visual tropes employed in his videos resonate deeply with the themes of abjection, providing a richer perspective for examining his work.
The avatar's body functions in a similar way, presenting itself as a two-dimensional interface with the possibility of infinite replacement of its modules rather than a natural human body.
In this work, Atkins articulates the concept of the abject less explicitly than in Safe Conduct. However, he deliberately alludes to it in moments where the character pours a urine-like liquid into a glass and drinks from it or carefully spills a substance on the table that unmistakably resembles bodily discharges. Additionally, throughout the video, vignettes are interrupted by sudden inserts of footage showing glory holes, through which inquisitive body parts are pushed and then withdrawn. At times, the awkwardness is heightened by the avatar's farting sounds, which unexpectedly occur during scene transitions.
This approach allows Atkins to dismantle the illusion of digital avatars as flawlessly existing entities, upheld by the inviolability of the digital code that defines them. Media theorist Friedrich Kittler highlights the duality of the digital image: it is composed of a sensually perceptible surface and an underlying code that can be read and processed by machines. [8] Through this lens, Atkins underscores the limitations of digital representation. Simultaneously, Kristeva's theory of abjection reminds us of our own corporeal reality—unlike digital avatars, we possess mortal, material bodies, susceptible to ageing, decay, and disease.
Ed Atkins, Ribbons, 2014, three-channel HD video, color, sound, 13 minutes 18 seconds. Courtesy Galerie Isabella Bortolozzi, Berlin
Safe Conduct (2016)
Another work that fits seamlessly into this context is the three-channel video Safe Conduct. Here, the viewer is placed in a space with more tangible physical boundaries than in Atkins’ previous work—the airport security checkpoint. The protagonist is a middle-aged, dark-haired white man whose bruised and dirt-covered body immediately raises questions about his state. His glassy, sunken eyes and bluish, chapped lips leave us uncertain: is he a mutilated living being or a corpse animated for this eerie inspection process?
The video revolves around the protagonist’s exaggerated passage through airport security, which veers into overt slapstick. Initially, he places mundane items like weapons and laptops on the luggage screening belt. However, the absurdity escalates as he begins laying out parts of his own body, including internal organs. Softly and serenely singing Maurice Ravel's Bolero (1928), the avatar performs this grotesque ritual repeatedly—removing the skin from his face or separating the phalanges of his fingers. These gestures underscore the artificiality of what is unfolding.
Ed Atkins, Safe Conduct, 2016, three-channel HD video, color, sound, 9 minutes 4 seconds. Courtesy Galerie Isabella Bortolozzi, Berlin
The hyperrealistic rendering of all objects placed on the tray—whether computers, pineapples, intestines, teeth, or blood—makes them eerily indistinguishable. Despite their vastly different origins, these items share a fundamental reliance on the same digital code. The artist’s ability to masterfully render such diverse textures, paired with the palpable sounds of objects dropping or fluids spilling, evokes associations with contemporary ASMR videos. This duality heightens the viewer’s unease, amplifying the tension between hyperreality and artificiality.
Ed Atkins, Safe Conduct, 2016, three-channel HD video, color, sound, 9 minutes 4 seconds. Courtesy Galerie Isabella Bortolozzi, Berlin
It should be noted that the rendering of the avatar could also be interpreted as a literal reference to the concept of a 'body without organs,' as discussed extensively by Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari. [9] According to their theory, the functionality of such a body operates entirely independently of physical integrity. [10] The avatar’s body functions similarly, presenting itself as a two-dimensional interface with infinitely replaceable modules, rather than as a natural human body.
Many of Atkins' works are imbued with a pervasive sense of anxiety. In this instance, the anxiety stems primarily from the technologies of surveillance and total transparency, which compel the avatar to disassemble himself piece by piece during the screening process to gain access. This imagery becomes a material embodiment of control and surveillance, experienced as bodily atmospheres.[11] Notably, the video is exhibited on screens suspended near the ceiling of the gallery space, evoking the design of airport video walls displaying arrivals, departures, and instructional content on rules of conduct.[12]
Softly and serenely singing along to Ravel's Bolero, the avatar begins to lay out parts of his own body—up to internal organs—on the airport conveyor belt, a gesture that explicitly underlines the artificiality of everything that is happening.
The repetitive loop of the avatar’s actions, paired with an increasing frequency of sound, intensifies the atmosphere, creating a sense of impending climax. This tension culminates when the avatar appears on a plane, following safety instructions for passengers. At one point, the frame shifts to an external view of the plane, and through a window, we see the avatar’s face frozen in horror before the screen abruptly turns white. The artist deliberately denies us the spectacle of the catastrophe the character has been rehearsing throughout the video.
