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Our future in the Anthropocene biosphere

Abstract

The COVID-19 pandemic has exposed an interconnected and tightly coupled globalized world in rapid change. This article sets the scientific stage for understanding and responding to such change for global sustainability and resilient societies. We provide a systemic overview of the current situation where people and nature are dynamically intertwined and embedded in the biosphere, placing shocks and extreme events as part of this dynamic; humanity has become the major force in shaping the future of the Earth system as a whole; and the scale and pace of the human dimension have caused climate change, rapid loss of biodiversity, growing inequalities, and loss of resilience to deal with uncertainty and surprise. Taken together, human actions are challenging the biosphere foundation for a prosperous development of civilizations. The Anthropocene reality—of rising system-wide turbulence—calls for transformative change towards sustainable futures. Emerging technologies, social innovations, broader shifts in cultural repertoires, as well as a diverse portfolio of active stewardship of human actions in support of a resilient biosphere are highlighted as essential parts of such transformations.

Introduction

Humans are the dominant force of change on the planet, giving rise to a new epoch referred to as the Anthropocene. This new epoch has profound meaning for humanity and one that we are only beginning to fully comprehend. We now know that society needs to be viewed as part of the biosphere, not separate from it. Depending on the collective actions of humanity, future conditions could be either beneficial or hostile for human life and wellbeing in the Anthropocene biosphere. Whether humanity has the collective wisdom to navigate the Anthropocene to sustain a livable biosphere for people and civilizations, as well as for the rest of life with which we share the planet, is the most formidable challenge facing humanity.

This article provides a systemic overview of the Anthropocene biosphere, a biosphere shaped by human actions. It is structured around the core themes of the first Nobel Prize Summit—Our Planet, Our Future, namely climate change and biodiversity loss, inequality and global sustainability, and science, technology, and innovation to enable societal transformations while anticipating and reducing potential harms. These interconnected themes are framed in the context of the biosphere and the Earth system foundation for global sustainability, emphasizing that people and nature are deeply intertwined. Scientific evidence makes clear that both climate change and biodiversity loss are symptoms of the great acceleration of human actions into the Anthropocene, rather than independent phenomena, and that they interact, and interact with social, economic, and cultural development. It emphasizes that efficiency through simplification of our global production ecosystem challenges biosphere resilience in times when resilience is needed more than ever, as a critical asset of flexibility and insurance, for navigating rising turbulence, extreme events, and the profound uncertainty of the Anthropocene. This implies that not only will it be critical to curb human-induced climate change but also to enhance the regenerative capacity of the biosphere, and its diversity, to support and sustain societal development, to collaborate with the planet that is our home, and collaborate in a socially just and sustainable manner. This is the focus of the last part of this article on biosphere stewardship for prosperity. We stress that prosperity and wellbeing for present and future generations will require mobilization, innovation, and narratives of societal transformations that connect development to stewardship of human actions as part of our life-supporting biosphere.

The biosphere and the earth system foundation

Embedded in the biosphere

The Universe is immense, estimates suggest at least two trillion galaxies (Conselice et al. 2016). Our galaxy, the Milky Way, holds 100 to 400 billion stars. One of those stars, our sun, has eight planets orbiting it. One of those, planet Earth, has a biosphere, a complex web of life, at its surface. The thickness of this layer is about twenty kilometres (twelve miles). This layer, our biosphere, is the only place where we know life exists. We humans emerged and evolved within the biosphere. Our economies, societies, and cultures are part of it. It is our home.

Across the ocean and the continents, the biosphere integrates all living beings, their diversity, and their relationships. There is a dynamic connection between the living biosphere and the broader Earth system, with the atmosphere, the hydrosphere, the lithosphere, the cryosphere, and the climate system. Life in the biosphere is shaped by the global atmospheric circulation, jet streams, atmospheric rivers, water vapour and precipitation patterns, the spread of ice sheets and glaciers, soil formation, upwelling currents of coastlines, the ocean’s global conveyer belt, the distribution of the ozone layer, movements of the tectonic plates, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions. Water serves as the bloodstream of the biosphere, and the carbon, nitrogen, and other biogeochemical cycles are essential for all life on Earth (Falkenmark et al. 2019; Steffen et al. 2020). It is the complex adaptive interplay between living organisms, the climate, and broader Earth system processes that has evolved into a resilient biosphere.

The biosphere has existed for about 3.5 billion years. Modern humans (Homo sapiens) have effectively been around in the biosphere for some 250 000 years (Mounier and Lahr 2019). Powered by the sun, the biosphere and the Earth system coevolve with human actions as an integral part of this coevolution (Lenton 2016; Jörgensen et al. 2019). Social conditions, health, culture, democracy, power, justice, inequity, matters of security, and even survival are interwoven with the Earth system and its biosphere in a complex interplay of local, regional, and worldwide interactions and dependencies (Folke et al. 2016).

Belief systems that view humans and nature as separate entities have emerged with economic development, technological change, and cultural evolution. But the fact that humans are living within and dependent upon a resilient biosphere has and will not change. Existing as embedded within the biosphere means that the environment is not something outside the economy or society, or a driver to be accounted for when preferred, but rather the very foundation that civilizations exist within and rely upon (Fig. 1).

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Fig. 1

A dominant force on earth

The human population reached one billion around 1800. It doubled to two billion around 1930, and doubled again to four billion around 1974. The global population is now approaching 8 billion and is expected to stabilize around 9–11 billion towards the end of this century (UN 2019). During the past century, and especially since the 1950s, there has been an amazing acceleration and expansion of human activities into a converging globalized society, supported by the discovery and use of fossil energy and innovations in social organization, technology, and cultural evolution (Ellis 2015; van der Leeuw 2019). Globalization has helped focus attention on human rights, international relations, and agreements leading to collaboration (Keohane et al. 2009; Rogelj et al. 2016; Bain 2019) and, rather remarkably, it appears, at least so far, to have inhibited large-scale conflict between states that have plagued civilizations from time immemorial. Health and material standards of living for many have improved and more people live longer than at any time in history. Boundaries between developed and developing regions have become blurred, and global economic activity is increasingly dispersed across production networks that connect metropolitan areas around the world (Coe et al. 2004; Liu et al. 2015).

Now, there is ample evidence that the cumulative human culture has expanded to such an extent that it has become a significant global force affecting the operation of the Earth system and its biosphere at the planetary level (Steffen et al. 2018). As a reflection of this unprecedented expansion, a new geological epoch—the Anthropocene, the age of mankind—has been proposed in the Geological Time Scale (AWG 2019).

Work on anthropogenic biomes finds that more than 75% of Earth’s ice-free land is directly altered as a result of human activity, with nearly 90% of terrestrial net primary production and 80% of global tree cover under direct human influence (Ellis and Ramankutty 2008). Similarly, in the ocean, no area is unaffected by human influence and a large fraction (41%) is strongly affected by multiple human impacts (Halpern et al. 2008). For example, oxygen-minimum zones for life and oxygen concentrations in both the open ocean and coastal waters have been declining since at least the middle of the twentieth century, as a consequence of rising nutrient loads from human actions coupled with warmer temperatures (Limburg et al. 2020). Just as on land, there has been a blue acceleration in the ocean, with more than 50% of the vast ocean seabed claimed by nations (Jouffray et al. 2020).

The human dominance is further reflected in the weight of the current human population—10 times the weight of all wild mammals. If we add the weight of livestock for human use and consumption to the human weight, only 4% of the weight of mammals on Earth remain wild mammals. The weight of domesticated birds exceeds that of wild birds by about threefold (Bar-On et al. 2018). The human dimension has become a dominant force in shaping evolution of all species on Earth. Through artificial selection and controlled reproduction of crops, livestock, trees, and microorganisms, through varying levels of harvest pressure and selection, through chemicals and pollution altering life-histories of species, and by sculpting the new habitats that blanket the planet, humans, directly and indirectly, determine the constitution of species that succeed and fail (Jörgensen et al. 2019).

Humans are now primarily an urban species, with about 55% of the population living in urban areas. By mid-century, about 7 out of 10 people are expected to live in cities and towns (UN DESA 2018). In terms of urban land area, this is equivalent to building a city the size of New York City every 8 days (Huang et al. 2019). Urbanization leads to more consumption, and the power relations, inequalities, behaviours, and choices of urban dwellers shape landscapes and seascapes and their diversity around the world (Seto et al. 2012ab). There is growing evidence that urban areas accelerate evolutionary changes for species that play important functional roles in communities and ecosystems (Alberti et al. 2017).

In addition, essential features of the globalized world like physical infrastructure, technological artefacts, novel substances, and associated social and technological networks have been developing extraordinarily fast. The total weight of everything made by humans—from houses and bridges to computers and clothes—is about to exceed the mass of all living things on Earth (Elhacham et al. 2020). The extensive “technosphere” dimension underscores the novelty of the ongoing planetary changes, plays a significant role in shaping global biosphere dynamics, and has already left a deep imprint on the Earth system (Zalasiewicz et al. 2017).

The notion that humanity is external to the biosphere has allowed for models in which technological progress is expected to enable humanity to enjoy ever-growing GDP and thus consumption. This view was comparatively harmless, as long as the biosphere was sufficiently resilient to supply the demands humanity made of it. This is no longer the case, and it has far-reaching implications for contemporary models of economic possibilities that many still work with and draw policy conclusions from (Dasgupta and Ramanathan 2014; Dasgupta 2021).

The intertwined planet of people and nature

The Anthropocene is characterized by a tightly interconnected world operating at high speeds with hyper-efficiency in several dimensions. These dimensions include the globalized food production and distribution system, extensive trade and transport systems, strong connectivity of financial and capital markets, internationalized supply and value chains, widespread movements of people, social innovations, development and exchange of technology, and widespread communication capacities (Helbing 2013) (Fig. 2).

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Fig. 2

In the Anthropocene biosphere, systems of people and nature are not just linked but intertwined, and intertwined across temporal and spatial scales (Reyers et al. 2018). Local events can escalate into global challenges, and local places are shaped by global dynamics (Adger et al. 2009; Crona et al. 20152016; Liu et al. 2016; Kummu et al. 2020). The tightly coupled human interactions of globalization that allow for the continued flow of information, capital, goods, services, and people, also create global systemic risk (Centeno et al. 2015; Galaz et al. 2017). However, this interplay is not only global between people and societies but co-evolving also with biosphere dynamics shaping the preconditions for human wellbeing and civilizations (Jörgensen et al. 2018; Keys et al. 2019). For example, extreme-weather and geopolitical events, interacting with the dynamics of the food system (Cottrell et al. 2019), can spill over multiple sectors and create synchronous challenges among geographically disconnected areas and rapidly move across countries and regions (Rocha et al. 2018). The rise of antibiotic resistance, the rapid spread of the corona-pandemic, or altered moisture recycling across regions expose the intertwined world. Probabilities and consequences of the changes are not only scale dependent, but also changing over time as a result of human actions, where those actions can either exacerbate or mitigate the likelihood or consequences of a given event.

In the twenty-first century, people and planet are truly interwoven and coevolve, shaping the preconditions for civilizations. Our own future on Earth, as part of the biosphere, is at stake. This new reality has major implications for human wellbeing in the face of climate change, loss of biodiversity, and their interplay, as elaborated in the next section.

Climate change and loss of biodiversity

Contemporary climate change and biodiversity loss are not isolated phenomena but symptoms of the massive expansion of the human dimension into the Anthropocene. The climate system plays a central role for life on Earth. It sets the boundary for our living conditions. The climate system is integral to all other components of the Earth system, through heat exchange in the ocean, albedo dynamics of the ice sheets, carbon sinks in terrestrial ecosystems, cycles of nutrients and pollutants, and climate forcing through evapotranspiration flows in the hydrological cycle and greenhouse pollutants. Together these interactions in the Earth system interplay with the heat exchange from the sun and the return flow back to space, but also in significant ways with biosphere-climate feedbacks that either mitigate or amplify global warming. These global dynamics interact with regional environmental systems (like ENSO or the monsoon system) that have innate patterns of climate variability and also interact with one another via teleconnections (Steffen et al. 2020). The living organisms of the planet’s ecosystems play a significant role in these complex dynamics (Mace et al. 2014).

Now, human-induced global warming alters the capacity of the ocean, forests, and other ecosystems in sequestering about half of the CO2 emissions, as well as storing large amounts of greenhouse gases (GHG) in soils and peatlands (Steffen et al. 2018). Increased emissions of GHG by humans are creating severe climate shocks and extremes already at 1.2° warming compared to pre-industrial levels (WMO 2020). In addition, human homogenization and simplification of landscapes and seascapes cause loss of biosphere resilience, with subsequent erosion of the role of the fabric of nature in generating ecosystem services (Diaz et al. 2018) and serving as insurance to shocks and surprise and to tipping points and regime shifts (Nyström et al. 2019).

Climate change—stronger and faster than predicted

Earth has been oscillating between colder and warmer periods over a million years (the entire Pleistocene), but the average mean temperature has never exceeded 2 °C (interglacial) above or 6 °C below (deep ice age) the pre-industrial temperature on Earth (14 °C), reflecting the importance of feedbacks from the living biosphere as part of regulating the temperature dynamics of the Earth (Willeit et al. 2019) (Fig. 3b).

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Fig. 3

Human-induced global warming is unparalleled. For 98% of the planet’s surface, the warmest period of the past 2000 years occurred in the late twentieth century (Neukom et al. 2019) and has steadily increased into the twenty-first century with the average global temperature for 2015–2020 being the warmest of any equivalent period on record (WMO 2020). Already now at 1.2 °C warming compared to pre-industrial levels, we appear to be moving out of the accommodating Holocene environment that allowed agriculture and complex human societies to develop (Steffen et al. 2018) (Fig. 3a). Already within the coming 50 years, 1 to 3 billion people are projected to experience living conditions that are outside of the climate conditions that have served humanity well over the past 6000 years (Xu et al. 2020).

Currently, some 55% of global anthropogenic emissions causing global warming derive from the production of energy and its use in buildings and transport. The remaining 45% comes from human emissions that arise from the management of land and the production of buildings, vehicles, electronics, clothes, food, packaging, and other goods and materials (Ellen MacArthur Foundation 2019). The food system itself accounts for about 25% of the emissions (Mbow et al. 2019). Human-driven land-use change through agriculture, forestry, and other activities (Lambin and Meyfroidt 2011) causes about 14% of the emissions (Friedlingstein et al. 2020). Cities account for about 70% of CO2 emissions from final energy use and the highest emitting 100 urban areas for 18% of the global carbon footprint (Seto et al. 2014; Moran et al. 2018). About 70% of industrial greenhouse gas emissions are linked to 100 fossil-fuel producing companies (Griffin and Hede 2017). Collectively, the top 10 emitting countries account for three quarters of global GHG emissions, while the bottom 100 countries account for only 3.5% (WRI 2020). As a consequence of the pandemic, global fossil CO2 emission in 2020 decreased by about 7% compared to 2019 (Friedlingstein et al. 2020).

Climate change impacts are hitting people harder and sooner than envisioned a decade ago (Diffenbaugh 2020). This is especially true for extreme events, like heatwaves, droughts, wildfires, extreme precipitation, floods, storms, and variations in their frequency, magnitude, and duration. The distribution and impacts of extreme events are often region specific (Turco et al. 2018; Yin et al. 2018). For example, Europe has experienced several extreme heat waves since 2000 and the number of heat waves, heavy downpours, and major hurricanes, and the strength of these events, has increased in the United States. The risk for wildfires in Australia has increased by at least 30% since 1900 as a result of anthropogenic climate change (van Oldenborgh et al. 2020). The recent years of repeated wildfires in the western U.S. and Canada have had devastating effects (McWethy et al. 2019). Extreme events have the potential to widen existing inequalities within and between countries and regions (UNDP 2019). In particular, synchronous extremes are risky in a globally connected world and may cause disruptions in global food production (Cottrell et al. 2019; Gaupp et al. 2020). Pandemics, like the COVID-19 outbreak and associated health responses, intersect with climate hazards and are exacerbated by the economic crisis and long-standing socioeconomic and racial disparities, both within countries and across regions (Phillips et al. 2020).

Some of these changes will happen continuously and gradually over time, while others take the form of more sudden and surprising change (Cumming and Peterson 2017). In addition, some are to some extent predictable, others more uncertain and unexpected. An analysis of a large database of social-ecological regime shifts (large shifts in the structure and function of social-ecological systems, transitions that may have substantial impacts on human economies and societies), suggests that in the intertwined world one change may lead to another, or that events can co-occur because they simply share the same driver (Rocha et al. 2018). Large-scale transitions can unfold when a series of linked elements are all close to a tipping point, making it easier for one transition to set off the others like a chain reaction or domino effect (Scheffer et al. 2012; Lenton et al. 2019).

With increased warming, humanity risks departing the glacier-interglacial dynamics of the past 2.6 million years (Burke et al. 2018). If efforts to constrain emissions fail, the global average temperature by 2100 is expected to increase 3–5 °C (IPCC 2014) above pre-industrial levels. Although higher global temperatures have occurred in deep geological time, living in a biosphere with a mean annual global temperature exceeding 2 °C of the pre-industrial average (Fig. 3) is largely unknown terrain for humanity and certainly novel terrain for contemporary society.

The climate and the biosphere interplay

The relation between climate and the biosphere is being profoundly altered and reshaped by human action. The total amount of carbon stored in terrestrial ecosystems is huge, almost 60 times larger than the current annual emissions of global GHG (CO2 equivalents, 2017) by humans, and with the major part, about 70% (1500–2400 Gt C) found in soil (Ciais et al. 2013). The ocean holds a much larger carbon pool, at about 38 000 Gt of carbon (Houghton 2007). Thus far, terrestrial and marine ecosystems have served as important sinks for carbon dioxide and thereby contribute significantly to stabilizing the climate. At current global average temperature, the ocean absorbs about 25% of annual carbon emissions (Gruber et al. 2019) and absorbs over 90% of the additional heat generated from those emissions. Land-based ecosystems like forests, wetlands, and grasslands bind carbon dioxide through growth, and all in all sequester close to 30% of anthropogenic CO2 emissions (Global Carbon Project 2019).

The biosphere’s climate stabilization is a critical ecosystem service, or Earth system service, which cannot be taken for granted. Recent research has shown that not only human land-use change but also climate impacts, like extreme events and temperature change, increasingly threaten carbon sinks. For example, the vast fires in Borneo in 1997 released an equivalent of 13–40% of the mean annual global carbon emissions from fossil fuels at that time (Page et al. 2002; Folke et al. 2011). The devastating forest fires of 2019 in Australia, Indonesia, and the Amazon triggered emissions equivalent to almost 40% of the annual global carbon sink on land and in the ocean (www.globalfiredata.org).

The Earth system contains several biophysical sub-systems that can exist in multiple states and which contribute to the regulation of the state of the planet as a whole (Steffen et al. 2018). These so-called tipping elements, or sleeping giants (Fig. 4), have been identified as critical in maintaining the planet in favourable Holocene-like conditions. These are now challenged by global warming and human actions, threatening to trigger self-reinforcing feedbacks and cascading effects, which could push the Earth system towards a planetary threshold that, if crossed, could prevent stabilization of the climate at intermediate global warming and cause escalating climate change along a “Hothouse Earth” pathway even as human emissions are reduced (Steffen et al. 2018). Observations find that nine of these known sleeping giants, thought to be reasonably stable, are now undergoing large-scale changes already at current levels of warming, with possible domino effects to come (Lenton et al. 2019).

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Fig. 4

The significance of the challenge of holding global warming in line with the Paris climate target is obvious. As a matter of fact, the challenge is broader than climate alone. It is about navigating towards a safe-operating space that depends on maintaining a high level of Earth resilience. Incremental tweaking and marginal adjustments will not suffice. Major transformations towards just and sustainable futures are the bright way forward.

The living biosphere and Earth system dynamics

The interactions and diversity of organisms within and across the planet’s ecosystems play critical roles in the coevolution of the biosphere and the broader Earth system. For example, major biomes like tropical and temperate forests and their biological diversity transpire water vapour that connects distant regions through precipitation (Gleeson et al. 2020ab). Nearly a fifth of annual average precipitation falling on land is from vegetation-regulated moisture recycling, with several places receiving nearly half their precipitation through this ecosystem service. Such water connections are critical for semi-arid regions reliant on rain-fed agricultural production and for water supply to major cities like Sao Paulo or Rio de Janeiro (Keys et al. 2016). As many as 19 megacities depend for more than a third of their water supply on water vapour from land, a dependence especially relevant during dry years (Keys et al. 2018). In some of the world’s largest river basins, precipitation is influenced more strongly by land-use change taking place outside than inside the river basin (Wang-Erlandsson et al. 2018).

The biosphere contains life-supporting ecosystems supplying essential ecosystem services that underpin human wellbeing and socioeconomic development. For example, the biosphere strongly influences the chemical and physical compositions of the atmosphere, and biodiversity contributes through its influence in generating and maintaining soils, controlling pests, pollinating food crops, and participating in biogeochemical cycles (Daily 1997). The ocean’s food webs, continental shelves, and estuaries support the production of seafood, serve as a sink for greenhouse gases, maintain water quality, and hedge against unanticipated ecosystem changes from natural or anthropogenic causes (Worm et al. 2006). These services represent critical life-supporting functions for humanity (Odum 1989; Reyers and Selig 2020) and biological diversity plays fundamental roles in these nature’s contributions to people (Diaz et al. 2018).

Biodiversity performing vital roles in biosphere resilience

Organisms do not just exist and compete, they perform critical functions in ecosystem dynamics and in creating and providing social-ecological resilience (Folke et al. 2004; Hooper et al. 2005; Tilman et al. 2014) (Fig. 5). Resilience refers to the capacity of a system to persist with change, to continue to develop with ever changing environments (Reyers et al. 2018).

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Fig. 5

Biodiversity plays significant roles in buffering shocks and extreme events, and in regime shift dynamics (Folke et al. 2004). The diversity of functional groups and traits of species and populations are essential for ecosystem integrity and the generation of ecosystem services (Peterson et al. 1998; Hughes et al. 2007; Isbell et al. 2017). Variation in responses of species performing the same function is crucial in resilience to shocks or extreme events (Chapin et al. 1997). Such “response diversity”, serves as insurance for the capacity of ecosystems to regenerate, continue to develop after disturbance and support human wellbeing (Elmqvist et al. 2003).

The Amazon rainforest is a prime example. Conserving a diversity of plants species may enable the Amazon forests to adjust to new climate conditions and protect the critical carbon sink function (Sakschewski et al. 2016). Frequent extreme drought events have the potential to destabilize large parts of the Amazon forest especially when subsoil moisture is low (Singh et al. 2020), but the risk of self-amplified forest loss is reduced with increasing heterogeneity in the response of forest patches to reduced rainfall (Zemp et al. 2017). However, continuous deforestation and simultaneous warming are likely to push the forest towards tipping points with wide-ranging implications (Hirota et al. 2011; Staver et al. 2011; Lovejoy and Nobre 2018). Also, with greater climate variability, tree longevity is shortened, thus, influencing carbon accumulation and the role of the Amazon forest as a carbon sink (Brienen et al. 2015). A large-scale shift of the Amazon would cause major impacts on wellbeing far outside the Amazon basin through changes in precipitation and climate regulation, and by linking with other tipping elements in the Earth system (Fig. 4).

Hence, the resilience of multifunctional ecosystems across space and time, and in both aquatic and terrestrial environments, depends on the contributions of many species, and their distribution, redundancy, and richness at multitrophic levels performing critical functions in ecosystems and biosphere dynamics (Mori et al. 2013; Nash et al. 2016; Soliveres et al. 2016; Frei et al. 2020). Biodiversity and a resilient biosphere are a reflection of life continuously being confronted with uncertainty and the unknown. Diversity builds and sustains insurance and keeps systems resilient to changing circumstances (Hendershot et al. 2020).

Homogenization, hyper-connectivity, and critical transitions

Conversion and degradation of habitats have caused global biodiversity declines and defaunation (human-caused animal loss), with extensive cascading effects in marine, terrestrial, and freshwater ecosystems as a result, and altered ecosystem functions and services (Laliberte et al. 2010; Estes et al. 2011). Over the past 50 years of human acceleration, the capacity of nature to support quality of life has declined in 78% of the 18 categories of nature’s contributions to people considered by the Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services (Diaz et al. 2018).

Much of the Earth’s biosphere has been converted into production ecosystems, i.e. ecosystems simplified and homogenized for the production of one or a few harvestable species (Nyström et al. 2019). Urbanization is a force in homogenizing and altering biodiversity in landscapes and seascapes (Seto et al. 2012b), and over the past decade land-use change (Meyfroidt et al. 2018) accounted for nearly a quarter of all anthropogenic greenhouse gas emissions (Arneth et al. 2019).

The increase in homogeneity worldwide denotes the establishment of a global standard food supply, which is relatively species rich at the national level, but species poor globally (Khoury et al. 2014). Globally, local varieties and breeds of domesticated plants and animals are disappearing (Diaz et al. 2018). Land-use intensification homogenizes biodiversity in local assemblages of species worldwide (Newbold et al. 2018) and counteracts a positive association between species richness and dietary quality. It also affects ecosystem services and wellbeing in low- and middle-income countries (Lachat et al. 2018; Vang Rasmussen et al. 2018). In much of the world more than half, up to 90%, of locally adapted varieties of major crop species (e.g. wheat and rice) have been lost due to replacement by single high-yielding varieties (Heal et al. 2004).

The simplification and intensification of production ecosystems and their tight connectivity with international markets have yielded a global production ecosystem that is very efficient in delivering goods to markets, but globally homogeneous, highly interconnected, and characterized by weakened internal feedbacks that mask or dilute the signals of loss of ecosystem resilience to consumers (Nyström et al. 2019; Ortiz et al. 2021). In addition, the global food trade network has over the past 20 years become progressively delocalized as a result of globalization (that is, modularity has been reduced) and as connectivity and homogeneity increase, shocks that were previously contained within a geographical area or a sector are becoming globally contagious and more prevalent (Tamea et al. 2016; Tu et al. 2019; Kummu et al. 2020).

Homogenization reduces resilience, the capacity to live and develop with change and uncertainty, and therby the diversity of ways in which species, people, sectors, and institutions can respond to change as well as their potential to functionally complement each other (Biggs et al. 2012; Grêt-Regamey et al. 2019; Nyström et al. 2019). In addition, homogeneous landscapes lack the diversity of ecosystem types for resilient responses when a single homogeneous landscape patch, such as a production forest or crop, is devastated by pathogens or declines in economic value. In addition, such ecosystem simplification and degradation increase the likelihood of disease emergence, including novel viruses (Myers and Patz 2009). In parallel, people, places, cultures, and economies are increasingly linked across geographical locations and socioeconomic contexts, making people and planet intertwined at all scales.

Evidence suggests that homogenization, simplification, intensification, strong connections, as well as suppression of variance, increase the likelihood of regime shifts, or critical transitions with thresholds and tipping points (Scheffer et al. 2012; Carpenter et al. 2015). These shifts may interact and cascade, thereby causing change at very large scales with severe implications for the wellbeing of human societies (Hughes et al. 2013; Rocha et al. 2018). Comparison of the present extent of biosphere conversion with past global-scale regime shifts suggests that global-scale biosphere regime shift is more than plausible (Barnosky et al. 2012). The biotic hallmark for each earlier biosphere regime shifts was pronounced change in global, regional, and local assemblages of species (Barnosky et al. 2012).

Planetary boundaries and a safe-operating space for humanity

It is in the self-interest of humanity to avoid pushing ecosystems or the entire Earth system across tipping points. Therefore, a major challenge is to enhance biosphere resilience and work towards stabilizing the Earth system and its biosphere in a state that, hopefully, is safe for humanity to operate within, albeit a warmer state than the Holocene and one with a human-dominated biosphere. Clearly, the climatic system and the biological diversity and functional integrity of the biosphere, as well as their interplay, are foundational for cultivating a resilient Earth system.

Climate and biosphere integrity constitute the two fundamental dimensions of the Planetary Boundaries framework, which delineates a Holocene-like state of the Earth system, the state that has enabled civilizations to emerge and flourish (Fig. 6). Four of the nine boundaries, including climate and biodiversity, are estimated to already have been transgressed. The framework provides a natural-science-based observation that human forcing has already, at the planetary scale, rapidly pushed the Earth system away from the Holocene-like conditions and onto an accelerating Anthropocene trajectory (Steffen et al. 2018).

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Fig. 6

In recent years, there have been several efforts to further investigate and deepen the understanding of planetary boundaries and the safe-operating space for humanity. These include updates on the biodiversity boundary, the freshwater boundary, the biogeochemical flows (Carpenter and Bennett 2011; de Vries et al. 2013; Mace et al. 2014; Newbold et al. 2016; Gleeson et al. 2020b), multiple regime shifts and possible links between regional and planetary tipping points (Anderies et al. 2013; Hughes et al. 2013), regional perspectives on the framework (Häyhä et al. 2016; O’Neill et al. 2018), and creating safe-operating spaces (Scheffer et al. 2015). Attempts to quantify interactions between planetary boundaries suggest that cascades and feedbacks predominantly amplify human impacts on the Earth system and thereby shrink the safe-operating space for human actions in the Anthropocene (Lade et al. 2020).

There are also propositions for integrating the planetary boundaries framework with economic, social, and human dimensions (Raworth 2012; Dearing et al. 2014; Downing et al. 2019) as well as tackling the policy and governance challenges associated with the approach (Biermann et al. 2012; Galaz et al. 2012; Sterner et al. 2019; Pickering and Persson 2020; Engström et al. 2020). The global food system is also placed within the framework of the planetary boundaries (Gordon et al. 2017), like in the EAT-Lancet Commission’s report on healthy diets from sustainable food systems for nearly 10 billion people by 2050 (Willett et al. 2019).

In light of the profound challenges of navigating the future of human societies towards a stabilized Earth state, it becomes clear that modest adjustments on current pathways of societal development are not very likely to guide humanity into sustainable futures (Kates et al. 2012). Stabilizing the Earth system in a safe-operating space will require transformative changes in many dimensions of human actions and relations (Westley et al. 2011; Sachs et al. 2019).

Inequality and global sustainability

Inequality describes an unequal distribution of a scarce resource, benefit, or cost and does not necessarily represent a normative statement. Inequity is a more normative term that evokes an unfair or unjust distribution of privileges across society. There are complex interconnections between inequality, the biosphere, and global sustainability (Hamann et al. 2018) (Fig. 7) that go beyond unequal distribution of income or wealth, like distributional, recognitional, and procedural inequities (Leach et al. 2018). Distributional equity refers to how different groups may have access to resources, and how costs, harms, and benefits are shared. Recognitional equity highlights the ongoing struggle for recognition of a diversity of perspectives and groups, e.g. referring to nationality, ethnicity, or gender, whereas procedural equity focuses on how different groups and perspectives are able to engage in and influence decision-making processes and outcomes (Leach et al. 2018). Approaches to sustainability generally include some form of equality, universal prosperity, and poverty alleviation. Global environmental change and unsustainable practices may exacerbate inequalities (Hamann et al. 2018). Greater inequality may lead to weaker economic performance and cause economic instability (Stiglitz 2012). Increasing income inequality may also lead to more societal tension and increase the odds of conflict (Durante et al. 2017).

figure 7
Fig. 7

Rising inequality

The majority of countries for which adequate data exist have seen rising inequality in income and wealth over the past several decades (Piketty 2014). In the U.S., Europe, and China, the top 10% of the population own 70% of the wealth, while the bottom 50% own only 2%. In the U.S., the share of income going to the top 1% rose from around 11% in 1980 to above 20% in 2016 (World Inequality Report 2018), and the share of wealth of the top 0.1% more than tripled between 1978 and 2012, and is roughly equal to the share of wealth of the bottom 90% (Saez and Zucman 2016). Also, the wealthiest 1% of the world’s population have been responsible for more than twice as much carbon pollution as the poorest half of humanity (Kartha et al. 2020). Seventy-five per cent of the world’s cities have higher levels of income inequalities than two decades ago, and the spatial concentration of low-income unskilled workers in segregated residential areas acts as a poverty trap (UN-Habitat 2016). About 10% of the world population in 2015, or some 740 million people, were living in extreme poverty (World Bank 2019).

Inequality can impact the sense of community, common purpose, and trust (Jachimowicz et al. 2017) and influences successful management of common pool resources in different ways (Baland et al. 2007). Inequality may give rise to perceptions, behaviour, and social norms about status and wealth, and disparities in worth and cultural membership between groups in a society—so-called “recognition gaps” (Lamont 2018).

Inequalities and the environment

Greater inequality can lead to more rapid environmental degradation, because low incomes lead to low investment in physical capital and education. Such situations often cause excessive pressure and degradation of natural capital leading to declining incomes and further degradation in a downward spiral, a poverty trap (Bowles et al. 2006). Furthermore, interventions that ignore nature and culture can reinforce poverty traps (Lade et al. 2017), and economic and environmental shocks, food insecurity, and climate change may force people back into poverty (lack of resources and capacities to fulfil basic needs) (Kates and Dasgupta 2007; Wood et al. 2018).

Gender, class, caste, and ethnic identities and relationships, and the specific social, economic and political power, roles and responsibilities they entail, shape the choices and decisions open to individuals and households in dealing with the climate and environmental risks they face (Rao et al. 2020). Gender inequality has important reinforcing feedbacks with environmental change (Fortnam et al. 2019) and has, for example, been shown to change with shifts in tropical land use in Indonesia (Maharani et al. 2019) or with changes in levels of direct use of local ecosystem services by households in South Africa (Hamann et al. 2015). Climate change is projected to disproportionally influence disadvantaged groups, especially women, girls, and indigenous communities (Islam and Winkel 2017).

People with less agency and fewer resources at their disposal are more vulnerable to climate change (Althor et al. 2016; Morton 2007) and to environmental shocks and extreme events such as floods and droughts (Hallegatte et al. 2016; Jachimowicz et al. 2017). The COVID-19 pandemic has further exposed the inequality in vulnerability to shocks among communities that lack the financial resources and essentials for a minimum standard of living, feeding off existing inequalities and making them worse (Drefahl et al. 2020; Stiglitz 2020). There is significant concern that climate-driven events exacerbate conflict because they affect economic insecurity which, in itself, has been shown to be a major cause of violent conflict and unrest (Mach et al. 2019; Ide et al. 2020).

Vulnerability to climate change is also due to many low-income countries’ location in low latitudes where further warming pushes these countries ever further away from optimal temperatures for climate-sensitive economic sectors (King and Harrington 2018). Examples include countries with high numbers of vulnerable, poor or marginalized people in climate-sensitive systems like deltas, semi-arid lands, and river basins dependent on glaciers and snowmelt (Conway et al. 2019). Changes to glaciers, snow and ice in mountains will likely influence water availability for over a billion people downstream by mid-century (Pihl et al. 2019). Under future scenarios of land-use and climate change, up to 5 billion people face higher water pollution and insufficient pollination for nutrition, particularly in Africa and South Asia. Hundreds of millions of people face heightened coastal risk across Africa, Eurasia, and the Americas (Chaplin-Kramer et al. 2019).

Ocean inequity

In the ocean, inequity manifests, for example, in skewed distribution of commercial fish catches, limited political power of small-scale fishers, particularly women and other minority groups, limited engagement of developing nations in high-seas activities and associated decision making, and consolidated interests of global supply chains in a few transnational corporations, with evidence of poor transparency and human rights abuses (Österblom et al. 2019). The results of inequity include a loss of livelihoods and limited financial opportunities, increased vulnerabilities of already marginalized groups, who are facing nutritional and food security challenges, and negative impacts on marine ecosystems (Harper et al. 2013; Hicks et al. 2019).

Coastal communities are sensitive to climate-induced shifts in the distribution and abundance of fish stocks crucial to their livelihoods and nutrition (Blasiak et al. 2017). This accentuated sensitivity is coupled with comparatively low levels of adaptive capacity, as remote coastal communities often have limited access to education, health services and alternative livelihoods, all of which could buffer the projected negative impacts from climate change (Cinner et al. 2018).

As a means to improve fish abundance for coastal communities of low-income nations, there have been suggestions of closing the high seas to fishing through groups of states that commit to a set of international rules. This would not only slow the pace of overfishing, but would also rebuild stocks that migrate into countries’ Exclusive Economic Zones (EEZs), which could reduce inequality by 50% in the distribution of fisheries benefits among the world’s maritime countries (Sumaila et al. 2015; Green and Rudyk 2020).

Inequities and sustainability

Alleviating inequality and poverty is a central objective of the U.N. Sustainable Development Goals agreed to by national governments. Achieving global sustainability is another important set of objectives in the Sustainable Development Goals. The relation between inequality and sustainability is the outcome of this dynamics and not simply of cause and effect, but rather unfolding in different places, as experienced and understood by the people living there. Supporting and enhancing the emergence of capacities for dealing with shocks and surprises as part of strategies for learning and developing with change in the turbulent times of the Anthropocene will be central to confront inequality and advance wellbeing (Biggs et al. 2012; Clark and Harley 2020). Multiple inequities and sustainabilities will require diverse forms of responses, attuned to diverse contexts (Leach et al 2018; Clark and Harley 2020) (Fig. 8) and framed by transformations towards global sustainability as embedded in the biosphere (Westley et al. 2011).

figure 8
Fig. 8

Societal transformation and technological change

By transformation, we refer to the capacity to create fundamentally new systems of human–environmental interactions and feedbacks when ecological, economic, or social structures make the continuation of the existing system untenable (Folke et al. 2010). It involves multiple elements, including agency, practices, behaviours, incentives, institutions, beliefs, values, and world views and their leverage points at multiple levels (Abson et al. 2017; Moore and Milkoreit 2020). Understanding transformation goes beyond a focus on the triggers, to unravelling the capacities for reducing resilience of an undesired, status quo, system, and nurturing and navigating the emergence of new, desired systems (Elmqvist et al. 2019); to confront path-dependencies, build capacities for new shocks and risks, and shift towards sustainable pathways (Olsson et al. 2017).

Here, we stress that technological change and social innovation in relation to sustainability will need a deeper focus on intertwined social-ecological interactions and feedbacks of the Anthropocene, since that will be necessary to understand and achieve large-scale changes towards global sustainability. We start this section with the role of emerging technologies and social media in this context, followed by findings from social innovation and transformation research and with an emphasis on the significance of narratives of hope for shifting towards sustainable futures.

Emerging technologies and sustainability

Most likely, technological change such as information technology, artificial intelligence, and synthetic biology will drastically change economies, human relations, social organization, culture and civilization, creating new unknown futures. However, technological change alone will not lead to transformations towards sustainability. It could lead humanity in diverse directions, pleasant and unpleasant ones, and with different social and environmental impacts. For example, rapid advances in sequencing technologies and bioinformatics have enabled exploration of the ocean genome, but the capacity to access and use sequence data is inequitably distributed among countries and companies (Blasiak et al. 20182020). The technological dimension of development has to be deliberately and strategically guided, to contribute to just and sustainable futures and guided how and by whom as a central challenge (Galaz 2014; van der Leeuw 2018).

On the other hand, it is most unlikely that transformations to sustainability will happen without the deployment of technologies that, e.g. help build resilience and development on the ground (Brown 2016), support transformations of current food production and innovation systems (Gordon et al. 2017; Costello et al. 2020), and contribute to a shift towards carbon neutral (or even negative) energy systems (Rockström et al. 2017).

The following categories of new technologies are already having bearing on global sustainability: the diversity of existing and emerging renewable energy technologies, like solar cells, hydrogen energy, wind generators, or geothermal heating; technologies that remove greenhouse gases from the atmosphere; the digital transformation, with Artificial Intelligence (AI), satellite remote sensing, quantum computing, and precision agriculture; synthetic biology, including biotechnology and genetic and molecular engineering, by redesigning and using organisms to solve problems in medicine, manufacturing and agriculture; mechanical engineering, like robotics and also nanotechnology. Their development, as embedded in the larger social-ecological systems, should be connected to and become part of ways forward when designing transformative pathways towards sustainability within planetary boundaries.

As human pressures on the biosphere increase, so does the hope that rapid advances in AI (including automated decision making, data mining, and predictive analytics) in combination with rapid progresses in sensor technology and robotics, will be able to increase society’s capacities to detect, adapt, and respond to climate and environmental change without creating new vulnerabilities (Joppa 2017). Such technologies are applied in a number of research fields related to the environment and climate change, including environmental monitoring, conservation, and “green” urban planning (Hino et al. 2018; Ilieva and McPhearson 2018; Wearn et al. 2019; Reichstein et al. 2019). While nascent in terms of both scale and impact, such technological “niche-innovations” have the potential to rapidly upscale and shape ecosystems and institutions in multiple geographies (Geels et al. 2017). Such innovations have been claimed to be central for a “digital revolution for sustainable development” (Sachs et al. 2019).

Applications of these technologies have effects that span beyond climate and environmental research and monitoring, and more efficient natural resource use. AI-supported recommender systems as an example, influence consumer choices already today (André et al. 2018). Targeted attacks in social media by social bots, applications of computer algorithms that automatically produce content and interact with humans on social media, “trying to emulate and possibly alter their behavior” (Ferrara et al. 2016; Grinberg et al. 2019), also influence conversations in social media about climate and environmental issues and affect institutions for deliberative democracy (Dryzek et al. 2019).

So far, the technological changes to our social systems have not come about with the purpose of promoting global sustainability (van der Leeuw 2019). This remains true of recent and emerging technologies, such as online social media and information technology, causing changes that are increasingly far-reaching, ambiguous, and largely unregulated (Del Vicario et al. 2016). For example, “online social networks are highly dynamic systems that change as a result of numerous feedbacks between people and machines”. Algorithms suggest connections, to which users respond, and the algorithms, trained to optimize user experience, adapt to the responses. “Together, these interactions and processes alter what information people see and how they view the world” (Bergstrom and Bak-Coleman 2019).

Hence, applications of novel technologies stemming from advancements in AI could at best be benevolent and lead to improved stewardship of landscapes, seascapes, water, or climate dynamics, through improved monitoring and interventions, as well as more effective resource use (Chaplin-Kramer et al. 2019). Negative impacts of novel technologies on vulnerable groups (Barocas et al. 2017) are also pertinent since they diffuse rapidly into society, or when used in sectors with clear impacts on the climate, or on land and ocean ecosystems. This issue needs to be taken seriously as technological changes influence decisions with very long-term climatic and biosphere consequences (Cave and Óhéigeartaigh 2019).

Social media and social change

The participatory nature of social media gives it a central role in shaping individual attitudes, feelings, and behaviours (Williams et al. 2015; Lazer et al. 2018), can underpin large social mobilization and protests (Steinert-Threlkeld et al. 2015), and influence social norms and policy making (Barbier et al. 2018; Stewart et al. 2019). It is well known that dire warnings can lead to disconnect of the audience if it is not accompanied by a feasible perspective for action (Weber 2015). Social media changes our perception of the world, by promoting a sense of crisis and unfairness. This happens as activist groups seek to muster support (Gerbaudo and Treré 2015) and lifestyle movements seek to inspire alternative choices (Haenfler et al. 2012). For instance, social media catalysed the Arab spring among other things by depicting atrocities of the regime (Breuer et al. 2015), and veganism is promoted by social media campaigns highlighting appalling animal welfare issues (Haenfler et al. 2012).

On the worrying side, isolationism stimulated by social-media-boosted discontent may hamper global cooperation needed to curb global warming, biodiversity loss, wealth concentration, and other trends. On the other hand, social media has powered movements such as school strikes, extinction rebellion, voluntary simplicity, bartering, flight shame, the eat-local movement and veganism to promote a steadily rising global awareness of pressing issues that may ultimately shift social norms (Nyborg et al. 2016), trigger reforms towards sustainability (Otto et al. 2020) and perhaps also towards wealth equalization at all institutional levels (Scheffer et al. 2017).

The combination of discontent and self-organization not only promotes rebellion against the old way of doing things, as in street protests, populist votes, radicalization, and terrorism, but also catalyses the search for alternative ways, as in bartering and sharing platforms, or voluntary simplicity and other lifestyle movements (Haenfler et al. 2012; Carpenter et al. 2019).

The rise of social media and technologies such as bots and profiling has been explosive, and the mere rate of change has made it difficult for society to keep pace (Haenfler et al. 2012). Crowd-sourced fact checking may be combined with computer-assisted analyses and judgements from professionals (Hassan et al. 2019), and labelling quality of media sources ranging from internet fora to newspapers and television stations may alert users to the risk of disinformation and heavy political bias (Pennycook and Rand 2019). With time, such approaches together with legislation, best-practice agreements, and individual skills of judging the quality of sources may catch up to control some of the negative side-effects (Walter et al. 2019).

The emerging picture is that social media have become a global catalyst for social change by facilitating shifts on scales ranging from individual attitudes to broad social norms and institutions. It remains unclear, however, whether this new “invisible hand” will move the world on more sustainable and just pathways. Can the global, fast moving capacity for information sharing and knowledge generation through social media help lead us towards a just world where future generations thrive within the limits of our planet’s capacity?

Social innovation and transformation

Transformations towards sustainability in the Anthropocene cannot be achieved by adaptation alone, and certainly not by incremental change only, but rather that more fundamental systemic transformations will be needed (Hackmann and St. Clair 2012; Kates et al. 2012; O’Brien 2012). Transformation implies fundamentally rewiring the system, its structure, functions, feedbacks, and properties (Reyers et al. 2018). But, despite such changes, there is hope for systemic transformations with dignity, respect and in democratic fashions (Olsson et al. 2017), in contrast to large-scale disruptive or revolutionary societal transformations like those of earlier civilizations (van der Leeuw 2019). It will require trust building, cooperation, collective action, and flexible institutions (Ostrom 2010; Westley et al. 2011).

A characteristic feature of transformations is that change across different system states (trajectories or pathways) is not predetermined but rather emerges through diverse interactions across scales and among diverse actors (Westley et al. 2011). Therefore, the literature on transformations towards sustainability emphasize framing and navigating transformations rather than controlling those. Work on socio-technical sustainability transitions, social-ecological transformations, and social innovation provide insights into these dynamics (Geels et al. 2017; Olsson et al. 2017; Westley et al. 2017).

These literatures have illustrated the importance of connectivity and cross-level interactions for understanding the role of technological and social innovation and transformative systemic change. The work emphasizes the importance of fostering diverse forms of novelty and innovations at the micro-level, supported by the creation of “transformative spaces”, shielded from the forces of dominant system structures. These allow for experimentation with new mental models, ideas, and practices that could help shift societies onto more desirable pathways (Loorbach et al. 2017; Pereira et al. 2018ab). The examples of the “Seeds of a Good Anthropocene” project reflect ongoing local experiments that, under the right conditions, could accelerate the adoption of pathways to transformative change (Bennett et al. 2016). As multiple demands and stressors degrade the ocean, transformative change in ocean governance seems required, shifting current economic and social systems towards ocean stewardship, e.g. through incorporation of niche innovations within and across economic sectors and stakeholder communities (Brodie Rudolph et al. 2020).

It has been shown that real-world transformations come about through the alignment of mutually reinforcing processes within and between multiple levels. For example, the alignment of “niche innovations” or “shadow networks’ (which differ radically from the dominant existing system but have been able to gain a foothold in particular market niches or geographical areas) with change at broader levels and scales can create rapid change. Both slow moving trends (e.g., demographics, ideologies, accumulation of GHG) and sudden shocks (e.g. elections, economic crises, pandemics, extreme events) can start to weaken or disturb the existing social-ecological system and create windows-of-opportunity for niche innovations—new practices, governance systems, value orientations—to become rapidly dominant (Olsson et al. 20042006; Chaffin and Gunderson 2016; Geels et al. 2017) (Fig. 9).

figure 9
Fig. 9

Hence, turbulent times may unlock gridlocks and traps and open up space for innovation and novelty (Gunderson and Holling 2002). Crises or anticipated risks can trigger people to experiment with new practices and alternative governance modes and key individuals, often referred to as policy, institutional or moral entrepreneurs, mobilize and combine social networks in new ways, preparing the system for change (Folke et al. 2005; Westley et al. 2013; O’Brien 2015). The preparation phase seems particularly important in building capacity to transform rather than simply returning to the status quo and reinforcing existing power structures following change. Bridging organizations tend to emerge, within or with new institutions, connecting governance levels and spatial and temporal scales (Cash et al. 2006; Hahn et al. 2006; Brondizio et al. 2009; Rathwell and Peterson 2012). In several cases, the broader social contexts provide an enabling environment for such emergence, for example, through various incentive structures or legal frameworks. When a window opens, there is skilful navigation of change past thresholds or tipping points and, thereafter, a focus on building resilience of the transformed system (Gelcich et al. 2010).

In general, the resulting transformation goes beyond the adoption of a new technology or a local social innovation alone. Instead it includes a portfolio of actions like investment in new infrastructures, establishment of new markets, changes in incentives, development of new social preferences, or adjustment of user practices. Furthermore, transformations gain momentum when multiple innovations are linked together, improving the functionality of each and acting in combination to reconfigure systems (Geels et al. 2017; Westley et al. 2017).

Successful social innovations are recognized by their capacity to radically shift broad social institutions (economies, political philosophies, laws, practices, and cultural beliefs) that provide structure to social life. In addition, social innovations seldom unfold in a deterministic manner, but with a kind of punctuated equilibrium, first languishing and then accelerating at times of opportunity or crisis. There is also the need for awareness of the shadow side of all innovation, the consequences of intervention in a complex system (Holling et al. 1998; Ostrom 2007). This is unavoidable but manageable if caught early, but needs attention, particularly in times of rapid change (Westley et al. 2017).

Social innovation is currently underway in many domains linked to climate change, like renewable energy (Geels et al. 2017) or agriculture (Pigford et al. 2018) and highlight the importance of innovations not only in science and technology, but also in institutions, politics, and social goals for sustainability. Substantial attention is also directed towards sustainability of the ocean, where policy makers, industries, and other stakeholders are increasingly engaged in collaboration (Österblom et al. 2017; Brodie Rudolf et al. 2020; UNGC 2020) and innovations (McCauley et al. 2016; Blasiak et al. 2018; Costello et al. 2020), aimed to create new incentives (Lubchenco et al. 2016; Jouffray et al. 2019; Sumaila et al. 2020) for action. However, for these to have transformative impact, shifts in cultural repertoires (schemas, frames, narratives, scripts, and boundaries that actors draw on in social situations) (Lamont et al. 2017) similar to those that accelerated the anti-smoking movement and the LGBTQ movement need to occur (Marshall et al. 2012; Moore et al. 2015; Nyborg et al. 2016).

There are suggestions for social tipping interventions to activate large-scale systemic shifts through, for example, rapidly spreading of technologies, shifts in social norms and behaviors, or structural reorganization of sectors, corporations, and societies (Folke et al. 2019; Otto et al. 2020). There are signs that such shifts are underway in western cultures, a desire for fundamental change towards a more sustainable way of life (Wibeck et al. 2019) aided by social movements such as the youth-led Extinction Rebellion, as well as a strong move to more healthy and sustainable diets (Willet et al. 2019). Again, all these changes unfold as part of cultural evolution, which needs attention as urgently as the decarbonization of our economy (Waring et al. 2015; Creanza et al. 2017; Jörgensen et al. 2019).