As in his earlier works, Atkins incorporates in Safe Conduct numerous visual tropes that generate informational and visual noise. These include gif-like words, empty loading bars, news tickers, and other pop-up elements, alluding to the digital media where they are commonly found. However, these elements lack narrative significance and instead act as ‘reality-effects,’ as described by Roland Barthes. [13] Here, they serve to illustrate the overabundance of informational noise—a defining characteristic of our contemporary digital age.
Ed Atkins, Safe Conduct, 2016, three-channel HD video, color, sound, 9 minutes 4 seconds. Courtesy Galerie Isabella Bortolozzi, Berlin
In discussing the concept of the abject in this video, it is crucial to note that while Atkins includes bodily fluids and secretions—such as blood, excrement, and internal organs—he predominantly references the idea of death. The avatar's cadaverous appearance becomes the focal point of this theme. Although the alleged death scene is not shown, its occurrence is unmistakable. As Kristeva emphasizes in Powers of Horror: 'No, as in true theatre, without makeup or masks, refuse, and corpses show me what I permanently thrust aside in order to live.' [14]
Here, the image of the corpse, both in this work and throughout Atkins' oeuvre, functions as a stark reminder of our own corporeality. By confronting us with the abject—what we instinctively reject to preserve our sense of self—Atkins draws attention to the fragility and mortality of the human body.
Ed Atkins, Safe Conduct, 2016, three-channel HD video, color, sound, 9 minutes 4 seconds. Courtesy Galerie Isabella Bortolozzi, Berlin
Through the examples of Ribbons and Safe Conduct, Ed Atkins brings Kristeva's theory into a contemporary digital context. The ‘abject flesh’ of digital avatars becomes a stark mirror to our own material vulnerability, reminding us of the limitations and fragility of human corporeality. Simultaneously, visual tropes such as glitches and pop-up lines expose the inherent artificiality of digital representation, which ultimately fails to fully capture the essence of human experience. As digital technologies continue to shape the future, Atkins' work prompts us to consider whether they can ever serve as a primary medium for communication, truly replicating the physical world.
[1] Sherry Turkle, Life on the Screen: Identity in the Age of the Internet (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1995).
[2] Massimiliani Gioni, Ed Atkins, “Ed Atkins in Conversation with Massimiliano Gioni,” in Get Life/Love’s Work (New York: New Museum of Contemporary Art, 2021), 62.
[3] “Ed Atkins (15.02-11.05.2014)”, Kunsthalle Zürich, accessed August 24, 2022, https://www.kunsthallezurich.ch/en/ausstellungen/421-ed-atkins
[4] Kristeva, Julia, “Approaching Abjection,” in Powers of Horror: an Essay on Abjection. Trans. by Leon S. Roudiez (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982), 1-32.
[5] Abject Art. Tate Art Terms https://www.tate.org.uk/art/art-terms/a/abject-art
[6] Sigmund Freud, “The Uncanny,” in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Volume XVll: an Infantile Neurosis and Other Works, ed. by James Strachey, (London: The Hogarth Press and The Institute of Psychoanalysis, 1961), 219-253.
[7] Kristeva, “Approaching Abjection,” 9.
[8] Friedrich Kittler, Optical Media: Berlin Lectures 1999, trans. Anthony Enns. (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2010).
[9] Eva Ehninger, “Bodies on Cool Surfaces,” in Bruce Nauman: a Contemporary (Cologne: Walther & Franz König, 2018), 146-147.
[10] Gilles Deleuze, “Logic of Sense,” (London: Bloomsbury Academic, an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 2015).
[11] Karen Louise Grova Søilen, “Safe is a Wonderful Feeling: Atmospheres of Surveillance and Contemporary Art,” in Surveillance & Society 18, no. 2 (June 2020): 70-184, https://doi.org/10.24908/ss.v18i2.12756
[12] Safe Conduct: Ed Atkins in the x-room. By SMK – Statens Museum for Kunst. YouTube, July 11. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yY17qZLMUcg
[13] Bethan Rosalind Hughes, “Against Immateriality: 3D CGI and Contemporary Art” (PhD diss., The University of Leeds, 2020), 110. https://etheses.whiterose.ac.uk/27398/
[14] Kristeva, Approaching Abjection, 3.
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