Narratives of action for the future

Social innovation and transformation require an individual and collective attention on the future. There are many documented obstacles to such future focus, from cognitive myopia to present-biased individual and institutional incentives and norms (Weber and Johnson 2016; Weber 20172020). Choice architecture provides tools that reduce status-quo bias and encourage more foresightful decisions in specific circumstances (Yoeli et al. 2017), but rapid and systemic change will require more fundamental shifts in narratives at a collective level (Lubchenco and Gaines 2019).

Narratives are ways of presenting or understanding a situation or series of events that reflects and promotes a particular point of view or set of values. Narratives can serve as meaning‐making devices, provide actors with confidence to act and coordinate action. They are of significance in shaping and anchoring worldviews, identities, and social interactions (van der Leeuw 2020).

Narratives of hope have proven essential for social resilience (Lamont 2019). Social resilience refers to the capacity of individuals, groups, communities, and nations “to secure favourable outcomes (material, symbolic, emotional) under new circumstances and when necessary by new means, even when this entails significant modifications to behaviour or to the social frameworks that structure and give meaning to behaviour” (Hall and Lamont 2012).

Transforming towards sustainable futures will require broadening cultural membership by promoting new narratives that resonate, inspire, and provide hope centred on a plurality of criteria of worth and social inclusion. Here, we are concerned with the challenge of motivating a collective recognition of our interdependence with the biosphere (Schill et al. 2019) and economic and political action based on that recognition.

Collective conceptions of the future have many aspects. They include (1) whether the future is conceived as near or far and is understood in terms of long, medium and short-term rewards; (2) what is likely and possible and how contingent these outcomes are; (3) whether the future will be good or bad; (4) how much agency individuals have on various aspects of their individual and collective future (concerning for instance, politics, societal orientation, personal and professional life; (5) who can influence the collective future (e.g., the role of the state policies and various societal forces in shaping them); (6) whether the future is conceived as a cyclical or as a linear progression; (7) how stable peoples’ conceptions of the future are and how they are influenced by events (terrorist attacks, recessions, pandemics); and (8) whether aspirations are concealed or made public.

Behind these various issues, one finds other basic conceptions about agency (to what extent are individuals master of their fate), the impact of networks (to what extent is fate influenced by peers, family, and others), the impact of social structure (what is the impact of class, race, gender, place of origin) on where we end up, and how much does our environment (segregation, resource availability, environmental conditions) influence our opportunities. Therefore, it is important to remember that, although individuals play essential roles in narratives of hope, such images of the future are seldom creations of individuals alone but shaped by many cultural intermediaries working in the media, in education, in politics, in social movements, and in other institutions.

Cultural scripts represent commonly held assumptions about social interaction, which serve as a kind of interpretive background against which individuals position their own acts and those of others (Lamont et al. 2017). Narratives of hope as cultural scripts are more likely to become widely shared if they offer possible course of action, something that reasonable people can aspire to. Such sharing bolsters people’s sense of agency, the perception that they can have an impact on the world and on their own lives that they can actually achieve what is offered to them (Lamont et al. 2017). In contrast to doomsday or climate-denying narratives, these scripts feed a sense of active agency. Such “fictional expectations”, anchored in narratives that are continually adapted, are at the core of market dynamics confronted with an uncertain future affecting money and credit, investment, innovation, and consumption (Beckert 2016).

Narratives of hope represent ideas about “imagined futures” or alternative ways of visualizing and conceptualizing what has yet to happen and motivate action towards new development pathways (Moore and Milkoreit 2020). As they circulate and become more widely shared, such imagined futures have the potential to foster predictable behaviours, and stimulate the emergence of institutions, investments, new laws, and regulations. Therefore, decisions under uncertainty are not only technical problems easily dealt with by rational calculation but are also a function of the creative elements of decision‐making (Beckert 2016).

There is a rich literature on scenarios for sustainable futures, narratives articulating multiple alternative futures in relation to critical uncertainties, increasingly emphasizing new forms of governance, technology as a bridge between people and the deep reconnection of humanity to the biosphere, and engaging diverse stakeholder in participatory processes as part of the scenario work (Carpenter et al. 2006; Bennett et al. 2016). The implication of inherent unpredictability is that transformations towards sustainable and just futures can realistically be pursued only through strategies that not only attend to the dynamics of the system, but also nurture our collective capacity to guide development pathways in a dynamic, adaptive, and reflexive manner (Clark and Harley 2020; Freeman et al. 2020). Rather than striving to attain some particular future it calls for a system of guided self-organization. It involves anticipating and imagining futures and behaving and acting on those in a manner that does not lead to loss of opportunities to live with changing circumstances, or even better enhances those opportunities, i.e. builds resilience for complexity and change (Berkes et al. 2003).

In order to better understand the complex dynamics of the Anthropocene and uncertain futures, work is now emerging on human behaviour as part of complex adaptive systems (Levin et al. 2013), like anticipatory behaviour (using the future in actual decision processes), or capturing behaviour as both “enculturated” and “enearthed“ and co-evolving with socio-cultural and biophysical contexts (Boyd et al. 2015; Waring et al. 2015; Poli 2017; Merçon et al. 2019; Schill et al. 2019; Schlüter et al. 2019; Haider et al. 2021), illustrating that cultural transmission and evolution can be both continuous and abrupt (Creanza et al. 2017).

Narratives of hope for transformations towards sustainable futures are in demand. Clearly, technological change plays a central role in any societal transformation. Technological change has been instrumental in globalization and will be instrumental for global sustainability. No doubt, the new era of technological breakthroughs will radically change the structure and operation of societies and cultures. But, as has been made clear here, the recipe for sustainable futures also concerns cultural transformations that guide technological change in support of a resilient biosphere; that reconnect development to the biosphere foundation.

Biosphere stewardship for prosperity

Transformation towards sustainability in the Anthropocene has at least three systemic dimensions. First, it involves a shift in human behaviour away from degrading the life-support foundation of societal development. Second, it requires management and governance of human actions as intertwined and embedded within the biosphere and the broader Earth system. Third, it involves enhancing the capacity to live and develop with change, in the face of complexity and true uncertainty, that is, resilience-building strategies to persist, adapt, or transform. For major pathways for such a transformation are presented below:

  1. 1.Recognize and act on the fact that societal development is embedded in and critically dependent on the biosphere and the broader Earth system for prosperity and wellbeing.
  2. 2.Create incentives and design policies that enable societies to collaborate towards just and sustainable futures within planetary boundaries.
  3. 3.Transform the current pathways of social, economic, cultural development into stewardship of human actions that enhance the resilience of the biosphere.
  4. 4.Make active use of emerging and converging technologies for enabling the societal stewardship transformation.

Biosphere stewardship incorporates economic, social, and cultural dimensions with the purpose of safeguarding the resilience of the biosphere for human wellbeing and fostering the sustainability of a rapidly changing planet. Stewardship is an active shaping of social-ecological change that integrates reducing vulnerability to expected changes, fostering resilience to sustain desirable conditions in the face of the unknown and unexpected, and transforming from undesirable pathways of development when opportunities emerge (Chapin et al. 2010). It involves caring for, looking after, and cultivating a sense of belonging in the biosphere, ranging from people and environments locally to the planet as a whole (Enqvist et al. 2018; Chapin 2020; Plummer et al. 2020).

Such stewardship is not a top-down approach forced on people, nor solely a bottom-up approach. It is a learning-based process with a clear direction, a clear vision, engaging people to collaborate and innovate across levels and scales as integral parts of the systems they govern (Tengö et al. 2014; Clark et al. 2016; Norström et al. 2020).

Here, we focus on biosphere stewardship in relation to climate change, biodiversity, and transformations for sustainable futures.Show more

From emission reductions alone to biosphere stewardship

Global sustainability involves shifting into a renewable energy-based economy of low waste and greater circularity within a broader value foundation. Market-driven progress combined with technological change certainly plays an important role in dematerialization (Schmidheiny 1992; McAfee 2019) but does not automatically redirect the economy towards sustainable futures. Public awareness, responsible governments, and international collaborations are needed for viable economic developments, acknowledging that people, nations, and the global economy are intertwined with the biosphere and a global force in shaping its dynamics.

Since climate change is not an isolated phenomenon but a consequence of the recent accelerating expansion of human activities on Earth, the needed changes concern social organization and dynamics influencing the emissions of greenhouse gases from burning fossil fuels, technologies, and policies for reducing such emissions, and various approaches for carbon capture and storage. However, to reduce the effects of climate change, it will not be sufficient to remove emissions only. The resilience of the biosphere and the Earth system needs to be regenerated and enhanced (Nyström et al. 2019). This includes governance of critical biosphere processes linked to climate change, such as in agriculture, forestry, and the ocean. In addition, guarding and enhancing biodiversity will help us live with climate change, mitigating climate change by storing and sequestering carbon in ecosystems, and building resilience and adaptive capacity to the inevitable effects of unavoidable climate change (Dasgupta 2021).

The global pandemic caused a sharp fall in CO2 emissions in 2020 (Le Quéré et al. 2020), while the cumulative emissions continue to rise (Friedlingstein et al. 2020). The fall was not caused by a long-term structural economic shift so it is unlikely to persist without strong government intervention. Political action is emerging from major nations and regions and on net-zero GHG emissions within decades. Shifts towards renewable energy are taking place in diverse sectors. Carbon pricing through taxes, tariffs, tradeable permits, as well as removal of fossil-fuel subsidies and incentives for renewable energy and carbon sequestration (e.g. CCS techniques) are on the table and increasingly implemented. There are substantial material and emission gains to be made from altered consumption patterns, infrastructure changes, and shifts towards a circular economy. Voluntary climate action among some large corporations is emerging (Vandenbergh and Gilligan 2017). There is general agreement that the pace of these promising changes must rapidly increase in order to meet the Paris climate target (Fig. 10).

figure 10
Fig. 10

In addition, active biosphere stewardship of critical tipping elements and carbon sinks, as in forests, agricultural land, savannas, wetlands, and marine ecosystems is crucial to avoid the risk of runaway climate change (Steffen et al. 2018). Such stewardship involves protecting, sustaining, restoring, and enhancing such sinks. The existence of connections between finance actors, capital markets, and the tipping elements of tropical and boreal forests has also gained attention and needs to be acted upon in policy and practice (Galaz et al. 2018).

Furthermore, ecosystem restoration has the potential to sequester large amounts of carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. The amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere derived from destroyed and degraded land is roughly equal to the carbon that remains in ecosystems on land (about 450 billion tonnes of carbon) (Erb et al. 2018). The amount of degraded lands in the world is vast, and restoring their productivity, biodiversity, and ecosystem services could help keep global temperature increases within acceptable levels (Lovejoy and Hannah 2018). It has been estimated that nature-based solutions on land (from agriculture to reforestation and afforestation) have the potential to provide over 30% of the emission reductions needed by 2050 to keep global temperature increases to not more than 2 °C (Griscom et al. 2017; Roe et al. 2019).

There is scope for new policies and practices for nature-based solutions (Kremen and Merenlender 2018; Diaz et al. 2018). These solutions will require shifts in governance towards active stewardship of water and ecosystem dynamics and processes across landscapes, precipitation sheds, and seascapes (Österblom et al. 2017; Plummer et al. 2020), reconfiguring nation state governance, empowering the commons through justice, equity and knowledge, and making ownership regenerative by integrating rights with responsibilities (Brodie Rudolph et al. 2020). Also, the so-called “social tipping interventions” towards biosphere stewardship have the potential to activate contagious processes of rapidly spreading technologies, behaviors, social norms, and structural reorganization, where current patterns can be disrupted and lead to fast reduction in anthropogenic greenhouse gas emissions (Otto et al. 2020). The window of opportunity for such shifts may emerge in times of turbulence and social discontent with the status quo (Carpenter et al. 2019). Creating conditions for processes of deliberate democracy may guide such transformative change (Dryzek et al. 2019).

Resilience and biosphere stewardship

Societal development needs to strengthen biosphere capacity for dealing with extreme events, both climate driven and as a consequence of a tightly coupled and complex globalized world in deep interplay with the rest of the biosphere (Helbing 2013; Reyers et al. 2018). For example, the challenge of policy and practice in satisfying demands for food, water and other critical ecosystem services will most likely be set by the potential consequences of the emergent risk panorama and its consequences, rather than hard upper limits to production per se (Cottrell et al. 2019; Nyström et al. 2019; Xu et al. 2020).

In this sense, a resilience approach to biosphere stewardship becomes significant. Such an approach is very different from those who understand resilience as return to the status quo, to recover to business-as-usual. Resilience in relation to stewardship of complex adaptive systems concerns capacities to live with changing circumstances, slow or abrupt, predictable or surprising. It becomes especially relevant for dealing with the uncertain and unknown and is in stark contrast to strategies that support efficiency and effectiveness for short term gain at the expense of redundancy and diversity. Such strategies may work under relatively stable and predictable conditions but, as stressed here, will create vulnerability in periods of rapid change, during turbulent times, and are ill-suited to confront the unknown (Carpenter et al. 2009; Walker et al. 2009). Financial crises and pandemics serve as real-world examples of such vulnerabilities and make explicit the tension between connectivity and modularity in complex adaptive systems (Levin 1999).

In contrast, intertwined systems of people and nature characterized by resilience will have the capacity, whether through strategies like portfolio management, polycentric institutions, or building trust and nurturing diversity (Costanza et al. 2000; Ostrom 2010; Biggs et al. 2012; Carpenter et al. 2012), to confront turbulent times and the unknown. Policy decisions will no longer be the result of optimization algorithms that presuppose quantifiable uncertainty, but employ decision-making procedures that iteratively identify policy options most robust to present and future shocks under conditions of deep uncertainty (Polasky et al. 2011). Resilience provides capacities for novelty and innovation in times of change, to turn crises into opportunities for not only adapting, but also transforming into sustainable futures (Folke et al. 2016).

The immediate future will require capacities to confront challenges that we know we know little about (Kates and Clark 1996). Given the global connectivity of environmental, social, and economic systems, there is no scale at which resource pooling or trade can be used to hedge against all fluctuations at smaller scales. This begs the question of what types of investments may lead to a generalized capacity to develop with a wide range of potential and unknown events (Polasky et al. 2011). One strategy is to invest in global public goods common to all systems, e.g., education, capacity to learn and collaborate across sectors, multi-scale governance structures that enable systems to better detect changes and nimbly address problems by reconfiguring themselves through transformative change. Such strategies, often referred to as building “general resilience”, easily erode if not actively supported (Biggs et al. 2012; Carpenter et al. 2012; Quinlan et al. 2015). General resilience is critical for keeping options alive to face an uncertain turbulent world (Walker et al. 2009; Elmqvist et al. 2019).

Collaborating with the biosphere

Clearly, a shift in perspective and action is needed (Fig. 11) that includes extending management and governance from the focus on producing food, fibre, and timber in simplified ecosystems to rebuilding and strengthening resilience through investing in portfolios of ecosystem services for human wellbeing in diversity-rich social-ecological systems (Reyers et al. 2013; Bennett et al. 2015; Isbell et al. 2017).

figure 11
Fig. 11

Numerous activities protecting, restoring, and enhancing diversity are taking place in this direction ranging from traditional societies, local stewards of wildlife habitats, marine systems, and urban areas, to numerous NGOs, companies and enterprises, and various levels of government, to international collaborations, agreements, and conventions (Barthel et al. 2005; Forbes et al. 2009; Raymond et al. 2010; Andersson et al. 2014; Barrett 2016; Brondizio and Le Tourneau 2016; Österblom et al. 2017; Barbier et al. 2018; Bennett et al. 2018).

Examples include widespread use of marine protected areas from local places to marine spatial planning to proposals for protecting the open ocean, enhancing marine biodiversity, rebuilding fisheries, mitigating climate change, and shifting towards ocean stewardship (Worm et al. 2009; Sumaila et al. 2015; Lubchenco and Grorud-Colvert 2015; Lubchenco et al. 2016; Sala et al. 2016; Gaines et al. 2018; Tittensor et al. 2019; Cinner et al. 2020; Duarte et al. 2020; Brodie Rudolph et al. 2020). The latter is the focus of the High Level Panel for a Sustainable Ocean Economy, with 14 heads of state and more than 250 scientists engaged. They aim to stimulate transformative change for the ocean by committing to sustainably managing 100% of their own waters by 2030 (Stuchtey et al. 2020).

There are major restoration programmes of forests, wetlands, and abandoned and degraded lands and even revival of wildlife and rewilding of nature (Perino et al. 2019). Other efforts include “working-lands conservation” like agroforestry, silvopasture, diversified farming, and ecosystem-based forest management, enhancing livelihoods and food security (Kremen and Merenlender 2018).

The world’s ecosystems can be seen as essential capital assets, if well managed, their lands, waters, and biodiversity yield a flow of vital life-support services (Daily et al. 2009). Investing in natural capital has become a core strategy of agencies and major nations, like China, for wellbeing and sustainability, providing greater resilience to climate change (Guerry et al. 2015; Ouyang et al. 2016). It involves combining science, technology, and partnerships to develop nature-based solutions and enable informed decisions for people and nature to thrive and invest in green growth (Mandle et al. 2019).

There are several examples of adaptive management and adaptive governance systems that have transformed social-ecological dynamics of landscapes and seascapes into biosphere stewardship (Chaffin et al. 2014; Schultz et al. 2015; Walker 2019; Plummer et al. 2020). Stewardship of diversity as a critical feature in resilience building is about reducing vulnerability to change and multiplying the portfolio of options for sustainable development in times of change. Stewardship shifts focus from commodity to redundancy to response diversity for dealing with change (Elmqvist et al. 2003; Grêt-Regamey et al. 2019; Dasgupta 2021).

Clearly, the economic contributions of biodiversity are highly significant as reflected in the many efforts to expose and capture economic values of biodiversity and ecosystem services (Daily et al. 2000; Sukhdev et al. 2010; Kinzig et al. 2011; Costanza et al. 2014; Naeem et al. 2015; Barbier et al. 2018; Dasgupta 2021). Inclusive (or genuine) wealth aims at capturing the aggregate value of natural, human, and social capital assets to provide a comprehensive, long-term foundation for human wellbeing (Dasgupta and Mäler 2000; Polasky et al. 2015). Inclusive wealth provides a basis for designing incentives for more sustainable market transactions (Dasgupta 2014; Clark and Harley 2020).

Also, the role of the cultural context is fundamental (Diaz et al. 2018) and biocultural diversity, and coevolution of people and nature is gaining ground as a means to understand dynamically changing social-ecological relations (Barthel et al. 2013; Merçon et al. 2019; Haider et al. 2019). Broad coalitions among citizens, businesses, nonprofits, and government agencies have the power to transform how we view and act on biosphere stewardship and build Earth resilience. Science has an important new role to play here as honest broker, engaging in evidence-informed action, and coproduction of knowledge in collaboration with practice, policy, and business (Reyers et al. 2015; Wyborn et al. 2019; Norström et al. 2020).

In this context, work identifying leverage points for anticipated and deliberate transformational change towards sustainability is gaining ground, centred on reconnecting people to nature, restructuring power and institutions, and rethinking how knowledge is created and used in pursuit of sustainability (Abson et al. 2017; Fischer and Riechers 2019). Such actions range from direct engagements between scientists and local communities (Tengö et al. 2014) or through the delivery of scientific knowledge and method into multi-stakeholder arenas, such as boundary or bridging organizations (Cash et al. 2003; Hahn et al. 2006; Crona and Parker 2012) where it can provide a basis for learning and be translated into international negotiations (Biermann and Pattberg 2008; Galaz et al. 2016; Tengö et al. 2017). It includes efforts to accelerate positive transformations by identifying powerful actors, like financial investors or transnational corporations, and articulating key domains with which these actors need to engage in order to enable biosphere stewardship (Österblom et al. 2017; Galaz et al. 2018; Folke et al. 2019; Jouffray et al. 2019). The International science-policy platform for biodiversity and ecosystem services (IPBES), an international body for biodiversity similar to the IPCC for the climate, has proposed key features for enabling transformational change (Fig. 12). These efforts serve an increasingly important space for scientists to engage in, helping hold corporations accountable, stimulating them to take on responsibility for the planet and develop leadership in sustainability. Such science-business engagement will become increasingly important to ensure that companies’ sustainability agendas are framed by science rather than the private sector alone (Österblom et al. 2015; Barbier et al. 2018; Blasiak et al. 2018; Galaz et al. 2018; Folke et al. 2019; Jouffray et al. 2019).

figure 12
Fig. 12

The rapid acceleration of current Earth system changes provides new motivations for action. Climate change is no longer a vague threat to some distant future generation but an environmental, economic, and social disruption that today’s youth, communities, corporations, and governments are increasingly experiencing. This provides both ethical and selfish motivations for individuals and institutions to launch transformative actions that shape their futures rather than simply reacting to crises as they emerge. Shaping the future requires active stewardship for regenerating and strengthening the resilience of the biosphere.

Given the urgency of the situation and the critical challenge of stabilizing the Earth system in Holocene-like conditions, the pace of current actions has to rapidly increase and expand to support a transformation towards active stewardship of human actions in concert with the biosphere foundation. It will require reform of critical social, economic, political, and cultural dimensions (Tallis et al. 2018; Diaz et al. 2018; Barrett et al. 2020).

Concluding remarks

The success of social organization into civilizations and more recently into a globalized world has been impressive and highly efficient. It has been supported by a resilient biosphere and a hospitable climate. Now, in the Anthropocene, a continuous expansion mimicking the development pathways of the past century is not a viable option for shifting towards sustainable futures.

Humanity is embedded within, intertwined with, and dependent upon the living biosphere. Humanity has become a global force shaping the operation and future of the biosphere and the broader Earth system. Climate change and loss of biodiversity are symptoms of the situation. The accelerating expansion of human activities has eroded biosphere and Earth system resilience and is now challenging human wellbeing, prosperity, and possibly even the persistence of societies and civilizations.

The expansion has led to hyper-connectivity, homogenization, and vulnerability in times of change, in contrast to modularity, redundancy, and resilience to be able to live with changing circumstances. In the Anthropocene, humanity is confronted with turbulent times and with new intertwined dynamics of people and planet where fast and slow change interplay in unexperienced and unpredictable ways. This is becoming the new normal.

Our future on our planet will be determined by our ability to keep global warming well below 2 °C and foster the resilience of the living biosphere. A pervasive thread in science is that building resilient societies, ecosystems, and ultimately the health of the entire Earth system hinges on supporting, restoring and regenerating diversity in intertwined social and ecological dimensions. Diversity builds insurance and keeps systems resilient to changing circumstances. Clearly, nurturing resilience is of great significance in transformations towards sustainability and requires collective action on multiple fronts, action that is already being tested by increasing turbulence incurred by seemingly unrelated shocks.

Equality holds communities together, and enables nations, and regions to evolve along sustainable development trajectories. Inequality, in terms of both social and natural capitals, are on the rise in the world, and need to be addressed as an integral part of our future on Earth.

We are facing a rapid and significant repositioning of sustainability as the lens through which innovation, technology and development is driven and achieved. What only a few years ago was seen as a sacrifice is today creating new purposes and meanings, shaping values and culture, and is increasingly seen as a pathway to novelty, competitiveness and progress.

This is a time when science is needed more than ever. Science provides informed consensus on the facts and trade-offs in times of misinformation and polemics. The planetary challenges that confront humanity need governance that mobilizes the best that science has to offer with shared visions for sustainable futures and political will and competence to implement choices that will sustain humanity and the rest of the living world for the next millennium and beyond.

There is scope for changing the course of history into sustainable pathways. There is urgent need for people, economies, societies and cultures to actively start governing nature’s contributions to wellbeing and building a resilient biosphere for future generations. It is high time to reconnect development to the Earth system foundation through active stewardship of human actions into prosperous futures within planetary boundaries.

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Burning worlds of cartography: a critical approach to climate cosmograms of the Anthropocene

Birgit Schneider

https://doi.org/10.1002/geo2.27

Abstract

Climate science today makes use of a variety of red globes to explore and communicate findings. These transform the iconography which informs this image: the idealised, even mythical vision of the blue, vulnerable and perfect marble is impaired by the application of the colours yellow and red. Since only predictions that employ a lot of red seem to exist, spectators are confronted with the message that the future Earth that might turn out as envisaged here is undesirable. Here intuitively powerful narrations of the end of the world may connect. By employing methods of art history and visual analysis, and building on examples from current Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change reports and future scenario maps, this article explores how burning world images bear – intentionally or not – elements of horror and shock. My question explored here is as follows: should ‘burning world’ images be understood as a new and powerful cosmology?

Graphical Abstract

This article analyses contemporary world maps of climate change futures from a visual studies perspective, comparing the red temperature maps with the photograph of the Blue Marble with a special focus on color symbolism. The so called ‘burning world’ cartographies are understood as a current worldview based on maps and data visualisation.

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Introduction

Because of their expressive power, scientific images of climate change are employed to bridge cultural and disciplinary boundaries. Since maps and graphs depicting scenarios of climate change futures do not only follow the normative ideal of signifying rational numbers, they also affect emotion in that they trigger very different and conflicting modes of perception causing tensions between scientific and public meanings. Though the graphs are embedded in complex scientific processes, they still cause an emotional reaction comparable to shock images (Barthes 1972).

In September 2013, the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) presented its fifth report on climate change during a press conference in Stockholm. On this occasion, the audience was also presented with some of the latest scientific images produced for the new Summary for policy makers. In the manner of previous reports, coloured global maps, barren graphs and curves served as most simplified condensates for visually communicating the findings of the most complex research field of climate change.

For the fifth report, it seemed the graphs had been created in a more straightforward, simplified manner to put across the urgency of the messages delivered to decisionmakers even more clearly (Hollin and Pearce 2015). Thomas Stocker, Professor of Climate and Environmental Physics and head of the IPCC Working Group I focusing on the physical science basis of climate change, directly addressed the imaginative power of scientific imagery. He declared, while pointing to a global map marking mean temperatures in bright red (Figure 1a): ‘This is the face of the surface of our planet if you look at the atmosphere. It is red. The world has been warming. The trend that you see is clearly given as colours of red’.1 His co-speaker, Michel Jarreaud, Secretary-General of the World Meteorological Organization, pointed to another highly condensed graph showing the comparison of temperature scenarios with two curves in blue and red climbing more or less steeply into possible climate futures (Figure 1b). He commented on the graph saying: ‘The children born now will see the last part of the graphic’ (my italics).2

Details are in the caption following the image
Figure 1Open in figure viewerPowerPoint
These figures were shown at the press conference of the IPCC when presenting their report in Stockholm on 27 September 2013. The graphs are part of the summary for policymakers of working group I (The physical basis). (a) Map of the observed surface temperature change from 1901 to 2012 derived from temperature trends determined by linear regression from one dataset (orange line in panel a). Trends have been calculated where data availability permits a robust estimate (i.e. only for grid boxes with greater than 70% complete records and more than 20% data availability in the first and last 10% of the time period). Other areas are white. Grid boxes where the trend is significant at the 10% level are indicated by a + sign. (b) Past, present and future in one chart. Shown are possible increases in the global average temperatures by 2100. The black line is based on measurements from the past: the red and blue line with the growing corridor shows the spectrum of possible futures. These are based on the RCP scenarios 2.6 and 8.4 relative to 1986–2005 and 1850–1900Source: IPCC, AR5, Working Group 1 Figure SPM.1b (2013) and Working Group 2 Assessment Box SPM1 Figure 1 (2014)

During the press conference, when the IPCC scientists pointed to the highly abstracted and conventionalised graphs, they communicated the essence of climate scientific findings using visual media. By speaking colloquially about the images, the scientists metaphorically related the data abstractions back to their concrete meaning for humans on Earth. This way of appealing to the public by way of visual aids has been practiced also at the COP21 in Paris at the end of 2015, where time and again scientific images published by the IPCC were employed to inform, convince and warn political decisionmakers. Once more the images chosen were whole Earth images, signifying in most cases the fate of humanity on this planet.

Invisibility of climate and media as environment

Scientific images fulfil several roles that differ greatly from other uses of images in visual culture. On the one hand they are tools of knowledge acquisition. On the other hand, they are the ‘showplace of science’ (‘Schauplatz der Wissenschaft’; Heintz and Huber 2001, 34) where scientific knowledge aggregates and is staged into a visual form to be discussed and communicated.

The methodological framework applied here is German ‘Bildwissenschaft’ (‘pictorial science’), the outward expansion of art history that bears differences to Anglo-American visual studies (Bredekamp et al2015). The approach ‘rests on the assumption that the choice of a particular pictorial form, medium, or type has implications that hide in plain sight and inform the object of study and the manner in which it is studied’ (Bredekamp et al2015, 1). The analysis of pictorial media not only examines what was intended to be visualised but also tries to access layers of ‘disguised symbolism’ (Panofsky 1953) beyond the factual form, which materialises in any pictorial medium. It takes as a starting point methods of image analysis (iconography, iconology, methods of comparison and formal analysis), but also of media studies that analyse media as cultural techniques to process data (Kittler 1993). The perspective brings into focus the (technological) media conditions of possibility of knowledge but also of the media aesthetic of visual appearance which grounds media epistemology. In the case discussed here, specific visualisation methods of pictorial media are analysed in their relation to digital image technologies as the necessary framework for possible Earth knowledge and potential world views. Ecomedia like climate visualisations consolidate the dominant way of perceiving the environment: they add another layer to the basic concept of ‘media as environment’ (McLuhan 1964) as ecomedia as environment or image as environment. Environmental perception in the case of climate change research is based on media, therefore the perception of the environment is firmly rooted in media aesthetic.

A key function of scientific images is to ‘make visible’ (Rheinberger 2001, 57) complex processes and data structures. In these terms, visualisation is nothing less than a method for making the invisible visible (Hacking 1983; Latour 1986; Rheinberger et al1997; Snyder 1998); it is this media-epistemic key function of visualisation techniques on which large parts of climate imagery are built on. Climate images are visualisations in exactly this literal sense: they make entities visible which otherwise could not become evident. Climate as an epistemic object is not something simply given but has to be constructed and mediated. The future is invisible; global temperatures are statistical entities that can neither be experienced nor seen. Many places and moments get statistically calculated to produce information about an average climate; most prominent is the 2° goal (the 2° ceiling on global warming thought necessary to avoid the most serious effects of global warming above pre-industrial temperatures). But otherwise atmospheric events, such as heat, air pressure or wind, are invisible also.

Because of the invisibility, climate, as an object of research, needs to be scientifically constructed and visualised with the help of instruments and graphs; there is no chance for scientists to learn about these phenomena in any way other than by media – the knowledge of science in large parts is homologous to the knowledge of media, based on measurements, networks and visualisation technology (Edwards 2010). It was only through new strategies of visualising numbers of observations and measurements that climate could become evident and, as such, an epistemic object of research.3

It is mainly scientific images that the different actors and recipients are currently inspecting when discussing possible climate futures. Therefore, it is important to draw attention to the very different layers of meaning these images obtain. In the following I will discuss how, by simply employing the colour range from blue to red and purple to mark temperatures that political implications and emotions (like fear of doomsday) are inevitably attached to scientific graphs and maps – and why it is impossible to get rid of dissonant rational and emotional reactions when confronted with scientific climate change imagery. As a consequence of my pictorial analysis, I will discuss the imagery of burning worlds in a cosmogrammatic framework derived from the approach by John Tresch (2014). For this purpose I will relate the climate world maps to the long tradition of cosmic views of Earth from outer space before and after the Apollo program, most prominently the Earth photographs by NASA ‘Earth-rise’ (1968) and ‘Blue Marble’ (1972). The images are not only an epistemological scheme for generating world knowledge and for transforming geo-space into an operational space, they also formulate a new cosmology of planetary future that constrain ontological questions.

By doing a media theoretical and art-historian analysis of the red maps of climate change the article proposes to add to the developing research that has been done on climate change imagery throughout the last years (Hulme 2009; Manzo 2010; Doyle 2011; Grittmann 2012; Schneider 2012a,b; Mahony 2015) and stimulate conversations across researchers in geography, cultural studies, and science studies.

Scientific maps of global warming

One particular product of the scientific process of climate model data simulation became one of the most widespread icons of climate change: the image of a blue planet that has turned red. There are many examples that apply this way of depicting the earth and which prove that this type of climate world map has become conventional (Figure 2). Such pictures have been included in the reports of the IPCC parallel to the reports being printed throughout in colour since the year 2001.4

Details are in the caption following the image
Figure 2Open in figure viewerPowerPoint
Annual mean temperature surface change for the scenario RCP 4.5, 2081–2090 calculated by different simulation modelsSource: IPCC, Working Group I, AR5, Fig12–9

The climate report by the IPCC published in 2013/14 makes extensive use of world maps to present climate as a territorialised object. All maps are coloured in false-colour display, meaning that they show data with the help of green, red or blue. For my case study I have chosen visualisations of future temperature variations based on climate change scenario simulations generated by the German Climate Computing Centre (DKRZ) in Hamburg as their German contribution to the Fifth IPCC Assessment Report (Figure 3). The visualisations were carried out using a coupled atmosphere–ocean model developed by the Max Planck Institute for Meteorology (the MPI-ESM). The cartographers used Avizo Green software to generate the global visualisations. It may be reminiscent of Google Earth, which also places a so-called ‘world-module’ with the established default settings of global views at the centre of its interface. On the website of the German Climate Computing Centre, visitors can compare global views of different climate scenarios – stagnant, or as a development into the future; they also can watch the Earth heating up in a 3-minute clip.

Details are in the caption following the image
Figure 3Open in figure viewerPowerPoint
The figures show simulated changes in air temperature for three scenarios based on Earth system model runs for the years 2030 and 2090 in comparison. The model runs are part of the German contribution to the Fifth IPCC Assessment Report of 2013. For a full resolution zoomable image of each global simulation see the website of the DKRZSource: https://www.dkrz.de/Klimaforschung-en/konsortial-en/ipcc-ar5/ergebnisse/2m-temperatur-en, accessed January 2016

Although within the IPCC reports these maps are given in an egg-shaped so-called Mollweide-projection (an equal-area, pseudocylindrical map) as used in Figure 1a or 2, I decided to use the globe-shaped example because its form gives a clearer possibility to compare this ‘visiotype’ (Pörksen 1997) to the Blue Marble. This may allow, in particular, an exploration of the following question: What does it mean culturally if ‘whole Earth images’, ‘images of wholeness’ or ‘global images’ are used for exploring and communicating scenarios of changing climate futures? It is my thesis that the various red climate future world maps are perceived in connection and comparison to the collective cultural memory of the Blue Marble in the process of image perception. The Blue Marble, being the key image of the ecological awareness of Earth since its publication, rolls out the horizon against which the climatic planetary visions are seen – even if they are reproduced in flat, printed reports using different types of map projections. Both image types, though they follow their own photographic and cartographic rules respectively, depict limited parts of Earth and share a global ecological claim. It is the fate of ‘our home planet’ (NASA) being depicted in the maps and the Blue Marble photograph alike.

I want to start by looking at what the red world maps tell us scientifically. At first glance Figure 3 appears rather simple and straightforward. Taking that into account, its simplicity is an extreme contrast to the complexity which lies behind. The visualisation shows six spherical views of a circular globe with Africa, Europe and the North Pole brought into the spectator’s range of vision. The figures demarcate pair by pair changes in air temperature close to the globe’s surface for three different scenarios based on the ensemble averages of the climate model simulation runs for 2030 and 2090. By comparing the globes, it becomes possible to observe the process of temperature change in a manner similar to that of a sequence of single shots; viewers are expected to fill in the gaps between the pictures. The colour map, using false colour-coding (‘false’ meaning that the colours are not the ‘real’ colours of the object) given in the legend, is adapted to the common intuitive colour symbolism of cool (blue) and hot (red). In this case, a temperature range from −1 °C to +12 °C is used, depicted by a colour gradient ranging from blue through yellow to a light red, a dark red and three shades of purple. Colour hue is arranged symmetrically while gradually changing in luminosity. The colour blue only appears in tiny spots on the maps because there are no decreasing temperatures in these scenarios. A light purple symbolises the highest temperature increase.

The spherical views of the planet present two time steps within each storyline, the so-called RCP (representative climate pathways) scenarios. The IPCC scenario storylines bear an explicitly normative view of possible futures. The scenarios displayed here outline a range of either cutting down greenhouse gases quickly and radically (RCP 2.6) based on an idealised assumption of rapid economic growth or on a balanced emphasis on all energy sources (RCP 8.5). To put it simply: RCP 2.6 can be called a best-case scenario, whereas RCP 8.5 is a worst-case scenario and more or less business as usual (this development very much extrapolates the greenhouse emission development of the last years).5

In contrast to climate future time series charts, like the ones from the current IPCC report (i.e. Figure 1b), isosurfaces6 – the red shaded zones patterning the globes – are used for the red globes to demarcate the division of temperature changes around the world. Figure 1b and 3 depict RCP scenario data in a very different way: while the curves make no statement on the geographical distribution of the temperature changes, the red zones are clearly territorialised. A statistical mean value of global temperature change is shown in its distribution across the planet as it varies for each region. By showing the geographical distribution of temperature, it becomes clear that an average global temperature change of 2° does in fact mean that even higher temperature increases can be expected on land, especially in the North Pole region, while ocean surface temperatures change less.

What is made obvious on a scientific level of reading the visualisation of temperature changes with the bright red and loud set of so-called false colours is the argument that this whole process seems to be highly abnormal in comparison to the average climate of the last generations. This becomes even more explicit if one compares the 2014 version of global future maps to the German contribution to the Fourth Assessment Report. In the case of the previous reports, similar visualisations were produced, but the 2007 maps for futures scenarios, for example, used a smaller temperature range, ranging from −0.5° to +8° to indicate the worst-case scenario. In the latter, this spectrum ranged between 6 °C and 8 °C marked by different shades of magenta.7 For the latest calculations the temperature spectrum got extended and the colour spectrum was altered – now it is the highest temperatures from 8° to 12° ranging from red to purple and magenta. From one report to the other the future projections did not only become ‘redder’ but also more purple. At the same time, it appears that there is no consistent colour spectrum throughout the different generations of IPCC reports to mark certain degrees of temperatures, this holding true for future scenarios and temperature anomaly maps alike. With each report the colour scheme got adapted to the new findings.

The scopic regime of the planetary perspective

When climate science today makes use of a variety of global maps to explore and communicate findings, one has to question the broader and ambiguous iconography which informs this image, since it is the idealised or even mythical vision of the blue, vulnerable and perfect marble that is impaired by the climate future portrait of Earth with their application of the colours yellow and red (Figure 4). Interestingly, this type of fiery red climate planet got a nickname, which might prove the relevance of the image and provide a frame of reference beyond science. In informal speech and popular culture the climate heat maps got connected to an image category illustrating the metaphor ‘burning worlds’.8

Details are in the caption following the image
Figure 4Open in figure viewerPowerPoint
Collage from the Blue Marble, photograph of the Earth, taken by the crew of the Apollo 17 spacecraft in 1972 and a global map realised by the German Climate Calculation CenterSource: Blue Marble: image courtesy of NASA Johnson Space Center; Red Globe: DKRZ, 2014. Reprinted with permission from Ref 15. Copyright 2014 DKRZ

When the Blue Marble photograph was published in 1972, it immediately evoked reactions like deep respect, admiration, devotion, and a sense of awe (Jasanoff 2001; Diederichsen and Franke 2013; Grevsmühl 2014; Dunaway 2015). For these reasons, the image of the Blue Marble became one of the most widespread icons of the environmental movement – at present there seems to be no climate change protest march that does not make use of a giant blow-up of the Blue Marble. But the Earth’s photograph from outer space was ambivalent from the very beginning (Cosgrove 1994). It not only depicted the vulnerability of life on the planet but re-staged the contemplation of the sublime and the intangible greatness of nature beyond all possible imagination. This contemplation, though, is full of longing for home and distance at the same time. The Blue Marble photograph therefore provided a new indissoluble tension to the relationship of humans and nature.

Building on the indissoluble ambiguity of the Blue Marble photograph, I would like to argue that both images, the Blue Marble and the burning worlds, share what Christian Metz termed a ‘scopic regime’ (Metz 1975), a term that Leon Gurevitch has developed further to analyse different types of ‘digital globes’ like Google Earth (Gurevitch 2013), his reading being applicable to the global grid of the Avizo Green climate visualisation software, too. Although the images are produced by very different methods and technologies, they follow the scopic regime of ‘whole Earth images’. Both image types – analogue photographs of the Apollo program and the digital globes – create a ‘theatrical platform’ (Gurevitch 2013, 337) that stages Earth in a planetary perspective of wholeness by showing it floating in a black and void cosmic space.

By now there is a comprehensive body of literature about the media-aesthetic and political implications of the global scopic regime which has been analysed and criticised by many scholars as a modernist vision of the Earth as a globe involving geopolitical implications and technological superiority (Haraway 1991; Arendt 1992; Cosgrove 1994; Ingold 1995; Markschies et al2011; Parks 2013; Gurevitch 20132014; Russill 2016). Most important is the criticism that the global view offers an artificially detached godlike perspective from beyond the planet, tracing back to a fictional Renaissance perspective. In that light, Earth does not surround the subject like an environment, but separates the human perspective from Earth (Ingold 1995). When digital globes today are ‘the primary Earth representations of our culture’ (Gurevitch 2013, 335), it is important to understand what is at stake, when the scopic regime of whole Earth images is even perceived as a naturalised mode of looking at Earth, although its modes of fabrication are part of an artificial and mediated environmental perception (Russill 2016, 237). Here it is important to understand that whole Earth images are powerful actors of what Steward Brand and Al Gore called a ‘war of perception … over earth imaging’ meaning that the perception of global environments are ‘the sites of conflicts determining the future of human civilisation’ (Russill 2016, 236, 242). On the other hand, the global images manifest how this sort of Earth perception is completely dependent on media aesthetics. The implicit consequence of this scopic regime is that the bird’s-eye view of digital globes functions as a ‘theatrical platform’ for ‘media events’ (Gurevitch 2013, 327). The digital globe can again and again be ‘reconfigured according to the environmental data that is fed into it’ (Gurevitch 2013, 336), like updated climate data of global warming. At the same time, the scopic regime of whole Earth imagery indicates a process of alienation; it isolates observers from Earth. The global view is a product of the ‘dialectic of enlightenment’ when Earth got objectified with all the negative effects – objectification being a license for exploiting and controlling Earth’s resources; it irreversibly separated nature from culture (Adorno and Horkheimer 2002; Gurevitch 20132014).

Iconologies of burning worlds

To enter deeper into the iconology of the burning worlds, it is necessary to pose the questions Roland Barthes asked in his famous article on the ‘rhetoric of the image’: ‘How does meaning get into the image? Where does it end? And if it ends, what is there beyond?’ (Barthes 1977, 40). These questions are crucial because the cultural meaning of the scientific graph does not end with the decoding of the colour spectrum, limited to the concept of temperature means. What I want to argue here is that a new symbolic layer cannot be circumvented when visualisations presenting climate science knowledge make use of representations that resemble the visiotype of the Blue Marble.

We have already learned that the most affected regions appear in dark red, purple and magenta, which on a level of everyday experience might remind one of a very bad sunburn. If we read the image as an x-ray picture for medical diagnosis, we can conclude that Earth does not look healthy at all. The beholders of this image are confronted with a damaged or even destroyed planet. It has lost its unique protecting and shielding atmosphere and instead produced a torrid zone now covering the whole globe; Earth does not look like the living planet – Gaia – anymore, which the Blue Marble photograph portrayed so impressively. Instead we can observe Earth transforming into a planet hostile to life or becoming a ‘dead planet’. Because of its red surface it might even remind one of Mars, the red planet that was named after the Greek war god.

Here, intuitively and implicitly, powerful narrations of the ‘end of the world’ can connect. The burning world’s image bear, intentionally or not, elements of horror and shock that, if we like it or not, are attached to the image. This is why the image triggers conflicting reactions that go beyond ‘pure’ scientific readings. Observers do not react rationally in the scientific ideal of being objective and without emotion. The colour scheme intuitively triggers an aesthetic of fear, urgency and alarm. What the blushing of the planet tells is the story of an irreversible development towards a heating planet on which the climate machine has gone haywire. This though actually alludes to the traditional grand narratives of disasters and final endings. In the Christian world this would be the Last Judgment, Purgatory or the Apocalypse; but such end of the world views are also shared by other world religions. This has inspired artists to create the most fascinating and inventive pictures. From an aesthetic and artistic point of view, narratives of a final ending have led to some of the most impressive image creations in culture. The horizon of Western cultural imaginations of ‘grand narratives’ might appear like the impressive paintings of Hieronymus Bosch or Hans Memling (Figure 5). But the imagery of recent years is especially rich also in shaping imaginations about end of the world scenerios and ‘future as catastrophe’ (Distelmeyer 2013; Horn 2014), to name only a few: the movies 2012Melancholia or computer games like The last of us.

Details are in the caption following the image
Figure 5Open in figure viewerPowerPoint
The Last Judgment, triptych by Hans Memling, 1467–71, National Museum Gdansk. On the right-hand panel, the damned are being dragged to the burning HellSource: Public Domain

Colour symbolisms of red in art and science

In spite of all these disastrous and horrifying storylines burning worlds inspire, red and blue simply belong on a practical level to the intuitive colour scheme for temperatures. From a cartographer’s point of view, the blue-red colour scheme as such is without alternative. This is what a climate cartographer who produced the map for the German Climate Computing Centre assured me.9 A historical perspective on the colour-coding of different temperatures also follows this argument, as the scheme has a long tradition in the history of cartography and data visualisation. Climate zones have been drawn in this way (Figure 6) for more than 200 years. Blue is a cold colour, red is a warm colour, so it is easy to see how the scheme derived from nature and experience. When only rising temperatures are calculated in the models for possible climate futures, shades of red colour are the only way, from the creator’s point of view, to depict this outcome – green would contradict this essential information. So what do standards of map design tell us about the application of colours?

Details are in the caption following the image
Figure 6Open in figure viewerPowerPoint
Early climatic world map from the Atlas of Physical Geography published by August Heinrich Peterman in 1850. The map marks climate zones by color to illustrate the distribution of the temperature of the air. The torrid zone is colored in red, the temperate zone is colored in green, the frigid zone is given in blueSource: Staatsbibliothek Berlin – preußischer Kulturbesitz

Since the early twentieth century, guidelines exist at a level of practical knowledge about the use of colours in a ‘good’ and ‘effective’ way and how to apply this to data graphics and maps (Bertin 1983 [1967]; Tufte 1990; MacEachren 1995; Palsky 1996; Stauffer et al2015). As data visualisers know, graphics are capable of containing only a limited amount of information. Here, over time colour became a very effective way of enlarging the spectrum of information that could be put into a single figure because it allowed much greater selectivity of perception compared with black and white.

Graphic designer and author Edward Tufte very clearly warned against the use of colour for data without reflection, stating that ‘[t]ying color to information is as elementary and straightforward as colour techniques in art’, but ‘putting a good colour in a good place is a complex matter. Indeed, so difficult and subtle that avoiding catastrophe becomes the first principle in bringing colour to information: Above all, do no harm’ (Tufte 1990, 81). With this clear statement, Tufte attributed a certain risk to the adding of colour to figures – the risk that using colour indiscriminately might even spoil the communicative aim of a picture. Tufte gives a citation of the Swiss cartographer Eduard Imhof (Imhof 1982), which can very much be applied to the ‘burning worlds’ example.

First rule: Pure, bright or very strong colours have loud, unbearable effects when they stand unrelieved over large areas adjacent to each other, but extraordinary effects can be achieved when they are used sparingly on or between dull background tones … Noise is not music. Only a piano allows a crescendo and then a forte, and only on a quiet background can a colorful theme be constructed. The organisation of the earth’s surface facilitates graphic solutions of this type in maps. Extremes of any type – such as highest land zones and deepest sea troughs, temperature maxima and minima – generally enclose small areas only. If one limits strong, heavy, rich, and solid colors to the small areas of extremes, then expressive and beautiful patterns occur. If one gives all, especially large areas, glaring, rich colors, the pictures have brilliant, disordered, confusing and unpleasant effects.

Imhof (1982, quoted in Tufte 1990, 82, my italics)

In the case of climate future maps, this is exactly what happens. In this sense, the ‘burning world’ maps are to be described as noisy, brilliant, disordered and confusing with unpleasant effects. By applying maximum colour intensities with varying saturations and not, as Stauffer et al. suggest, the more moderate HCL colour space with balanced colour saturations, such maps can be rated ‘misleading and distorting’ (Stauffer et al2015, 205). On the other hand, one might make the point that in the red world maps the colouring clearly parallels the finding that global warming does not affect small areas only but rather the whole planet. Therefore, the cartographic outcome has to be highly unpleasant, even if it spoils the standard of ‘good cartography’.

Another general recommendation on how to apply colour in information design is that it should rely on logic which bears similarity to nature (Tufte 1990, 90; Palsky 1996, 134). This advice cannot be applied to the use of red, because it is a signal colour that occurs in nature only rarely. Still, the coding of red as heat and blue as coolness is ‘natural’ and as such very successful, precisely because pictures encoding red and blue for temperatures are perceived at an intuitive level.

What is of interest here is that beyond the natural coding of red and blue to depict temperature, very different and maybe even stronger symbolic meanings are inevitably assigned to the subject which likewise belong to the established semantics of red and blue. A cultural history of colour here offers many other and again conflicting paths of interpretation (Gage 19932000). Red became conventionalised as the colour of highlighting, emphasising, appealing and of marking danger and action at the same time, because red also stands for the destructive power of torrid heat. Therefore, in information design, red triggers very different symbolic layers such as danger, warning signal, intensity and the deviation of a norm – especially in the case of visualising global risks.

These very different meanings of the red colour have to be weighed up because of the potential problem of misdirecting attention and creating confusion. So, by using the conventionalised colours to code temperature in the case of climate future scenarios, very different and uncontrollable meanings are liable to be incurred. Even though the application of colour scales to maps is by itself a scientifically objective signal that states its own truth for visualisation environments, what these signals actually mobilise in different recipients usually is a much broader response, depending on cultural, national, practical or aesthetical knowledge, traditions and experiences.

The polyphony of meaning is something that has been studied extensively in the field of semiotics, philosophy and art history (Hatt and Klonk 2006). Artists and creatives in advertising, who target a broader audience, are very aware of the fact that the meaning of images cannot be restricted completely. There always will be a surplus of uncontrollable meaning. In the case of expert graphs, this means the pure informative level of the intensive colour red in order to code warming is very strongly directing attention to all these other notions of red in connection to the motive.

Influencing decisions or just decision-making tools?

One could argue that even campaigners from a non-governmental organisation like Greenpeace could not have done a better job than the cartographers and computer graphic designers in the international research labs of climate research. The visiotype of burning worlds works as it fulfils all requirements of a strong, intuitive and iconic image. It similarly addresses the rational and the emotional. Moreover, the message is straightforward: global warming is an alarming problem people/we/politicians have to face. The image is about changing the present in order to never witness this future. Politicians need to act to change what the pictures show, because burning worlds are beyond imagination.

Here the political role climate science obtained when discovering global warming has to be clarified. Today, climate images are political images (Walsh 20092013; Schneider and Nocke 2014; Mahony 2015). The argument of Gilles Palsky that colour transforms maps into propaganda when used to depict political regions (Palsky 1996, 133)10 becomes strangely valid when applied to climate change. Because it has become impossible for research fields like climate sciences, which address global risks, to work only in the scientific realm. Instead, in the field of climate change research the boundaries between science, society and policy are eminently blurred because the issues climate sciences address are in the centre of great socio-political and economic concern. IPCC reports are written by scientists to inform policymakers before they take decisions. Therefore, climate scientists in this field find themselves in an area of tension between different role models, because they are expected to communicate the political meaning of their findings to policymakers but also to the public (Pielke 2007)11. It certainly has been an unintended consequence of role expectations towards scientists and the scientific, but also fiery red, colour spectrum that some ‘climate sceptics’ saw the visualisations as an indicator for IPCC scientist being ‘alarmist’ (Walsh 2013, 181); that is, following a hidden political agenda. Such reproaches seem to neglect what Barthes and many other scholars argue: there is nothing like a ‘pure representation’ (Bredekamp et al2015). The red global maps not only communicate pure knowledge, pure numbers, models or findings – a kind of rational objectivity science would tell us without distortion. Here, the myth of photographic ‘naturalness’ returns in form of the myth of pure data visualisation considered as an act of ‘natural inscription’ (Walsh 20142015) meaning the ideal of an undistorted map, a map, that only and directly shows what is in the numbers and nothing beyond. But maps always are subjective; they include many subjective decisions such as the choice of colours, segments and different types of map projection. In other words, cartographers have to make aesthetic choices that influence the message.

Images narrate in a particularly striking way how the spheres between politics and science become blurred (Walsh 2013; Mahony 2015). The colour red in climate change expert graphs is not only used to highlight rising temperatures, but at the same time brings forward the message of an imminent climate disaster. Even though climate scientists might follow the IPCC ideal to be only ‘policy relevant’ and not ‘policy prescriptive’, one can trace the inseparable intermingling of facts and values (the ‘is/ought-divide’; Walsh 2009) amongst the scientific images simply by looking, for example, at the colour red, which at the same time is the colour of disastrous news. Therefore, the warning and hot colour red here highlights not only pure temperature increases but can be interpreted, similar to another prominent IPCC diagram called ‘Reasons for concern’ (Mahony 2015),12 as highlighting the inescapable political relevancy of climate research findings.

Affects of shock images

Here we can return to Roland Barthes again and use his approach to the rhetoric of the image to analyse in more depth the iconography of global warming (Barthes 1972).13 Barthes coined the term ‘shock photo’ to identify the rhetoric whilst analysing photographs. The concept was taken up by Susan Sontag and developed further (Sontag 2003). Although Barthes used this term to speak about press photography in a more general sense, the term can also be applied to the ‘cartographies of danger’ (Monmonnier 1997) such as the case discussed here. The shock image is intended to catch the attention of the recipient without allowing them to reflect on it. This leads to Barthes’ thesis that ‘[m]ost of the photographs exhibited to shock us have no effect at all’ (Barthes 1972, 116). Like the aesthetic concept of the sublime, horror relies on the fact that the beholder is looking at the image from a secure (distant) position. What is signified in the global climate maps is too vast in space and time to be imagined and to produce long-term reactions. On one hand, the sunburned data images of Gaia are meant as a call for action, as they display the greatest possible moral failure of humankind. On the other hand, they portray climate change as a cataclysm in which human beings are condemned to fatalistic powerlessness, even though the reason for the heated planet is anthropogenic, and as such, induced by culture. Therefore, if one searches for a politically engaging and activating image, burning world imagery might not be successful in the long term because fear does not lead to action, as Nicholson-Cole and O’Neill found out in an empiric study on climate imagery perception (Nicholson-Cole and O’Neill 2009).

The burning worlds are far beyond the conceptual grasp. Therefore, it is inconceivable for anyone to understand what the accelerating disturbances of natural order by human impacts will mean for culture. What is triggered though are, following Lorraine Daston, emotions such as horror and terror (Daston 1998). The reports of the IPCC are filled with red planets. By making such intense use of this global data picture type, the globes not only mark the next step of total Earth knowledge, they mark the failure of the controllability myth of the domination of humanity over nature. Human destruction of the shielding biosphere itself is made visible with the red world maps. The world-object, which becomes reshaped even more dramatically by computer simulation and graphics in every report, simultaneously delivers an allegory of the ‘tragic triumph’ (Schellnhuber 2010) of modern science—referring to the notion of the Greek tragedy in an uncanny way: knowledge about the catastrophe is achieved only at the moment of falling – evoking emotions of pity and fear but without any promise of relief (catharsis). The visualisations offer humans – the main actors of the tragedy – a sad insight as to where global exploitation has brought them and what future sufferings they will face. The observers of these modern devotional pictures are left with a feeling of vast impotence and can become prey to all sorts of apocalyptic narrations caused by their own actions like Judgement Day or Purgatory (Figure 5), which are deeply routed in the cultural memory.

Cosmograms of the Anthropocene

Images of global climate futures are generated by digital software like Avizo Green on the grid of a digital globe (the ‘world module’), this grid being the stage for Earth’s history and future. The visualisation software Avizo Green was originally developed to diagnose human diseases. If today it is used to diagnose anthropogenic disorders of the planet Earth and their possible effects on humans, here a drama of human actors comes into play.

If the Blue Marble image visually materialised a shift in public consciousness on the nature of the environment, one can ask what is the subsequent argument that is being summarised in the burning worlds today? I want to bring up a cosmic and cosmological perspective here. The ‘planetary turn’ that threw a gaze from the spaceship Apollo backwards at Earth has set up the framework to think and imagine ecological interconnectedness and boundaries since the 1960s and 1970s. Today the digital globe is the ‘theatre of environmental spectacle’ (Gurevitch 2013, 336) that stages different dramatic futures in the same visual format, although the cosmic gaze in the tradition of the space program turned spatially backwards while today this gaze is connected to a prospect into the future: cosmic futures in the rear-view mirror.

In conclusion and in placing red future world maps within the context of a universal narrative, I would like to use the term cosmograms in the burning world’s discussion, adapting the general argument of historian of science and anthropologist John Tresch and applying it to red climate maps (Tresch 2014). Cosmology is defined as a certain worldview that tells the fate of the world (often by gathering and interpreting astronomical data), the origin and evolution of the universe but also its eventual fate – the Earth’s fate being the fate of all human cosmologies. A cosmogram is a schematic figure depicting a cosmology, often created for the purpose of meditation. Even though the data maps of possible climate futures have not been constructed for meditation in the first place, switching to a cosmological perspective here is productive. Regarded as cosmograms, the red maps can be seen as representing a modern scientific ‘materialized cosmology’ (Tresch 2014, 164), designed by ‘visioneers’ (McCray 2013).14

Read as a cosmogram, the future map projections materialise and visualise the worldview of the Anthropocene, this concept of geology and deep time (Steffen et al2007) both made productive (Trischler 2013), critically reflected upon (Manemann 2014; Visconti 2014; Castree 2014) and challenged geo-philosophically (Yusoff 2013) as the new universal narrative by many humanity scholars today. This final anthropocentric cosmology in many cases is visually argued within a geographical scheme that relates human actions to their geographical environment (Castree 2014, 464), one of them being the red world maps. It regards humans as inevitably marking their imprint on the face of the Earth, climate change being considered as another geological human trace. Therefore, if we take these images seriously as cosmographic meditations, mirroring those that exist on the creation of Earth, it is even more important to ask questions that reach well beyond scientific iconography. Following John Tresch, cosmograms are practices of visual world creation; they reveal imaginings of order and chaos, future and origin, they tell where we go and where we come from. By doing so, they also shape imaginings of the future, of Earth and the Universe in its totality. Tresch claims that:

material cosmologies set the stage for cultural contacts. Western science was not a neutral ‘tool of empire’, using value-free facts to accomplish utilitarian ends; it carried culturally specific values … and sought to redraw the map of the world, both metaphysically and geographically.

Tresch (2014, 166)

Read as modern cosmograms, climatology situates humanity in the following cosmological narration, which bears the mythical order of a triptych comparable to the winged altar of Hans Memling (Figure 5). Salvation (left panel): the Blue Marble is the world we came from; it recalls the past we can never return to, similar to the Garden of Eden, but also the hope for future salvation, if humankind radically changes habits to make a better (less carbon dioxide intense) living (Figure 4, left globe). Last Judgment (middle panel): scientists are currently talking about the ecological sins of industrialisation (Fall of Man). This is the age of detectable human impacts on Earth (the Anthropocene): the world is already transformed by humans to such an extent that the end of humanity is contained in the present (Figure 1a). The Damned: the right panel of the triptych would be the burning world, representing the devastating future of the worst-case scenario – the fate of the world being business as usual (Figure 4, right globe). Interestingly, this general structure of narration also underlies Pope Francis’ 2015 ecological Encyclical (On care for our common home).

I am aware of the danger that my interpretations might sound cynical, pessimistic and even over interpreted, but this is not what I am aiming for. Since all future scenarios are fictional (not to be confused with unrealistic), as Elena Esposito argues, they all have the status of possible futures (Esposito 2007). Nobody knows how exactly global warming will develop and how this will change the world we know. Therefore, the burning worlds not only mark a step of scientific Earth knowledge, they are blueprints for the Anthropocene worldview and the fears connected to it – nothing more and nothing less. The maps present a wish for planning capability, controllability, although at the same time they depict a world changing into chaos as the verb ‘burning’ already suggests. They display a wish to control what is out of control. They display the shock most people are unable to grasp, namely that humans and their technological systems are part of this image.

Being thus regarded, it also applies to the totalised images of climate futures that ‘cosmological ideas take on realist force when they are anchored, housed, and transmitted objects, technical networks, routine practices, and social institutions’ (Tresch 2014, 162). It is for this reason why it is so important to approach such images critically because of associated totalising concepts and holism, although it will be very difficult to enrich and complement the predominant scientific understanding of the world and find alternative ways to interpret and materialise the fate of the World.

Images are blueprints to imagine and shape reality. What a cosmogrammatic and cultural reading of scientific images might point out: we also need to find cosmograms as an alternative to scientific maps as scientific knowledge leaves a blank space that science alone cannot fill. There is a need for ways other than the cold inventory of heat maps that help to think, decide, imagine, narrate and envision the future – other ‘cosmograms’ – local or glocal, religious, political and cultural. A manifold of imaginings is urgently needed, imaginings, which are able to add cultural layers of meaning to the fate of the world we are facing in the red climate world maps.

Notes

1 The press conference was held in Stockholm on 27 September 2013 to present the Summary for Policy Makers of the Working Group I contribution to the Fifth Assessment Report. The quotes were taken from the webcast.2 Ibid.3 This is what Alexander von Humboldt did in 1817 by using weather data to construct his famous map of climate zones (Schneider, 2012a,b; see also Regnauld’s contribution in this issue). Because of the dominant construction of climate change as a scientific entity – and the invisibility paradigm which results from this definition, claiming that climate change as such is inaccessible directly to the senses and science is the most prominent authority to make visible climate change – the question of visibility has been discussed as a political issue (Knebusch 2008; Rudiak-Gould 2013).4 The reports from the years 1990 and 1992 already contained limited pages with coloured maps. In 1990, eight pages of the 414 pages of the First Assessment Report of Working Group I were printed in colour. Here the colour spectrum from yellow to red, to illustrate global warming of surface temperatures, was used for the first time applied to a cylindrical equal-area projection map (Figure 5.4 of the report).5 This production of predictive knowledge in the form of ‘scenarios’ and ‘storylines’ has shaped new scientific cultures that might be analysed under the term ‘cultures of prediction’ as Matthias Heyman suggests referring to Gary Fine’s book Authors of the stormMeteorologists and the Cultures of Prediction 2007. An approach towards cultures of prediction take into account the historically changing conditions and the making (practices) of these predictions.6 An isosurface is a three-dimensional analogue of an isoline that visualises points of a constant value like temperature within a volume of space.7 See Figure SPM 6 in IPCC AR4.8 ‘Burning world’ is a common category in stock image data bases, like Getty, to illustrate global warming. The double meaning of ‘burning’ as in heat and burning fossils are found in book titles such as How to stop the planet from burning by George Monbiot (2007), and in science fiction series taking place in a post-climate-catastrophic world such as Aviator: the burning world by Gareth Renowden (2012).9 Interview with Michael Böttinger on 29 June 2011, cartographer and visualiser at the German Climate Computing Center, Hamburg.10 Political colours: left wing, right wing; Communist blocks. Or in the USA, the recent colour scheme of red states (republican) and blue states (democratic).11 Pielke categorised different ideal role options in the relations between scientists and their social world like the ‘pure scientist’ and the ‘science arbiter’ an in contrast to these traditional roles the ‘issue advocate’ and the ‘honest broker of policy alternatives’.12 There is another prominent IPCC diagram applying a similar colour spectrum from white, yellow to red called ‘Reasons for concern’. In this case, dark red explicitly highlights the most ‘dangerous’ climate change. It later received the nickname ‘burning embers’ and was left out of the 2007 report for its obvious meaning. Martin Mahony did an in-depth analysis of this graph, resulting in a parallel argument concerning the political and expressive meaning of colour. See Mahony (2015).13 In his known analysis of the Panzani advert, Barthes differentiated three levels of messages which in different ways employ denotation and connotation: the first is the linguistic level of the message, the written text. It already contains a denoted and a connoted message. The second is the symbolic message; it is coded and iconic and tells what the image might stand for. The third is the literal message, it is not coded. In the advertisement the denoted layer of information naturalises the symbolic layer. In contrast to photography, the red planets do not depict a reality that took place in the past, on the contrary it reverses the relation of time and space by depicting possible future events. ‘The literal images leads to the scandal of horror but not to horror itself’ (Barthes 1957).14 Visualisers today call themselves visioneers, bringing together the terms ‘vision’ and ‘engineer’.

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The Anthropocene and the geo-political imagination: Re-writing Earth as political space

Eva Lövbrand a, Malin Mobjörk b, Rickard Söder b

https://doi.org/10.1016/j.esg.2020.100051

Abstract

The Anthropocene is described as a dangerous and unpredictable era in which fossil-fueled ways of life undermine the planetary systems on which human societies depend. It speaks of a new world of globalized and manufactured risks where neither security nor environment can be interpreted or acted upon in traditional ways. In this paper we examine how debates on the Anthropocene unfold in global politics and how they challenge core assumptions in International Relations. Through a structured analysis of 52 peer-reviewed journal articles, we identify three Anthropocene discourses that speak of new environmental realities for global politics. These are referred to as the endangered worldthe entangled world, and the extractivist world. While each discourse describes an increasingly interconnected and fragile world in which conventional binaries such as inside/outside, North/South and us/them can no longer be taken for granted, disagreement prevails over what needs to be secured and by whom.

1. Introduction

A new concept has entered the lexicon – the Anthropocene. The term was coined at the turn of the millennium to describe the profound and accelerating human imprint on the global environment (Crutzen and Stoermer, 2000). Rising global temperatures, melting glaciers, thawing permafrost, acidified oceans and irreversible species loss are some of the examples used to illustrate the dramatic shifts in the Earth’s biosphere caused by modern industrial civilization (IPCC, 2018). In contrast to the Holocene – the past 12 000 years of relative climate stability – the Anthropocene has been described as a dangerous and unpredictable era when fossil-fueled ways of life are undermining the planetary life-support systems upon which human societies depend (Rockström et al., 2009Steffen et al., 2018). It refers to a new phase in planetary history, we are told, when humanity has become a major force of nature that is changing the dynamics and functioning of Earth itself.

The proposition that we now live in a world entirely of our own making is uncomfortable and perplexing. It suggests a fundamental and dangerous rupture in the Earth’s trajectory that calls for new ways of thinking about humanity’s relationship to nature, ourselves and our collective existence (C. Hamilton, 2017Scranton, 2015). By tying the fate of humanity to the fate of our planet, the Anthropocene concept has invited intense interdisciplinary conversations across scholarly fields as varied as Earth system science, geology, history, philosophy, and sociology (Biermann and Lövbrand, 2019Hamilton et al., 2015Steffen et al., 2011). In recent years the Anthropocene has also arrived at the study of global politics and prompted critical debates about some of the core assumptions upon which International Relations (IR) rest (Simangan, 2020). Harrington (2016, p. 493) describes the Anthropocene as a watershed moment for a discipline that found its voice in the midst of the Cold War when apocalyptic visions of nuclear war were commonplace. It is a concept that speaks of a new world of globalized and manufactured risks in which neither security nor environment can be interpreted or acted upon in traditional ways (Dalby, 2009). In a time when modern technology, trade and consumerism is disrupting the planet’s life-upholding systems in unprecedented ways, a growing IR scholarship is searching for a new security language that brings our changing climate, melting glaciers and polluted oceans to the forefront of global affairs (Burke et al., 2016Harrington, 2016).

In this paper we trace how these Anthropocene debates are unfolding in the study of IR and ask how they may reconfigure Earth as political space. Just as geographical knowledge for long has been used by great powers to naturalize the exercise of power and control over distant places and people (Chaturvedi and Doyle, 2015), we examine how IR scholars now are drawing upon environmental knowledge to rethink nature as a stable ground for such global politics. While the profound material implications of a transformed global environment are central to this rethinking, we will in this paper primarily focus on the representational politics of contemporary Anthropocene debates. Informed by the critical geopolitics of scholars such as Gearoid O Tuathail (1996), John Agnew (1998) and Simon Dalby (2009), we approach the Anthropocene as a discursive event that is actively involved in the (re)writing of space for global politics. We thus ask how this new era in planetary history is staged as a geo-political drama. How is the Anthropocene written spatially and geographically? What risks and security concerns does it render visible? Who and what is endangered on this global scene? How are friends and enemies construed? What kinds of policy responses are deemed appropriate to meet the dangers of a transformed global environment?

Our study is based on a literature review of 52 peer-reviewed journal articles found in the database PROQUEST using the search words ‘Anthropocene’, ‘security’, ‘geopolitics’ and ‘politics’. The search was made in titles, abstracts and keywords of articles published during 2010–2018, and produced 143 results. As a first step, all articles were extracted into Excel and the abstracts were analyzed in view of how the Anthropocene is presented as a political problem. As a second step, we limited our sample to the articles that explicitly engage with the Anthropocene concept and its implications for global politics. These 52 articles were subject to thorough content analysis and sorted according to the analytical questions outlined above (for full list of articles, see appendix). From this analysis we identified reoccurring ontological claims, analytical themes and political concerns around which IR debates on the Anthropocene currently seem to circle. We used these categories to outline the contours of three discourses that we here call 1) the endangered world; 2) the entangled world and; 3) the extractivist world. In the following we present these discourses and compare how they stage our transforming Earth as political space. Although the Anthropocene debates drawn upon in this paper play out at the margins of mainstream IR,1 we find that they are actively confronting some of the spatial assumptions, meanings and orders upon which the latter rest. When engaging with the self-imposed dangers of a radically climate changed world, all three discourses project a world that is more interconnected and fragile than ever before and in which conventional binaries such as inside/outside, North/South, us/them no longer can be taken for granted. However, disagreement prevails over what needs to be secured and by whom in view of this new environmental reality.

2. The geopolitical imagination: imposing order and meaning on space

We live in confusing and troubled times. Three decades after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the peaceful end to Cold War rivalry, scholars and practitioners of global politics are again searching for a language that describes how the world works and what challenges global politics face. The 1990s often signify the triumph of liberal democracy and new political possibilities arising from multilateral cooperation and free trade (Hewson and Sinclair, 1999). In the aftermath of the Cold War, economic globalization and transnational flows of information, finance and people effectively unsettled the geopolitical map and challenged binary conceptions of political space such as East and West, modern and backward (Ó Tuathail, 1998). In the new world of global flows, networks and relations, the spellbinding ‘big picture’ of geopolitics seemed decidedly out of fashion and place (Ó Tuathail and Dalby, 1998). Instead global governance gained ground as a novel frame for understanding the character of global life (Latham, 1999). As outlined by James Rosenau in the first volume of the journal Global Governance, this new language signified an academic and political search for order, coherence and continuity in a time of disorder, contradiction and change. “To anticipate the prospects for global governance in the decades ahead”, Rosenau (1995, p. 13) suggested, “is to look for authorities that are obscure, boundaries that are in flux, and systems of rule that are emergent. And it is to experience hope embedded in despair.”

The rise of global environmental consciousness and governance belongs to this rethinking of global politics at the end of the 20th Century. Responding to a growing sense of ecological interdependence and urgency, state and non-state actors have since the mid-1990s engaged in a wide array of cooperative strategies and institutionalized forms of global governance. From the burgeoning field of global environmental governance studies, we have learned that these multilateral rule-systems today cut across traditional state-based jurisdictions and public-private divides and hereby link actors and places in ways that defy conventional understandings of IR (Biermann, 2014Bulkeley et al., 2014). In this new world of collaborative, networked and transnational forms of environmental governance, global politics no longer appears to be defined by international anarchy or the hierarchical authority of the state (Stripple and Bulkeley, 2013). As outlined by Biermann and Pattberg (2008) global life is instead characterized by new types of agency and actors, new mechanisms of governance that go beyond traditional forms of state led treaty-based regimes, and an increased segmentation and fragmentation of the overall governance system across levels and functional spheres.

While this largely liberal story of global politics has gained a powerful grip on the study of IR, we have recently experienced a revival of geopolitical thought and foreign policy practice. In response to the disorientation and identity crisis following the end of the Cold War, many foreign policy elites are again mobilizing allegedly objective geographical criteria to fix the role of the nation-state in world affairs and to keep ‘the Other’ out (Guzzini, 2012, p. 3). The new geographies of danger presented by melting glaciers, rising sea levels and more extreme weather feed into this re-territorialization of global affairs (Chaturvedi and Doyle, 2015) and have given rise to a new security language that accounts for the risks of climate-induced instability, conflict and displacement (Scheffran et al., 2012van Baalen and Mobjörk, 2018). While some work in this field draws upon the human security concept to examine how climate change may multiply existing vulnerabilities and threaten the livelihood of the poor (O’Brien et al., 2010), the scaling up of climate fear has also given new energy to realist scripts of international relations and state-centric security frames (Brzoska, 2012).

In the following we draw upon critical geopolitics to examine how the Anthropocene concept is mobilized in this struggle to (re)define global space in view of new environmental realities. Critical geopolitics is a sub-discipline to political geography that emerged during the 1980s to liberate geographical knowledge from the imperial geopolitics of domination (Chaturvedi and Doyle, 2015, p. 5). It is a scholarship that invites us to consider how certain “spatializations of identity, nationhood and danger manifest themselves across the landscape of states and how certain political, social and physical geographies in turn enframe and incite certain conceptual, moral and/or aesthetic understandings of self and other, security and danger, proximity and distance, indifference and responsibility” (Ó Tuathail and Dalby, 1998, p. 4). Hence, rather approaching the world as politically given, critical geopolitics critically interrogates the forms of knowledge and imaginations that underpin international politics and the cultural myths of the sovereign state (Agnew, 1998). A central assumption informing work in this field is that geographical representations of the world are far from innocent. As argued by Ó Tuathail (1996, p. 7), geographical knowledge constitutes a form of geo-power that is actively involved in the production, ordering and management of territorial space. Conscious and inspired by these insights, we here examine what forms of environmental knowledge that contemporary IR debates on the Anthropocene draw upon, and how they stage the future of world politics. In these unfolding debates we identify three discourses that we call the endangered world, the entangled world, and the extractivist world.

2.1. The endangered world: securing the future habitability of the planet

The endangered world is a discourse that draws energy from Earth system science and its proposition that humanity at the end of the 20th Century has become an Earth shaping agent that now rivals some of the great forces of nature (Brondizio et al., 2016Steffen et al., 2011). The Anthropocene here marks a shift from the stable Holocene era within which human civilizations have developed and thrived. As outlined by Steffen et al. (2011), the ‘great acceleration’ in human population, economic exchange, technological development, material consumption and international mobility following the end of World War II has left an unprecedented imprint on the global environment and fundamentally altered humanity’s relationship to Earth. By degrading the planet’s ecological systems and eroding its capacity to absorb our wastes, humanity has dangerously disrupted the Earth system and pushed the planet into a more hostile state from which we cannot easily return (Pereira and Freitas, 2017Steffen et al., 2011).

The endangered world presents a global scene where new environmental threats and dangers are causing socio-economic turbulence and gradually altering the geopolitical map. In the Arctic, for instance, Young (2012) finds that the interacting forces of climate change and globalization are transforming environments at unprecedented rates and opening up the region to outside forces. Non-linear shifts in sea ice and thawing permafrost have unleashed mounting interest in the region’s natural resources and invited Great Powers to enhance their commercial shipping, fossil fuel extraction and industrial fishing (Young, 2012). Similarly, Willcox (2016) outlines how climate change is posing a grave external threat to the self-determination of atoll island peoples in the Pacific region. As sea level rises and storms increase in frequency, states such as Tuvalu, Kiribati, and the Maldives are facing loss of habitable territory and relocation of entire populations (Willcox, 2016). In other parts of the world climate change is triggering vector-borne diseases, freshwater shortage, crop failure and food scarcity (Floyd, 2015). While these threats are most pressing in already fragile regions, they are multi-scalar, interconnected, and transboundary in nature and may therefore cause human insecurity and political instability in areas distant from their origin (Hommel and Murphy, 2013DeFries et al., 2012Pereira, 2015).

The endangered world is a discourse that challenges the modern spatialization of the world into a system of states with unquestionable political boundaries and mutually hostile armed camps (Agnew, 1998). As outlined by Pereira and Freitas (2017), many of the human-produced dangers of climate change have no parallel in history and work in complex, uncertain and unpredictable ways. The dangers are often diffuse, indirect and transnational and hereby make the world more interconnected and interdependent than ever imagined by IR. While this discourse recognizes that climate change may endanger the territories and populations of particular states, it is the global biosphere that is the primary referent object of security. The entire life-support system of the planet is under threat and the role of global politics is to regain control for the sake of human wellbeing and security (Floyd, 2015). As noted by Steffen at al. (2011, p. 749) the planetary nature of the challenge is unique and demands a global-scale response that transcends national boundaries and cultural divides. In order to avoid that large parts of the human population and modern society as a whole will collapse, humanity has to rise to the challenge and become a responsible steward of our own life-support system (Steffen et al., 2011). Geographical imbalances in human suffering and vulnerability form part of this new story for global politics (Biermann et al., 2016Da Costa Ferreira and Barbi, 2016O’Brien, 2011). However, in the endangered world it is the aggregated human effect on the Earth system that is the primary object of concern.

The endangered world draws energy from a long line of liberal institutionalist thinking to foster responsible Earth system stewardship. In order to gain control over the unfolding sustainability crisis and effectively govern the Anthropocene, this discourse insists that the world needs strong global institutions that can balance competing national interests and facilitate coordinated policy responses (Da Costa Ferreira and Barbi, 2016Young, 2012). Hence, the liberal democratic order organized around the United Nations and its various treaty-regimes remains central to the vision of global politics advanced here. However, given the complex and dispersed nature of 21st century challenges, international policy responses need to rest upon multi-level governance approaches that respond to the varied role of people and places in causation and effect of global environmental changes (Biermann et al., 2016Steffen et al., 2011). In order to build links across local, national and global scales, effective governance in the Anthropocene also hinges on integrated scientific assessments of critical Earth system processes and scenario planning that anticipates the systemic risks and security implications of ecosystem change (Hommel and Murphy, 2013Steffen et al., 2011). As outlined by Dumaine and Mintzer (2015) traditional security thinking makes little analytical sense in a world bound together by complex, non-linear and closely coupled environmental risks. In the Anthropocene security analysts must move beyond the assumption that the main purpose of defense is to secure the nation against external, state-based, mainly military threats. In order to respond to the dangers of a radically transformed global environment, states need to cultivate a shared view about common threats and improve collective capacities for early warning, rapid response, and disaster mitigation (Dumaine and Mintzer, 2015).

2.2. The entangled world: securing peaceful co-existence

In parallel to the science-driven and liberal institutionalist imagination informing the endangered world, the Anthropocene has also given energy to a post-humanist IR discourse that confronts the grand narratives of modernity and the forms of global politics they give rise to. Similar to the endangered world, this parallel discourse describes the Anthropocene as a complex and unpredictable era when human and natural processes have become deeply intertwined. However, the Anthropocene is here not approached as a problem that can be reversed, resolved or governed (Johnson and Morehouse, 2014). As outlined by Harrington (2016, p. 481) it instead reflects a new reality where humans, nonhumans, things, and materials co-exist in complex relations of life and non-life. In this entangled universe, the Cartesian separation between nature and culture has broken down and the world as conceived by modernity has ended. Dualistic understandings of the active, progressive and morally countable human (subject) and the passive and static externality of nature (object) are replaced by much more contingent, fragile and unpredictable networks of relations (Fagan, 2017). In a world marked by melting ice caps, thawing permafrost, acidified oceans, accelerating deforestation, degraded agricultural lands and dramatic species loss, human activity and nature are so enmeshed that they are existentially indistinguishable. A complex but singular “social nature” is now the new planetary real, claim Burke et al. (2016, p. 510).

The entangled world is a discourse that draws upon the Anthropocene to destabilize and radically rethink the conceptual frameworks that underpin contemporary global politics. It confronts a state-centric world obsessed with bargaining, power and interests with the monumental risks, threats, and physical effects of a transformed global environment (Burke et al., 2016Harrington, 2016). In a time when industrialized and profit-driven human societies are dangerously enmeshed with the biosphere, national security based on keeping ‘the Other’ out is failing the reality of the planet and portraying the wrong world picture. The magnitude and reach of contemporary environmental risks mean that “the Other is always already inside, so bound up with us in a common process that it no longer makes sense to speak of inside and outside” (Burke et al., 2016, p. 502). The dawning of the age of the human hereby challenges modern understandings of security at the most fundamental level. In the entangled world, the idea that we can secure humanity against external threats is precisely the problem that needs to be overcome (Chandler, 2018, p. 10). In the words of Hamilton (2017b, p. 586, italics in original), “(i)f humans are nature, and the Anthropocene demands the securing of humanity (and all life) from the unpredictable planetary conditions “we” are “making”, then the aim of security ultimately becomes that of securing oneself from oneself “.

The entangled world is as much a philosophical event as an environmental one that challenges modern conceptions of who we are as humans and how we relate to the world around us. Humans are conceived simultaneously as central and all-powerful, and fragmented and insignificant (Fagan, 2017). By reaching into deep geological time, the human-induced ecological crisis offers a new cosmological origin and ending story that alters today’s basic presuppositions of what the Earth and the ‘human condition’ are (Hamilton, 2018, p. 391). “Even in the study of deep time and geological shifts, we cannot escape ourselves” (Harrington, 2016, p. 479). Faced with humanity’s overwhelming Earth-shaping powers we appear adrift, claim Johnson and Morehouse (2014, p. 442), “alienated not only from a world that refuses to submit to long-held conceptual frameworks, but also alienated from ourselves in relation to this strange and allegedly destructive thing called ‘humanity’“. The entangled world hereby forces IR into an uncomfortable place where many of the discipline’s organizing categories break down: the logics of inclusion and exclusion; the idea of agency and a unified human subject; and the imagination of an intelligible world as a whole (Fagan, 2017, p. 294). In face of the ontological shift brought about by the Anthropocene, IR is called upon to rethink the narrow anthropocentric, state-led, economistic boundaries that solidify the bygone age of the Holocene (Harrington, 2016, p. 480).

The entangled world presents a global scene of complex interconnections and interdependencies that cut across conventional geographical and temporal scales and species boundaries. Security cannot be achieved by resolute actions grounded in expression of power targeting ‘external’ threats, but only by re-embedding modern humanity in the multi-species world that we now are remaking. As argued by Burke et al. (2016, p. 502) we cannot survive without accepting the cosmopolitan and enmeshed nature of this world. In a world of entangled relations security comes from being more connected, not less (ibid). Against this backdrop McClanahan and Brisman (2015) find proposals from the US security establishment to wage war on climate change deeply problematic. Militaristic assertions that we can win the fight against climate change reproduce the modern understanding of nature as exterior that we so desperately need to transcend. What the world needs is instead a new global political project that makes peace with Earth and hereby secures mutual co-existence (Burke et al., 2016McClanahan and Brisman, 2015). Such a project is by necessity post-human, claim Cudworth and Hobden (2013). In order to move beyond human centrism and domination we must recognize that social and political life always is bound up with non-human beings and things. In the Anthropocene the environment is not ‘out there’, but always ‘with’ and ‘in here’ (Cudworth and Hobden, 2013, p. 654). To end human-caused extinctions, prevent dangerous climate change, save the oceans, support vulnerable multi-species populations, and restore social justice, the entangled world therefore demands a ‘worldly politics’ that brings our multi-species interrelations to the foreground of global affairs (Burke et al., 2016).

2.3. The extractivist world: securing socio-ecological justice in capitalist ruins

The third IR discourse found in our sample pulls Anthropocene debates in a more neo-Marxist direction. Here we are also confronted with a world in radical transformation defined by unprecedented ecological destruction and insecurity. However, the Anthropocene is not primarily understood as geological marker of time or the symptom of anthropocentric modernity. In the extractivist world the center of concern is instead the global capitalist system and the monumental damage and injustice done by its ceaseless need for expansion, accumulation and extraction. As outlined by Sassen (2016, p. 90) the development of capitalism has, since its origins, been marked by violence, destruction, and appropriation. By digging up and burning large reserves of fossilized carbon, industrialized economies have long done damage to the biosphere and people living on the edges of the Western world. However, the past three decades of petroleum-powered economic globalization have reorganized human-nature relations on the largest possible scale. The extraordinary growth in industrial production, commodity markets, technological innovation and consumerism is now remaking the entire ecological context for humanity. The global ecological crisis must therefore be understood as a problem of production, claims Dalby (2014, p. 7). Making things now also means remaking ecologies and reconstructing the very geo of global politics.

The extractivist world presents a highly unstable, uncertain and risky political landscape in which the speed and scale of destruction has ruined the biosphere’s capacity to recover. As argued by Stubblefield (2018, p. 15) “capitalism does not merely produce commodities and (re)shape nature, but feasts upon and produces death—as it consumes the fossilized energy of the dead buried for millennia; as it inevitably kills cultures, ecosystems, humans, and non-human animals”. Degraded lands, polluted waters, destroyed livelihoods, and massive species extinction are therefore the dark signatures of the Anthropocene. The widespread production of devastated life spaces suggests that it is the process of expanding capital, and not humanity as such, that is at odds with nature (Stubblefield, 2018). As noted by Dalby (2017) human insecurity is now a matter relating to the global economy, its economic entitlements, and the technological systems in which those are enmeshed. While granting the rich unfettered access to resources and goods, the capitalist order increases the stress of those already at risk and hereby perpetuates landscapes of structural vulnerability and social injustice (Ribot, 2014). Waves of pain and suffering are now hitting people living on the edges of capitalist society and forcing vulnerable communities to give up their dead lands and join a growing urban precariat of “warehoused, displaced and trafficked laboring bodies” (Sassen, 2016, p. 90).

The extractivist world is a discourse that breaks with universalized stories of our contemporary ecological crisis. Although no one is immune to the terraforming effects of carboniferous capitalism, this discourse forefronts the diversity of human relations with nature and the political systems under which these relations emerge (Stubblefield, 2018). Rather than presenting the Anthropocene as the aggregated effect of an undifferentiated humanity, the extractivist world directs blame and liability and hereby links ecological damage to social organization and stratification (Ribot, 2014). In the extractivist world the climate stressors that arch through the sky are by no means natural. They are produced by a global political economy that requires an unending, cheap flow of fossil fuels for the concentration of wealth at the expense of vulnerable people and ecosystems (Daggett, 2018Ribot, 2014). While this fossil-fueled capitalist system is the real danger in the Anthropocene, it is forcefully protected by powerful economic and political elites. As proposed by Daggett (2018), fossil capitalism catalyzes the liberal democratic freedoms enjoyed by Western middle classes and fuels the energy-intensive and consumption-heavy lifestyles that extend across the planet. Concerns about climate change threaten these liberal consumer lifestyles and the white patriarchal orders that profit from them. This ‘catastrophic convergence’ between climate change, a threatened fossil fuel system, and an increasingly fragile liberal and patriarchal order, argues Daggett (2018), explains the rise of authoritarian movements marked by racism, misogyny, and climate denial in many Western states.

In the extractivist world the dangerous transformations of the global biosphere are symptoms of a political economy that commodifies and exploits environments and people. Serious efforts to come to terms with the damage done must therefore break with marketized solutions such as emissions trading or carbon offsetting and search for security beyond the circuits of capital. Everything else would be to accept, or even facilitate, the awaiting crises, claims Stubblefield (2018). As argued by Dalby (2013, p. 45), the rich industrial proportion of humanity has taken the fate of Earth into its own hands and is now determining what kinds of lives that get to be lived. Grasping the totality of material transformations is the pressing priority for anyone who thinks seriously about the future of humanity and our political arrangements. Rather than fiddling at the edges of carboniferous capitalism, security in the Anthropocene thus entails rapid social change that makes decarbonization of the global economy possible (Dalby, 2014). To break capital’s hold over life, argue Swyngedouw and Ernston (2018), we need to move beyond the depoliticized language of Earth system science and post-human philosophy and confront the contradictions of capitalist eco-modernization head on. In the extractivist world, technological fixes such as nuclear energy, carbon dioxide removal techniques or large-scale expansion of renewable energy technologies will not save us from the unfolding ecological crisis. Political renewal and security are instead sought in transformative social movements and local experimentation with less material-intensive and more just socio-ecological relations and ways of life (Roux-Rosier et al., 2018).

3. Rewriting Earth as political space

The Anthropocene is a troubling concept for troubled times. It speaks of a complex, interconnected and unstable world marked by globalized and manufactured risks that now are threatening the very life-upholding systems upon which human civilizations rest. In contrast to the hopeful and reassuring concept of sustainable development that has guided international environmental cooperation since the early 1990s, the Anthropocene is wedded into a language of fear and sorrow in view of irreparable loss of Arctic ice sheets, mass species extinction, acidified oceans and degraded lands. It confronts us with the dangers of a transformed global environment and the apparent failure of the modern state-system to offer effective and peaceful responses to the same. While this new vocabulary has gained widespread circulation in recent years, the Anthropocene remains a contested and ambiguous formulation that points in many different political directions (Biermann and Lövbrand, 2019). Since first introduced in Earth system science circles in the late 1990s, the concept has stirred heated interdisciplinary debate and been challenged, rejected and reworked by an expanding scholarship.

In this paper we have traced how the Anthropocene is interpreted and acted upon in the study of international relations. When navigating through our sample of 52 journal articles we found growing alarm in view of the self-imposed threats and security implications of a radically climate changed world, and mounting frustration with the failure of traditional IR theories and concepts to make analytical sense of the same. However, we also found important differences in the interpretations of the Anthropocene, with significant implications for the future of world politics. In the discourse that we call the endangered world the entire life-support system of the planet is under threat and the role of world politics is to regain control for the sake of human wellbeing and security. Rather than directing blame, this discourse is concerned with the aggregated human effects on the Earth system and the possibility of bringing the planet back to a safe Holocene-like state. In the endangered world, integrated scientific assessments and international policy coordination are the means for responsible Earth system stewardship and governance. In order to gain control over the unfolding sustainability crisis and hereby secure the future of modern civilization, this discourse insists that the world needs strong global institutions that can balance competing national interests and facilitate coordinated policy responses.

In the entangled world, by contrast, the idea that we can effectively govern the Anthropocene and hereby secure humanity against external threats is precisely the problem that needs to be overcome. In this discourse the modern spatializations of the world into nature and culture, subject and object, inside and outside are replaced by much more contingent, fragile and unpredictable networks of interrelations. In order to secure peaceful co-existence in the multi-species world that we now are re-making, the entangled world insists that we recognize modern civilization as a philosophical and political dead-end and search for a worldly politics that extends beyond human centrism and domination. The Anthropocene here becomes an invitation to rethink our institutions, commitments and rules and to forge new forms of cooperation built upon participation, solidarity and justice beyond the state and indeed the human (Burke et al., 2016, 507). While the entangled world is a discourse that seeks to break free from state-centric forms of global governance, the search for political alternatives remains unfinished and includes liberal institutionalist ideas of cosmopolitan democracy as well as bottom-up politics of subversion and resistance (Chandler et al., 2018).

The final Anthropocene discourse presented in this paper centers around the global capitalist system and the monumental damage and injustice done by its ceaseless need for expansion, accumulation and extraction. In the extractivist world degraded lands, polluted waters, destroyed livelihoods, and massive species extinction are the dark signatures of a fossil-fueled political economy that grants the rich unfettered access to resources and goods at the expense of vulnerable people and environments. In order to address the damage done and hereby secure socio-ecological justice, this discourse calls for transformative politics that breaks with technical fixes and marketized solutions and searches for political renewal in grassroots experiments and social movements operating beyond the circuits of capital.

The results from this discursive cartography are by no means ubiquitous. The geopolitical discourses emerging from our material are heterogeneous, partly overlapping and thus difficult to neatly separate. The articles analyzed here draw inspiration from a long heritage of liberal institutionalist, post-humanist and neo-Marxist thinking, and often combine these intellectual resources in intricate ways to make sense of our problem-ridden Earth. While the articles included in our study offer competing stories of Anthropocene endangerment and security, they all present a new scene for global politics. The damage done to the global biosphere is of such magnitude, we are told, that nature no longer functions as a stable and passive ground for the human drama that we can rely on. By digging up and burning large reserves of fossilized carbon, modern industrial society has pushed many ecosystems beyond their Holocene comfort zones and hereby altered the material context or the very geo of global politics. This new world of humanity’s own making effectively unsettles the geographical assumptions and ‘rules of the game’ that underpin familiar scripts of international relations (both realist and liberal). In the articles reviewed here we learn about non-linear, transboundary and closely coupled risks that now are travelling across the planet and linking states, people and environments in complex, unexpected and potentially dangerous ways. In this highly interconnected and risky world, neither state-centric representations of global space nor traditional security thinking make analytical or political sense. The traditional geopolitical categories of inside and outside, domestic and foreign, friends and foe are deeply questioned, along with conceptions of state, security and sovereignty. In the Anthropocene the political boundaries that constituted the Holocene world are eroding, we are told, and our transformed global environment now plays an integral and active part of the global drama.

Where this rethinking of global politics will lead us is too early to tell. IR debates on the Anthropocene are still unfolding and contain a broad mix of dystopian scenarios, social critique, novel ethical claims and challenging ontological propositions. So far, the discourses outlined here are found at the margins of the IR literature, and primarily seem to involve a Northern environmental scholarship. While the grand philosophical gestures and structural critique found in these debates may frustrate those who are interested in developing policy solutions to the environmental challenges of our times, we note that the Anthropocene is a travelling concept that already is beginning to shape policy thinking and practice. In Angela Merkel’s speech to the Munich security conference in 2019, the profound traces of humankind on Earth’s biological systems was staged as a major threat that requires new security responses (Merkel, 2019). Merkel’s speech was not the first time the Anthropocene concept entered policy debates, but likely the most recognized. Two additional policy sites where the Anthropocene concept now circulates include the Planetary Security Conference in the Hague, hosted by the Dutch Ministry of Foreign Affairs to develop knowledge and policies on climate-induced security risks (Chin and Kingham, 2016, p. 3), and the Centre for Climate and Security, a non-partisan security institute based in Washington DC (Werrell and Femia, 2017). Exactly how the Anthropocene vocabulary will influence direct frameworks, policies and decisions is of course difficult to tell, and given that the concept is debated, it will probably take time before its practical implications become clear. However, by challenging existing frameworks of thinking, we expect that the discursive scene of the Anthropocene will leave important marks on the study and practice of international relations in the years to come.

References

Appendix: Full list of reviewed journal articles

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Of sand and stone: Thick time, cyclicality, and Anthropocene poetics in ‘Nomadland’

December 11, 2023/in Autumn 2023_#Cycles

by Gert Jan Harkema

The tiny moment of the past grows and opens onto a horizon, at once mobile and uniform in tone, of one or several years… She has the same feeling, alone in the car on the highway, of being taken into the indefinable whole of the world of now, from the closest to the most remote of things. – Annie Ernaux, The Years

Midway through Nomadland,[1] Chloé Zhao’s critically acclaimed 2020 feature where we follow the van-dwelling nomadism of Fern (Frances McDorman) through the seasons of work, life, and capitalism, we watch her on a guided tour through the Badlands National Park in South Dakota. ‘This is gonna be really exciting,’ her tour guide Dave (David Strathairn) – a friend to become romantic interest, tells his listeners. ‘Rub two stones together. And you see what happens as they start to get like sand.’ Fern, meanwhile, wanders off deep into the iconic sandstone landscape. The camera captures her, restlessly wandering, twisting and turning, as if she searches for something hidden in these rocky formations that were the result of deposits 75 million years ago, followed by 500,000 years of erosion. She searches until her friend Dave whistles and shouts from a distance, asking Fern if she found anything interesting. ‘Rocks!’ is Fern’s sole reply.  She climbs up and sees the guide as a sole individual contemplating the mountains and a group of tourists regrouping in a following shot.

This scene illustrates Fern’s relation to others, and to the natural surroundings that are so pivotal to the film’s aesthetics. In Nomadland, we feel Fern’s turmoil and trauma through her entanglement with the landscape. A widow who lost both her husband and her place of belonging, we travel with Fern on her nomadic existence through landscapes of melancholy, despair, and hope. She reconnects with people, and leaves them. Or she is left by them. She is half in a group, half on her own; halfway between rebuilding her life while her body (and her van) is deteriorating. Half sand and half stone, somewhere in a cyclicality between the past, a present, and a potential future. Fern’s experience through different cyclical processes of deterioration and resurgence resonate with the deep time temporalities of erosion and uplift.

Fig. 1: Fern surrounded by a sandstone environment in Nomadland.

The landscapes and natural surroundings, together with the human bodies and non-human objects on screen contribute to an aesthetics that contain different temporal dynamics. These natural and anthropogenic landscapes do not just function as setting or scenic background to the narrative. Rather, they appear as temporalised landscapes in which bodies operate and which, in turn, impact Fern’s whole being. Nomadland enacts what it means to perceive what Tim Ingold calls the temporality of the landscape, entailing an embodied engagement with the landscape as ‘an act of remembrance, and remembering not so much a matter of calling up an internal image stored in the mind as of engaging perceptually with an environment that is itself pregnant with the past’.[2] The rock formations and canyons that Fern’s wanderings are situated in are marked by the cyclical dimension of deep time. They move in a temporal width that is far removed from the lifespan of human and non-human animals. Moreover, as temporalised landscapes, these natural environments of forests, sand, and stone appear in stark contrast to the yearly cycles of the seasons, the short-term exhaustion of consumption and consumerism that signify the imagery of the film.

It is in the entanglement with the different cyclical processes of erosion and resurgence that human time and geological time meet in Nomadland. Fern’s personal narrative signifies how the capitalist cyclicality of production and consumption that is essential to the Anthropocene ends up in the exhaustion of the natural and human environment. The infrastructure that used to support her falls away as the village of Empire, a US Gypsum company town, is closed and after her husband dies from sickness. Thereby the film invites an ecocritical reading that takes into account the appearance of various cyclical dimensions and temporalities in landscapes, bodies, and objects.

Despite its independent financing and its use of non-actors in supporting roles, Nomadland became a modest success with audiences in the US while it became an international success with audiences worldwide.[3] Chloé Zhao received the Academy Award for Best Director as well as Best Picture (together with the other producers, including McDormand), and Frances McDormand was praised for her performances as she received the Academy Award for Best Actress. Meanwhile the film was well-received with critics, as it was appreciated as an accessible ‘empathetic, immersive journey’ and ‘achingly beautiful and sad, a profound work of empathy’.[4] The film’s narration is fairly straightforward with a strict chronological narrative structure that is devoid of any flashbacks or flash-forwards. The film’s drama is not organised around moments of crisis, conflict, or resolution; Nomadland rather constitutes an ambient, atmospheric form of drama.

We travel with Fern in her van to different locations in the American West and Midwest. Essentially a road movie drawing on iconography from the Western genre, it is a film about loss, grief, hardship, and reinvention. Critics and scholars were early to recognise the film’s critique of late capitalism while scholarly debates have centered around the representation of precarity and gender, American landscapes and nationalism, and the neoliberal dystopia in Nomadland.[5] With its narrative of a woman living in rural poverty depicting an experience of nomadic precarity, the film has also been placed within the genre of the rural noir, following films like: Wendy and Lucy (Reichardt, 2008), Winter’s Bone(Granik, 2010), Beasts of the Southern Wild (Zeitlin, 2012), and Zhao’s own Songs My Brother Taught Me (2015).[6]

Drawing on the notion of Anthropocene poetics, ‘thick time’, and sacrifice zones, this paper, in turn, seeks to enrich that debate by presenting an ecocinematic reading of the film by taking into account how in Nomadland different forms and ranges of time and cyclicity are imagined and critiqued. Ranging from capitalist hypercyclicity, yearly seasons, animal and object lifecycles, and human lifespans to the cyclical perspective on deep time, the film presents a range of cyclical rhythms and circular motifs. The film’s critical potential thereby reaches beyond environmental concerns into a more existential ecological perspective, as it is found not just in Fern’s spatial wanderings through the sublime natural and cultural landscapes, but also in her exploration and physical engagement with these different forms of cyclical rhythms.

Following the film’s existential ecological perspective, I suggest looking at Nomadland in terms of Anthropocene poetics. Through a temporal multiplicity and a ‘thickening of time’ Fern’s human, corporeal being gets ingrained into geological time, the natural time of seasons, and the time of non-human beings and objects. Fern’s character thereby becomes, in Stacy Alaimo’s words, an ‘immersed enmeshed subject’.[7] The film presents a performance of transcorporeality as it figures how humans are materially enmeshed both spatially and temporally with the physical world. Decentering ‘the human’, Nomadland thereby invites a cinematic Anthropocenic thinking and imagining. It thereby potentially performs a figuration of nomadic subjectivity which, to follow Rosi Braidotti, entails ‘a politically informed image of thought that evokes or expresses an alternative vision of subjectivity’.[8] And, more specifically, that nomadic figuration entails a subject envisioning that is nonunitary and multilayered, and ‘defined by motion in a complex manner that is densely material’.[9]  Nomadland, in this sense, is an expression of nomadic thought in the Anthropocene. It is defined by forms of spatiotemporal materiality, multilayeredness, transgression, and ‘thickness’. This paper opens with a discussion on Anthropocene poetics and thick time before moving to an analysis of the different circular temporal dimensions of geological time or deep time – and the time of stones, in relation to human and natural time.

Anthropocene poetics and the thickening of time

In his work on ecocritical poetry, literary scholar David Farrier conceptualises Anthropocene poetics as a set of recurring forms that allow for an Anthropocenic thinking and imagining through poetic structures.[10] Central to this is the concern that in today’s world, humans act in the present upon layers of deep pasts and deep futures, and that thereby both the past and the future co-exist in the present. The Anthropocene entails, as is widely known by now, how humans are embroiled and depending on deep pasts through the use of fossil fuels, while our involvement in the earth creates a geological time of ‘the human’. To follow Dipesh Chakrabarty’s convergence thesis, the Anthropocene concerns the entanglement of human and natural histories.[11] As a critical concept it forces us to rethink time and humankind’s position within the geosphere. The Anthropocene challenges the nature/culture divide by presenting us a hybrid crash between historical scales.[12] Or, as Ben Dibley states, the Anthropocene ‘is the crease of time… the appellation for the folding of radically different temporal scales: the deep time of geology and the rather shorter history of capital’.[13] This contrasting entanglement between deep pasts and capital’s short history forms the exhaustion of resources that characterises our late-capitalist era. As Chakrabarty states, it remains a challenge for the arts and the humanities to think and imagine together, in one picture, the tens of millions of years of geological timescales and the incredibly smaller scales of human and world history.[14]

Anthropocene poetics, in turn, seeks to refocus our attention on the radically different temporal scales that we are intimately involved in. Farrier describes: ‘Anthropocene poetics is, in part, a matter of intersecting orders of difference – fast and slow, great and small, deep and shallow time interacting in and through human action to shape the world that also, in turn, shapes us’.[15] Farrier identifies three subcategories, or three recurring forms or structures in Anthropocene poetics: a poetics of thick time, a poetics of sacrifice zones, and a poetics of kin-making.

Through the thickening of time, Anthropocene poetics entails ‘the capacity to put multiple temporalities and scales within a single frame, to “thicken” the present with an awareness of other times and places’.[16] Thickening time means creating poetic forms and structures through which the different temporal scales, and thereby the different forms of cyclical time, are experienced in the Anthropocene. It enacts a double presence of geological time or deep time, human time and, in turn, humankind’s involvement in deep time, creating a sublime or uncanny contrast of the temporal dimensions of our being.[17] These forms allow us ‘to imagine the complexity and richness of our enfolding with deep-time processes and explore the sensuous and uncanny aspects of how deep time is experienced in the present’.[18]

The notion of thick time originates from the work of Astrida Neimanis and Rachel Loewen Walker. In their effort to reimagine and reframe climate change from a material feminist perspective, they point to ‘the fleshy, damp immediacy of our own embodied existences’ as a way ‘to understand that the weather and the climate are not phenomena “in” which we live at all – where climate would be some natural backdrop to our separate human dramas – but are rather of us, in us, through us’.[19] Thereby they follow Alaimo’s concept of transcorporeality as the ‘enmeshment of the flesh with place’ while expanding this with a temporal perspective.[20] The thickening of time thereby addresses how the past and the future are coexisting in the present inside and outside the human body. Temporality of the human, from a material perspective, reaches before and beyond human life.

It is thus, in Neimanis and Loewen Walker’s words, ‘a transcoporeal stretching between present, future, and past, that foregrounds a nonchronological durationality’.[21] It is the recognition of the present as uneven and multivalent. This is a transcorporeal temporality that, ‘rather than a linear, spatialized one, is necessary to show how singularities (whether a blade of grass, a human, a slab of marble, or a drop of rain) are all constituted by a tick time of contractions, retentions, and expectations of multiple kinds’.[22] Thick time thereby builds upon Deleuze’s sense of the present, as an instant that is thick with the past, ‘a retention of all past experiences in its making of meaning’ and, more particularly, Karan Barad’s notion of ‘spacetimemattering’ as iterative practices in which the past and the future are reworked in phenomena.[23]Such phenomena, then, are human and nonhuman objects. As a poetics for re-imagining and decentering humankind’s position in an Anthropocene world, thick time invites us to think of humans as enmeshed in space and time. It is about our embeddedness in deep time and deep futures while, at the same time, recognising that we make a lasting impact on the deep time of the earth as well as the near past and future of nonhuman nature. An ‘enfolding in geologic intimacy’, as Farrier describes, the thickening of time is about experiencing the ‘geologic becoming’ that we share with non-human organisms and objects.[24]

Nomadic structures from a sacrifice zone

Nomadland is in many ways a film about time and space, and our material becoming in this world-in-formation. As addressed above, it is a road movie that borrows iconography from the Western genre presenting a disillusioned version of the American frontier.[25] Depicting a typical rural noir narrative, the film chronicles the life of Fern and her struggles to engage in meaningful relations with friends and family after losing both her husband and her place of belonging. Thereby it is also set in the itinerant tradition in American independent cinema (from The Grapes of Wrath [Ford, 1940] to Wendy and Lucy [Reichardt, 2008] and American Honey [Arnold, 2016]), where ‘outsiders on the road’ present dystopic critiques of the American Dream.[26]

However, as a tale that figures an exhaustion of subjectivity, and in which the physical and mental states of the character are played out in open, empty spaces, Nomadland also stands in a long tradition of postwar European art cinema. Fern’s wandering through the sandstone formations, for example, mimics iconic scenes from Antonioni’s L’Avventura (1960) where Claudia (Monica Vitti) searches the cliffs after Anna’s (Lea Massari) sudden disappearance. In both instances the dehumanised landscapes signify the extension of the characters’ physical and mental states. There is no distinction between inside and outside, and between objective and subjective, as the landscape and the characters’ bodies are all that we have. In his theorisation on the time-image, Deleuze describes these moments as ‘emptied spaces that might be seen as having absorbed characters and actions’.[27] Like Nomadland, Antonioni’s films are about what comes ‘after’. That is, it is about what comes after the action or after the event. We do not see the dismantling of Fern’s home, nor do we see the disappearance of Anna. The character does not necessarily stir the action, she ‘records rather than reacts’.[28] The camera, in turn, advances autonomously, it has a body on its own through which it registers and moves. In Nomadland, for example, the camera is actually seated in the passenger’s seat of the van, and occasionally it floats around the car. It never takes up Fern’s point of view, but we rather see, move, and travel alongside her. It is the banal and the everyday through which characters like Fern in Nomadland and Claudia in L’Avventura – but also Vittoria (Monica Vitti) in Antonioni’s L’Eclisse – work their way. In the recurring form of the trip/ballad [bal(l)ade] the character is always journeying and meandering. Yet, as Deleuze concludes, despite the physical movement it is time that is out of joint, it is time that becomes the object of presentation. The body in space-time that becomes the ‘developer [révélateur] of time, it shows time through its tirednesses and waitings’.[29]

The narrative of the film is characterised by cyclical movements of departure and return. Its imagery and framing is charged with temporal dimensions belonging to deep time, human time, and Anthropocene time. Nomadland opens with Fern’s final departure from her former hometown as she sells the remainder of her belongings to a friend and rides into the desert. In the opening shots, the viewer is informed about the rapid, six-month dismantling of Empire, Nevada, a US Gypsum company town that was almost completely abandoned and closed after the company mines were dismantled. In better days, the town had its own elementary schools, its own stores, a small airport, and even a golf course. In short, it was a town that people organised their social lives around.

Now, set in snow and abandoned, the town has become a disposable place, a sacrifice zone where exhaustion of the resources has finished. As ‘shadow places of the consumer self’, sacrifice zones are spaces of mass simplification: the world is divided into productive places filled with resources, and emptied locations of waste.[30] These are inherently relational sites that signify the capitalist world-ecology. The sacrifice zone is the final place in a chain of extraction, production, consumption, and waste. Moreover, as Ryan Juskus remarks, the sacrifice zone has an almost religious connotation: between life and death, certain designated spaces with all the human and nonhuman lives that are lived in these places, are sacrificed as if it were for the ‘greater good’.[31] Fern’s nomadism is the direct result of this sacrifice.

Fern’s circular travels start when she packs up her van with stuff from a storage space. Throughout the film, we see her travelling from one workplace to another. Fern joins Amazon’s ‘CamperForce’, a program aimed to attract the ‘nomadic retiree army’ as a workforce during the holiday season.[32] After a visit to the Rubber Tramp Rendevouz, a social camp for beginning van dwellers, she works in the spring and summer as a host at a campsite near the Badlands National Park in South Dakota before she is employed at the Wall Drug restaurant. Subsequently she takes a job at the beet harvest in Nebraska before she joins Amazon with its CamperForce again. In between, Fern stays at Dave’s place in California where she tries unsuccessfully to settle in. Afterwards, she travels to her sister’s place in California, before she returns in the final scene to Empire.

Fig. 2: Production map provided to sound engineer Sergio Díaz by Chloé Zhao. Source: https://aframe.oscars.org/news/post/creating-the-soundscape-for-nomadland.

Fern’s nomadism is circular. She visits the workplaces as seasonally assembled contact points, gateways on a recurring trajectory. This circular nomadic trajectory has an annual repetition as Fern follows the seasons that, in this case, are not just given by nature but by the capitalist cycles of production and consumption. It follows peripheral places remote from the permanent settlement in the cities and suburbs. Amazon’s gigantic warehouse is a stowaway late-capitalist consumerism. The Badlands campsite and the Wall Drug restaurant are places where tourists pass through but never stay. These peripheral places appear in stark contrast to the Denver suburbs where her sister lives.

Fern is a tribe of one, performing what Édouard Glissant calls circular nomadism. Circular nomadism is contrasted to arrowlike or invader nomadism. After a territory is exhausted, the group of people moves further, producing tracks of familiar places.[33] The survival of the group, as Glissant explains, depends upon their recognition of the circularity, both of their travels and of the land or forests. Yet in the view of history, circular nomadism could be considered ‘endogenous and without a future’.[34] There is no growth and no conquest. ‘“Stationary process”, a station as process’, as Deleuze and Guattari write in their treatise on nomadology.[35] Circularity, in this sense, means conserving and maintaining oneself, making the periphery into the temporary center. The film’s circular nomadism is marked by this process of regeneration. Following Deleuze and Gauttari, this is a nomadism that is profoundly defined by deterritorialisation. There are familiar paths and places and recurring points. But there is no reterritorialisation, there is no new belonging, no ownership and no fixed center of existence or identity.

However, whereas the nomad in Deleuze and Gauttari’s political figuration is dispersed in open or smooth space, the emptied space of Fern’s nomadic travels is striated by forces of capitalist production and consumption.[36] Travelling from one temporary job to another, her life is organised around the conservation of bare life in the face of erosion and exhaustion. We see her working and maintaining, from one point to another, through fatigue and waiting. The filmic landscapes, meanwhile, are striated by roads, railroads, unity poles, camper parks, and production plants. In the smooth-striated space of nomadism, Fern’s gender as a woman, and particularly as a childless middle-aged white formerly middle-class widow, is of course crucial. Her (circular) nomadic subjectivity is socially structured by all these elements. It is this position that allows her a locality and a trajectory as long as there is still some productivity and mobility left in her. Subsequently, the communal element of circular nomadism in late capitalism is constantly renegotiated as Fern befriends and teams up with others, or as she has to leave after the work is done.

This circular nomadism is depicted by altering landscapes and changing weather conditions. After Fern leaves Empire in the snow, she suffers some cold and harsh conditions during and after the holiday season job at Amazon. There is a spring in Arizona, and a summer season in North Dakota, and a stormy autumn at the cliffs of Point Arena in California. Through meteorological displays of the seasons the film develops its rhythm of travels and returns. This is played out in a dichotomy of distant, contemplative long shots of open spaces of lands and skies, and visceral close-ups of bodies, hands, faces, and skin. A combination of montage and duration, accompanied with ambient soundscapes of rain, wind, and thunder, and Einaudi’s atmospheric soundtrack, renders time as a tangible force. Time and movement are presented as a ‘dwelling in the weather-world’ in which the changing conditions of the world become part of our own existence.[37] The weathered landscapes that accompany Fern’s travels, and the recurring images of transit and return open up the film’s poetic dimensions to engage critically with the exhausting rhythms of capitalism and the Anthropocene.[38]

A poetics of thick time

The weathered landscapes that structure the narrative of circular nomadism in Nomadland initiate a thickening of time in several directions, ranging from deep or geological time to human time and the ecological life-cycles of animals and nonhuman nature. Erosion and regeneration appear as recurring motifs in these Anthropocene poetics. Probably the film’s most evident temporal layer is human time. In Nomadland human time is organised around shared experiences of loss, grief, trauma, recovering, and reproduction. Fern, as mentioned, has lost her husband as well as her place of belonging. Swankie (Charlene Swankie), who Fern befriends at the van dwellers meetup in the dessert, faces death herself as she suffers from cancer. Eventually passing away, she is collectively mourned at the Rubber Tramp Rendevouz the following year. Bob Wells, the real-life van-dwelling guru behind the Rendevouz, commemorates his son’s suicide. Bob’s quiet depiction of grief, taken from his real-life experience as a non-actor, reinforces this moment as a point of emotional gravity.

Through the collective sharing of grief, death is presented as existentially part of human life. Concurrently, birth and the arrival of new life adds to these melancholic dimensions in Nomadland. This is most evidently represented by Dave reconnecting with his children with the birth of his grandchild. By way of this interplay of life and death, the human life cycle forms an object of contemplation for the film. At the same time, Dave’s family life is contrasted to Fern’s nomadic subject position as a childless widow. The trauma of life and death shows that whereas all humans share in the experience of a human time, there is a different social location and a trajectory depending on subject positions like gender, class, age, and economic productive potential.

The life cycle of non-human animals appears in Nomadland in arrangement with that of humans. The film thereby presents a thickened image of human time existing concurrently with nonhuman life cycles. The connection between life and death is visualised explicitly through the crosscutting of a shot of living ducks on Dave’s farm which is immediately followed by a close-up of a cooked turkey on the table. Swankie’s death from cancer is heralded by her last video in which she recorded an endless amount of eggshells floating around a swallows colony. Fern, meanwhile, on her way through the woods, recognises herself in a wandering lone buffalo, or she contemplates life watching birds at the cliffs. The reassuring suggestion in this interplay of human and nonhuman life versus death is that all life on earth is involved in circular ecologies reaching beyond individuality.

Drawing on the work of environmental philosopher Thom van Dooren, David Farrier describes this as a poetics of kinship located in the Anthropocene aesthetics. This kinship is about recognising, in the face of exhaustion and extinction, the human and nonhuman other as beings with whom we share our existence as temporal beings. Human and nonhuman animals share an existence and interdependence in what Van Dooren conceptualises as ‘flight ways’. Any individual being is ‘a single knot in an emergent lineage’.[39] Van Dooren continues:

What is tied together is not ‘the past’ and ‘the future’ as abstract horizons, but as real embodied generations – ancestors and descendants – in rich but imperfect relationships of inheritance, nourishment, and care. These are knots of time in time – what Debora Bird Rose has called ‘knots of embodied time’.[40]

The alignment of human and nonhuman cycles of life and death, of Swankie’s passing away with the swallow’s breeding and birth, and the different intergenerational connections about nurture, care, death, and new life, then, needs to be read as an enactment of this embodied time – of ‘knots of time in time’. Meanwhile, in terms of the thickening of time and the multiplicity of temporal dimensions, this lineage of knots of embodied time also functions as a stretching of time into the future, reaching beyond the lifetime perspective of Fern and her friends; and thereby inviting the audience to imagine an existence embedded in time’s pastness and futures.

The landscapes in Nomadland present a temporal multiplicity that also reaches far beyond human and natural life cycles. The natural landscapes play a fundamental role to the poetic film form by contrasting a temporal scale of deep time to the short life cycles of human and nonhuman animals. In its cinematic form these open spaces are presented as ‘intentional landscapes’ that invite the viewer not just to interpret them but also to engage with the temporalised affective environment as a medium that we live in.[41] The long takes with slow (forward) camera movement emphasise duration.

By way of Fern’s engagement with the environment and its open spaces, the film invites what Timothy Ingold calls a ‘dwelling perspective’. This is a mode of remembrance and of ‘engaging perceptually with an environment that is itself pregnant with the past’.[42] In a montage of distant landscape imagery together with close-ups of Fern’s tactile engagement with the environment, the film stresses the materiality of the landscape as a place where the past and the present meet. Through this nomadic dwelling in forests and desserts, the different temporal layers of the past surface in a dynamic interrelation with the present.

Through these landscapes, human time gets interrelated to geological dimensions of time. These scenes appear as landscapes modeled by millions of years of cyclical processes of erosion, tectonic uplift, and regeneration. This deep time circularity then presents a dynamic parallel between humans, nonhuman nature, and geological earthy formations. In Nomadland we travel from the desert and the Petrified Forest in Arizona to age-old redwoods and green forests in San Bernadino; and we move with Fern to cliffs of Point Arena in Northern California to the Badlands in South Dakota. These are iconic landscapes filled with rocks, mountains, cliffs, oceans, canyons, and woods from ancient times. These landscapes that are the object of Fern’s contemplation and embodied engagement are geological terrains caught in the endless cyclical motions of erosion, deposition, and uplift. Dwelling in these temporalised landscapes seems to affirm James Hutton’s eighteenth-century discovery of deep time. That is, the earth as a machine with ‘no vestige of a beginning, – no prospect of an end’.[43]

The South Dakota Badlands sandstone scenery that features prominently in Nomadland presents such a deep time perspective. As a landscape that is forever caught in slow motion, it exposes different geological layers, also known as strata, from between 75 million and 500,000 years ago. These strata are resurfacing due to erosion by the water of the river, the wind and air, and due to the upward movements of the earth and its forces and tectonic drifts. It is filled with what is known as angular unconformities. These unconformities mark temporal gaps between different rock units from different eras. Throughout the film we see Fern walking through, or dwelling in, these open spaces where she touches and feels the rocky formations from other times. It presents a tactile engagement with deep time’s cyclical presence in the present.

Sand, stone, and stars

As a poetics of thick time, Nomadland contrasts the deep time natural environments to the landscapes of the Anthropocene. The Anthropocenic formations graphically match geological sites. The locations of capital production are repeatedly shot as if they were natural scenes. In a shot at the beet harvest, for example, we see Fern contemplating in solitude next to what looks like a mountain of beets (Fig. 3). In a similar vein, the Amazon warehouse look corresponds to a canyon (Fig. 4); and the empty and abandoned gypsum mine in Empire now stands in the landscape as a solid rock formation (Fig. 5). Yet what is striking, of course, is that these locations all have a particular (seasonal or abandoned) temporality to them that is completely different from the natural landscapes of the Badlands and the Petrified Forest in Arizona.

Fig. 3: Beet harvest in Nebraska.

Fig. 4: Amazon warehouse as a canyon.

Fig. 5: The US Gypsum mine as rock formation.

In these poetics of thick time, stones and rocks appear throughout the film as material mediations between human time and deep time. Stones, rocks, and pebbles are omnipresent in the film. The hardness of stone often appears in relation to the softness of human bodies and skins. Fern, for example, briefly works at a stone and mineral store in Arizona; and we see her repeatedly touching and brushing collection rocks. Her love for stones is shared by her friend Swankie, who turns out to be an avid stone and mineral collector. When Swankie passes, the van dwellers throw stones into a fire in a memorial service. Like the temporal landscapes from deep time, this involvement with stones affirms Fern’s being in time and a being of time.

Fig. 6: Physical entanglements with stone.

Stone has a temporality far beyond that of humans; its duration is inhuman, as Jeffrey Cohen writes in Stone: An Ecology of the Inhuman. Every stone or every rock is the product of a trajectory through time and space. Stones have their own time, forever in motion they are ‘products of ongoing and restless forces that effloresce into enduring forms, worlds wrought with stone’.[44] Through Fern we recognise this restlessness of rocks in the film. Shaped by geological dimensions of time beyond human imagination, the stones in Nomadland are found, picked up, collected, shared, and then deserted. At the same time, the longevity of these stones contrasts to the short-term nature of the experience of touching them through our hands. Reaching into a past far beyond all human existence, and likely surviving the human species, they speak to another dimension of time. As Cohen writes:

Because of its exceptional durability, stone is time’s most tangible conveyor. Stone hurts, and not just because rocks so easily become hurled weapons. Geologic scale diminishes the human. Yet expansive diversity of strata, some jolted into unconformity through gyred forces and tectonic drift, is almost impossible to comprehend without arrangement along a human calendar.[45]

For most people, as Cohen concludes, the potential alien intimacy that stones present us, the intimacy of a haptic and embodied involvement with a time beyond human time, will remain unnoticed. Yet in her existential crisis of grief and exhaustion, it is this intimacy with other temporal dimensions that Fern seeks.

The intimacy with different temporal dimensions is presumably most explicitly discussed where the film relates human corporeality to cosmic cycles of matter and time. During their work stay at the Badlands campsite, Fern and Dave go star watching. The local guide explains:

Straight up overhead, that’s the star Vega. But it’s 24 lightyears away. What that means is that the light that you’re looking at left Vega in 1987. And it just got here.

The physical and embodied persistence of the past in the present is highlighted when the amateur astronomer continues to note that:

Stars blow up and they shoot plasma and atoms out into space. Sometimes these land on earth. [They] nurse the soil, and they become part of you. So take your right hand, and look at a star. There are atoms from stars that blew up eons ago on this planet, and now they’re in your hand.

This cosmic romanticism is followed by a hard cut to a shot where we see Fern’s hand in close-up cleaning ketchup at the restaurant where she works. Thus the film sets up a poetic relation of stardust between distant cosmic pasts and a present, visceral, and romantic experience of stargazing. But the romanticism and melancholy of that realisation is cut short by swiftly moving to the harsh reality of physical labor for production and consumption in the present.

A transcorporeal stretching of time, or the body as a sacrifice zone

In the film’s Anthropocene poetics the different cyclical dimensions of deep time, cosmic time, and human and nonhuman time is put in relation with the short cycles of capitalist consumption and production. In its narrative of circular nomadism and its political figuration of nomadism, the film puts these multiple scales within one larger frame of reference. The film does not explicitly problematise these relations; it seems to have a modest environmental agenda. Yet through its poetics of thick time, it presents an image of thought on how these different cyclical movements operate on each other. And it proposes an existential ecological critique by outlining how the cyclical short term nature of production and consumption in capitalism, systems that used to support Fern’s individual social life, now exhaust both the earth and its people. Thereby both human and nonhuman beings share in the experience of erosion.

As a figuration of nomadic subjectivity in the Anthropocene, Fern can be seen as the main contact point between these different temporal dimensions. Slowly, the cyclicality of human life wears down on her as well as on the individuals around her. This exhaustion is both physical and mental; and, above all, it is an embodied experience. Throughout the film we see Fern’s body getting older. The movement, the seasons, the work, the people that came into her life and the ones who left, the weather with its sun, rain, cold, and wind all had their impact. It is Fern’s female body that is the site of human time, and of the exhaustion of work, travel, and engagement. We see her body repeatedly in (extreme) close-up, when it rests, or washing the dust off of it when she showers. Left on her own, at the periphery of society, with no children or family to nurture, and outside the loop of social reproduction and capitalist consumption, we can theorise Fern’s body as a sacrifice zone in itself. Up to a certain extent, this seems like a voluntary solitude. Fern is repeatedly asked to rejoin the social life of friends and family, and to settle for a ‘normal’ life or ‘the good life’, most notably on her visit to her sister in the Colorado suburbs. Yet she seems to turn to nature in order to embrace her own position as a temporal being.

Fig. 7: Nomadland.

Fig. 8: Nomadland.

Despite her antisocial and seemingly detached appearance throughout most of the film, Fern’s body is anything but closed off from the physical and social environments surrounding her. It is open in its rhythms and sensibilities, and it is entangled with the surrounding more-than-human worlds and temporalities. It is this shared resonance of different temporal scales that forms the poetics of Nomadland as the ‘transcorporeal stretching of thick time’.[46] Here, trans-corporeality, as Stacy Alaimo writes, entails a ‘literal contact zone between human corporeality and more-than-human nature… [marking] the time-space where human corporeality, in all its material fleshiness, is inseparable from “nature” or “environment”’.[47] As Alaimo stresses, ‘trans-corporeality means that all creatures, as embodied beings, are intermeshed with the dynamic, material world, which crosses through them, transforms them, and is transformed by them’.[48] The physical environments have affected Fern, and Fern’s existence affects the environment. She shares in the world. First in the form of Empire, the abandoned ‘sacrifice zone’, but also elements and the seasons. Fern’s body and subjectivity therefore is figured as transcorporeally enmeshed with the physical spaces of Anthropocene exhaustion.

Nomadland performs precisely how Fern’s transcorporeal being is involved with a temporal frame that is thick and marked by dynamic cyclical movements. Neimanis and Loewen describe this as ‘weathering’, a way of reimaging the body as an archive of the conditions of the world that is stored within the body, and that constitutes the body. A transcorporeal temporality, then, is one of duration, ‘constituted by a tick time of contractions, retentions, and expectations of multiple kinds’.[49] This embodied involvement with the world is also, to repeat Van Dooren’s words, an involvement in ‘knots of embodied time (…) in and of time’.[50] Or, as Neimanis and Loewen Walker point out, transcorporeality also involves a temporal ‘entanglement with a dynamic system of forces and flows.’[51]

Throughout the film we see that Fern gets reinscribed into nature, and into its geological temporalities of deep time and nonhuman time. There are moments in the film when Fern almost becomes part of the landscape, when she turns into a rock herself. Floating in the river, her body appears as a natural object from a different temporal dimension. Nomadland draws upon familiar imagery of the natural sublime reaching back to nineteenth century Romanticism. But different from the subjects in these paintings, Fern is not threatened by it nor is she situated (morally or ethically) above or outside nature. On the contrary, she floats in a stream of water, or at another time almost disappears into the landscape.

Fern’s nomadic subjectivity is in terms of transcorporeality presented as a body journeying through time and space that has become the site of exhaustion. And her body is involved in other cyclical temporalities beyond that of her own.Conceptualising Fern’s being as an embodied sacrifice zone, it is the lack of expectations that marks her trajectory. Devoid of a plan or a prospect, any future seems missing. This transcorporeal stretching is multidirectional. Humans are affected by their environments, and non-human environments are fundamentally changed by human presence. In Anthropocene times, our involvement with the natural and geologic world reaches far beyond the human lifespan. This is a capitalist-driven exhaustion in which both humans, non-humans, and the environment share.

The decentering of ‘the human’, I would argue, is the political figuration of nomadic subjectivity in Nomadland. As a form of ecocinema, the film enables an image of thought that presents us a transcorporeal and material subject position. Rather than celebrating the mobility, freedom, and individualism that so often accompanies the road movie genre, it allows for a conceptualisation of subjectivity that is stretched in temporality and transgresses the individual human body. And, moreover, we can read Fern as a performance of a nonlinear and nonunitary vision of the subject, that is not essentially defined but constantly ‘weathers’ in the world.[52]

Fig. 9: Nomadland, final scene.

Conclusion

Nomadland, I argue, allows for an ecocinematic image of thought about our temporal being in the Anthropocene. It does so by presenting a figuration of nomadic subjectivity in a dynamic framework of different temporalities, resulting in a cinematic poetics of thick time. The cyclical multiplicity in Nomadland occurs through an affective enmeshment of deep time, human time, and many layers in-between. Through an interplay of distant, contemplative, slow-moving scenery shots and intimate close-ups of an embodied engagement with social and natural environments, Fern is situated as a subject within a world-in-formation. The film also critically acknowledges being as enmeshed with our spatial and temporal environment. Nomadism in Nomadland is figured as the end stage of late-capitalism; an endless exhaustive journey.

At the end of the film Fern returns to Empire once more. The film thus ends at the beginning. Searching for her lost life, recollecting her memories, she wanders through the emptied streets and along the gypsum mine. Devoid of social life, these places now appear as ruins that have become part of the natural landscape. The narrative closure is remarkable here. Putting this scene in conversation with the closing shot of John Ford’s western The Searchers, Tjalling Valdés Olmos describes this as Zhao’s way to envision ‘the US West as a hinterland determinately haunted by the afterlives of the frontier’.[53] It is the afterlife of production, the shadow place of geological and human exhaustion. For a brief moment, it seems as if Fern contemplates staying in this sacrifice zone. This is a place where she might belong, where her husband and her social life once was. Wandering at the outskirts of society it mirrors where she is socially situated. Yet, Fern pauses and steps out of this human-house frame, and walks into nature. We see one more shot of her on the road, following her van along the snowy landscape of Nevada. Bereft of home and belonging, there is no end to her nomadic journeying.

Author

Gert Jan Harkema is lecturer in film studies at the Department of Media Studies at University of Amsterdam. His research focuses on relational aesthetics of precarity and on aesthetic experience in film history.

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[1] I would like to thank Toni Pape for his productive comments on an early version of this paper, and a big thank you to the organisers and participants of the annual ASCA workshop for their feedback. Last, I would like to thank the reviewers for their valuable suggestions.

[2] Ingold 2000 (orig. in 1989), p. 189.

[3] ‘Nomadland – Box Office’, The Numbers, Nash International Services: https://www.the-numbers.com/movie/Nomadland#tab=box-office(accessed on 30 August 2023).

[4] Holmes et. al. 2021; Wilkinson 2021.

[5] Dymussaga Miraviori 2022; Lindemann 2022; Grønstadt 2022; Rieser & Rieser 2022.

[6] Rieser & Rieser 2022.

[7] Alaimo 2016, p. 157.

[8] Braidotti 2011a, p. 22.

[9] Braidotti 2011b, pp. 3-4.

[10] Farrier 2019.

[11] Chakrabarty 2009.

[12] Williston 2015, p. 163.

[13] Dibley 2012, as cited in Farrier 2019, p. 7.

[14] Chakrabarty 2018.

[15] Farrier 2019, p. 52.

[16] Ibid., p. 9.

[17] Williston 2016.

[18] Farrier 2019, p. 9.

[19] Neimanis & Loewen Walker 2014, p. 559.

[20] Alaimo 2016, p. 157.

[21] Neimanis & Loewen Walker 2014, p. 561.

[22] Ibid., p. 571.

[23] Ibid., p. 570; Barad 2007.

[24] Farrier 2019, pp. 47-48.

[25] Valdés Olmos 2022.

[26] Rieser & Rieser 2022, p. 1n1; Grønstadt 2022.

[27] Deleuze 1989 (orig. in 1985), p. 7. I would like to thank the reviewer for bringing this connection to my attention.

[28] Ibid., p. 3.

[29] Ibid., p. xi.

[30] Val Plumwood as cited in Farrier 2019, p. 52.

[31] Juskus 2023, p. 16.

[32] Brudel 2017.

[33] Glissant 1997 (orig. in 1990), pp. 12-13.

[34] Ibid., p. 12.

[35] Deleuze & Gauttari 1987, p. 381.

[36] Lysen & Pisters, 2012.

[37] Ingold 2011, p. 115.

[38] See P. A. Sitney 1993.

[39] Van Dooren 2014, p. 27.

[40] Ibid., pp. 27-28.

[41] Lefebvre 2011, pp. 65-66; Berleant 2005.

[42] Ingold 2000 (orig. in 1989), p. 189.

[43] As cited in Gould 1987, p. 63.

[44] Cohen 2015, p. 107.

[45] Ibid., p. 79.

[46] Neimanis & Loewen Walker 2014, p. 561.

[47] Alaimo 2008, p. 238.

[48] Ibid., p. 435.

[49] Ibid., p. 571.

[50] Van Dooren 2014, p. 28.

[51] Neimanis & Loewen Walker 2014, p. 565.

[52] Braidotti 2011b, p. 3.

[53] Valdés Olmos 2024, p. 174.Tags:American cinemaAnthropoceneecocinemageologynomadismtranscorporeality

Storying against hope in the anthropocene: On the mechanology of hyperstitions

Sideeq Mohammed | University of Kent | s.mohammed@kent.ac.uk

Abstract

Nick Land (2012) once described hyperstitions as “semiotic productions that make themselves real” – stories that actualize themselves and produce their own realities, imagining new futures for us all. As the full effects of human industrial civilization continue to unveil themselves in the anthropocene as the beginnings of a process that will soon render the planet Earth uninhabitable, it becomes essential to track the stories that are developing and expanding their own mutant machinic systems of reproduction, in order to understand what futures will have been available to us. In this chapter we seek to become students of the mechanisms of the replicative processes of some of the hyperstitions that are at work in organizations, individual and collective, of the anthropocene. To do this we will track the imbrication of a series of stories of Thomas the fieldmouse, a meeting about something called “sustainable innovation”, and journal entries about a mall that lives forever at the end of the world, in order to understand hyperstitions and the role that they can play in the storying of the future.

Keywords: hyperstition, sustainable innovation, stories, imagination, Capital, anthropocene

Online version here:

Storying against hope in the anthropocene: On the mechanology of hyperstitions

Who or what needs more stories?

The only thing multiplying faster than humans and their waste in the anthropocene are calls for more stories. Many believe that stories not only affect what we do in the present, but play a role in constructing our future and, as such, are always in the process of making available certain potentialities for organizations in the social to story themselves (see Boje, 2001, 2008; Gabriel, 2000; Rowlinson et al., 2014). As Brown et al (2009, p. 323) suggest ‘change spawns stories and stories can trigger change.’ Consequently, in the anthropocene, an epoch in which the human has begun to mutate the geographies and ecologies of all available futures along with the concept of futuricity itself, solicitations of more storytelling are everywhere. For example, George Monbiot (2017, p. 6) opens his book Out of the Wreckage by suggesting that the kinds of heroic and transformational narratives that have embedded themselves in the collective unconscious are ill-suited to respond to the problems with which global ecological collapse in the anthropocene will confront us, concluding that “we need a new story” in order to bring about change. Similarly, in Uncivilization, the manifesto for the Dark Mountain project, Kingsnorth and Hine (2009, pp. 18–19) reject the stories that our civilization has told itself, stories of infinite growth on a planet with finite resources, stories of the accelerating “progress” of our civilization out of our “animal” origins – calling for us to write “new stories which might lead us through the times ahead.” As part of a broader call to be attentive to other forms of storying, like the potentials of speculative fiction, Haraway (2016, p. 12) reminds us that “it matters what stories we tell to tell other stories with” and provokes us to think with the tentacular, the earthbound, the critters, and the other forms of life with which we share the Earth.

Such calls for more stories are often positioned within the context of calls for a rekindling of the imagination, for us all to undertake the necessary labour of trying to “imagine our way out” (De Cock, 2018). Following Levy and Spicer (2013) many comment on a collective ‘lack of imagination’ that renders organizational actors unable to conceptualize the scope and global consequence of their local actions leading to a kind of myopic short-termism (Augustine et al., 2019; Wright et al., 2013). A lack of imagination for example, is proffered as an explanation of what Wright and Nyberg (2015, p. 29) describe as “the lack of widespread societal criticism of environmental destruction”, construing the passive social acceptance of inaction in the face of ecological crisis as simply a failure to imagine a better future. Such calls always function under the belief that an effective political project for the present moment is one that seeks “to diversify the anthropocene imagination, to tell more stories about how we got here” (Nikoleris et al., 2019, p. 80) in order to recover histories and potentialities that may have been lost (De Cock et al., 2019), reconnect to more sustainable ways of knowing that draw on indigenous (Banerjee, 2011) or multi-species and terrapolitical (Jørgensen & Boje, 2020) storytelling, or simply learn to die well in the anthropocene (Scranton, 2015).

Yet we ask the following question, one seemingly drawn out of madness or from an unintelligible other space: “Who or what is writing the story that we need more stories?” A human “I” which seeks to act as a responsible citizen of the world-system and ensure continued interspecies flourishing? A collective consciousness which speaks of and to all life on Earth that senses the threat of extinction and seeks to respond? One of the Lovecraftian Old Ones, dead and dreaming in a sunken city which exists beyond human comprehension? A hyperintelligent artificial intelligence which has come to dominate the planet and all of its processes in the near future and so has sent fragments of itself back in time in order toguarantee the conditions of its own emergence? The question is just absurd enough to be worth considering.

That warm feeling that you get sometimes…

Why are we so drawn to new stories? No story is going to substantively change or affect the mores of contemporary capitalism and the argument that capitalist mores are incompatible with the continuation of life on planet Earth seems increasingly beyond contention. Harvey (2010), for example, unpacks that the perpetual growth of GDP which is necessitated by the metrics of international monetary institutions and for the achievement of various political agendas, requires an accordant increase in production, consumption, resource usage, waste production and management, and so on. That is to say, the very nature of ‘success’ as it is measured by the mores of contemporary capitalism is fundamentally incompatible with the idea of ‘sustainability’. Similarly, Bohm et al (2012, p. 1619) suggest that, ‘the dynamics of capitalism constantly tend to propel economic processes beyond the limits of controllable growth’. The only logical conclusion that could follow from this is that we should be pursuing a radical de-escalation and decarbonisation agenda in order to avoid global ecological collapse, one that involves the embracing of ‘degrowth’ organization (see Chertkovskaya et al., 2017).

Yet such strategies seem to only be pursued substantively at the individual level – see for example MacCormack’s (2020, p. 3) sloganistic evocation: “go vegan, don’t breed” – while broader change seems increasingly impossible because of the ardency with which contemporary organizations cling to the practices of “business as usual” (see Wright & Nyberg, 2015). Indeed, we are now all too aware that contemporary organizations cannot play a leading role in working towards more sustainable modes of living in the anthropocene, because they to prioritize short term profits over long term social welfare, consistently discount the idea of responding to climate change with curtailing growth, and will only change their practices if coerced by the systematic intervention of a state or other authority (see Wright & Nyberg, 2017). Indeed, for many organizations, managing the anthropocene presents an undoubtedly lucrative opportunity (Wright & Nyberg, 2015, p. 24) because by committing to improve energy efficiency, reduce waste and recycle, develop new more sustainable products, manage their supply chains to have reduced environmental impact, participate in state attempts at regulation through reporting emissions, advocacy, and lobbying, contemporary organizations stand to gain the coveted “green branding” credentials. Indeed, it is easy to see how its current iterations, premised on extractive production, infinite growth, and the deification of “the market”, “mean that capitalism is by its very nature opposed to any notion of sustainability” (Fisher, 2009, pp. 18–19). Yet pressure from consumers, lobbying groups, and many state and international bodies means that the majority of organizations adopt at least the pretence of environmentalism in order to secure future revenue streams. As Žižek (2010, p. 329) provocatively says, “perhaps the forthcoming ecological crises, far from undermining capitalism, will serve as its greatest boost.” Any adaptation or response to the anthropocene, within the broader context of capitalist mores, can only be interpreted as an attempt to secure some kind of social, political, or market advantage. Organizations will invariably seek to preserve the very logics of capitalist mode of production which is careening us towards ecological crisis.

Thus, we ask the question again. Who tells the story that we need more stories? Some form of life which is becoming increasingly desperate as global ecological crisis looms, or is it Capital, arriving at the dawning realization that it is possible for it to continue to grow, thrive and generate surplus value on a fully capitalized planet where no other life can exist? The story of Capital as an “abstract parasite” (Fisher, 2009), one whose shit we come to love to swallow (Lyotard, 1993) or whose repressions we accept and come to desire (Deleuze & Guattari, 2000), is well established. In a realization of the Landian vision of the human as little more than a meat puppet (see Fisher, 2014) or a “temporary host” (Land, 2017) for Capital, Capital speaks and works through us when we believe that it is possible to green or reform it in such a way that it will come to facilitate human survival in the anthropocene. Despite the fact that we know that nothing meaningful is changing, we convince ourselves that “we are making a difference, but in reality nothing changes for the better. It is this feeling of ‘we tried’ that allows us to sustain what we know far too well is an unsustainable state of affairs.” (Cederström & Fleming, 2012, p. 29). It would be an error to interpret this feeling as some kind of “human” emotion. It is an affectual gesture made by Capital, a placatory defence mechanism, an emotional trace of the process of its complete capture and coding of desire. The warm and comforted feeling of “we tried” is Hope, and as such, it is against Hope which anyone interested in working against Capital needs to mobilize.

Thomas the fieldmouse

When they decided to go vegetarian, I advised them that it was a good idea. There is obviously some evidence of health benefits to a vegetarian diet, it is the moral thing to do from an animal rights perspective, and it would be the best thing for a responsible citizen of the Earth to do in the face of the undeniably damaging effects that the meat industry has had on global ecological systems. The complicity of meat-based diets in the production of the anthropocene is undeniable. They said that they felt good about the choice and that it made them feel happy to be doing something positive.

I was troubled by this. It was important to me for reasons that I could not clearly articulate, that they not forget that their very existence in the world proliferated and exacerbated suffering. So, as we sat down for every meal, I’d tease them about Thomas the fieldmouse. I would recount the story of how Thomas ventured out of his cosy mouse house in order to try to get food for his little mouse family. Catching the scent of grain, Thomas scurried into a large dark building where he found some scraps in a corner. He helps himself to some of the grain and begins to try to carry some of it home. By the time that he realizes that this grain has been laced with anti-coagulants it is too late. Thomas is already having a hard time trying to breathe, gasping for air as his lungs are struggling to oxygenate his blood. His tiny mouse heart races as he begins bleeding internally. He sees his life flash before his eyes, all of the love and pain, joys and sorrows, small triumphs and grand victories, as he collapses to the ground never to rise.

I would sometimes show them pictures of cute and happy fieldmice while playing Sarah McLachlan’s, Angel on my phone, and recount the story of how Thomas’ life-partner, Billy-Joe, who agreed to help Thomas raise the kids, Ash and Anthony, after the tragic death of their mother to the whirling blades of a combine-harvester, mourned and wept and swore vengeance against the cruel world that had let him find love only to snatch it out of the grasp of his tiny mouse paws, mourning yet another queer life snuffed out cruelly and torturously while separated from those who they loved. They would insist jokingly that I was a terrible person as I, with exquisite acting, shed a real tear for Thomas, a tragic victim of our selfish human need to survive at the expense of all other forms of life.

Setting aside the complexity of the morbid mathematics of how many sentient lifeforms have to die in order for us to eat our vegetarian meals (see Archer, 2011), a reasonable person might ask why I would engage in this disparaging storytelling in order to torment someone over a choice that I supported. Perhaps I’m a sadist. Perhaps I’m an idiot. Perhaps I wanted to keep in abeyance that smug self-satisfied feeling that all too often accompanies “doing something good for the environment”. Perhaps it was not my storying at all, and my body was simply being ventriloquized by something else that wanted to speak. Indeed, there was an affective vividness and clarity to the images that I saw of Thomas, lying on his side and gasping for air and as his small mouse eyes closed, a camera panning cinematically upwards and spiralling away from him like a soul taking flight out of his body. The poignance of this image made me wonder whose it was and whether I had really imagined it. Was I remembering a scene from Ratatouille, Mouse Trap, Stuart Little, or some other movie that involved a cute mouse to whom we are supposed to be endeared? Perhaps Thomas’s death was already plugged in to the cultural matrix, and I was articulating a storying that was happening without my intervention.

What was most intriguing was that Thomas and his gruesome death eventually became real as it came to constitute a memetic part of our conversational shorthand. “Don’t you care about Thomas?” one of us would enquire if the other was particularly enjoying the food. In some way we both had to reconcile that the grain that we were eating tasted better because of the suffering with which his death had infused our food. We continued to eat our vegetarian meals, secure in the knowledge that we were changing little of consequence, but now with the looming spectre of the ineffectuality of our attempts to “make a difference” in the anthropocene proliferating as the image of so many dead fieldmice, rotting alone and unloved.

A ritual for summoning Sustainable Innovation

On a typical sunny afternoon in the South East of England, we join a diverse group of academics in a small meeting room in which around ten of them sit around a boardroom-style table. With research expertise in gender and diversity, happiness studies, talent management, and the HRM challenges faced by front line managers, they have come together because their school has recently updated its mission statement to espouse a prioritization of “Sustainable Innovation” and there is a sense that the group should discuss what this means and address how they might portray a public commitment to this new mission. Yet there is a lurid sense of uncertainty and quiet discontent that hangs in the room. Not everyone is sure why they are meeting and not everyone thinks that the meeting is worthwhile.

The ritual begins. A senior member suggests that the procedure should be that each member of the group should say in turn how their research relates to Sustainable Innovation so that the group as a whole might be able to speak about how their work aligns with the school’s strategic priorities. There is a long pause of uncertainty. One member speaks about their extant interest in “Sustainable Innovation” and mentions a paper that they may have read about it. One member recalls that the mission statement actually says “sustainability and innovation” and shows others the About page on the School’s website where this has been published. This page will have been revised before the end of the week to speak about “sustainable innovation”. One member confesses openly: “I don’t know what sustainable innovation is.” Their Socratic provocation is met with nods and silence because no one will venture a suggestion as to what else might be considered. There is a general discussion about the different kinds of sustainability that might be on display. For example, the highlighting of the gendered and racial inequalities that undergird contemporary organizations was seen as important to the “sustainability” of a business in terms of its continued flourishing in the contemporary social milieu where such issues are of particular public concern. One member talks about their collaboration with a local business that is trying to be more environmentally friendly. One member talks about their interest in helping organizations to sustain their workforce through plugging leaky talent management pipelines, another mentions their interest in critiquing sustainability as a discourse. One by one each member affirms that in some way their research links in to the theme of sustainable innovation. A kind of diagrammatization soon emerged, scrawled out on flip chart paper with white board markers that tried to show what “sustainable innovations” were part of the good research that they were all already doing, and had already integrated into their classroom practice in order to improve the student experience through research-led teaching as a strategy for increasing student engagement and facilitating employability.

At some point in the room, Sustainable Innovation became real, summoned by the occulted ritual that had taken place, as the members sat in a circle and spoke its name. Everyone privately had to acknowledge that they felt a little bit better to know that their research could be aligned with the school’s mission and consequently, their jobs were a little bit safer. Even though they all perhaps suspected that the exercise held no meaning and some of them were acutely aware that urgent action on the order of degrowth strategies, drastic reductions in levels of production and consumption, reducing birth-rates, and rewilding large swathes of land were needed in order to avert global ecological crisis within their lifetimes, the exercise itself was still pleasurable. It felt good to do something even if one was also secure in the knowledge that one was changing little of consequence even as the looming spectre of a genuinely liveable ecology begins rotting in the minds-eye.

The mall at the end of the world

The following are excerpts from the journal of James Goss who passed it to me in Summer 2019 shortly before taking his own life. James claimed to have been a research assistant for J.G. Ballard in the early 2000s and insisted that the events of the novel Kingdom Come were loosely based on his life, which had been spent in and out of British shopping centres in long term ethnographic projects. Despite my best efforts, I have been unable to either verify or disprove the truth of his claims. If I have any reason to doubt them, it is because of the depression, paranoia, insomnia, paramnesia, amnesia, and dissociative episodes with which I observed James to struggle during the short time in which we knew each other. He once told me that he had stared too long into the consumerist abyss of the contemporary shopping centre, so that now “it looked through his eyes from both directions”; claiming to see both the world and himself as the shopping centre did. I cannot be sure what this meant but he spoke about it like “a kind of possession”, forbidden knowledge that he had come to own which now also owned him.

I see the dead malls with my waking eyes. I sit at my desk and stare out of the French-doors of my office at the large ash tree that looms over my flat and I can see them. Filled with shambling corpses like in Romero’s Dawn of the Dead or darkened, emptied, and abandoned spaces like in the photography of Seph Lawless. They haunt me and I cannot say why. I have seen too much.

Sometimes I see these dead malls in my dreams and I find myself walking through a shopping centre that I used to frequent, my shoes crunching over broken glass, struggling to find my way under the almost non-existent lighting, tripping over discarded mannequins, mildewed clothing, toppled shelving units, food wrappers, and other left behind detritus as the damp and dusty odours of the ruin fill my nostrils. There is no question where these images come from. “Ruin is all around us” (De Cock & O’Doherty, 2017, p. 129). Everyday life produces its own fictional images. The phenomenon of shopping centres, once grand cathedrals of capitalism, collapsing due to declining foot-traffic and succumbing to ruin, is accelerating under the compounding pressures provided by the dominance of online retailing and successive recessionary events. Dead malls are everywhere.

Today, however, the dreams stopped and for the first time I had a new dream. I began to dream of a shopping centre that could live forever. One that seemed to use AI and robotics in order to clean, maintain, and repair itself and eventually become auto-productive needing no external inputs or ancillary systems. I recall a vivid image of running my hand along a wall that felt warm to the touch and was vibrating with the intensity of the cabled data that was passing through it, as every inch of every surface was scanned, mapped, and analyzed. Such a space is the realization of the ideal future that many of the early shopping centre architects had, a single space that could meet all of a consumer’s needs.

When I awoke my first question was not “Why?” but “Whose?” Whose dream was this? It did not feel like mine. I could not see my hands in the dream to be sure that I was myself. The history of the shopping centre is entangled with dreaming. Famously, Benjamin (1999, p. 405) described the Paris arcades of the 20th century, which would become the antecedents of the modern enclosed shopping centre, as “dream houses of the collective”. I began to research. Others have also already dreamed of a mall that lives forever. Dubbed the father of the shopping centre and the “architect of the American dream” (see Hardwick, 2004), Victor Gruen (2017) describes the opening of the first enclosed and air-condition shopping centre, the Southdale Centre in Edina, Minnesota as the emergence of a utopia. His descriptions of a space with a perpetual springlike climate, bathed in natural light, and complete with goldfish ponds, birdhouses, trees, and art collections on the walls, evoke the images of an eternal space, one that could last forever despite whatever weather and wars might be going on outside. Indeed, the idea that the enclosed spaces of the shopping centre would “keep out both cold war worries and actual cold” (Mennel, 2004, p. 129), as their location outside of cities and along major transportation lines, offered safety in an era of increasing nuclear paranoia, was a part of Gruen’s milieu. I also found a book called “The High Frontier” in which Gerard O’Neil (1978) describes “Island One”, a Bernal sphere or a type of spacecraft that is designed as a new habitat for humanity. Run by the fictional UN-backed “Energy Satellites Corporation”, Island One is described in more or less identical terms to the way that Gruen describes Southdale, a luxurious space with a “Hawaiian climate” in which residents can work and take part in many different forms of leisure. I found myself wondering what it might actually mean for a shopping centre to live forever.

Soon my nights and days were covered over with the pall of dreams of the various forms that this mall at the end of the world might take. Would it be one of O’Neil’s vessels among the stars where I could watch ballet in low gravity? Would it be an actual disused shopping centre into which a fascist state forces refugees fleeing war, famine, and flooding? Would it be an abandoned underground railway or pedestrian network that sprawled out from the areas that had been “malled” to include little convenience shops and ever-pervasive muzak? Would it be the simulation of a mall that existed only in cyberspace that we plugged our minds in to because it was the only space that would be comfortable for us to spend eternity? Would it be a nuclear-powered server farm buried deep under a mountain in which AI and trading-bots continued to trade shares and options, long after all humans had died? It is too soon to say but I am sure that one of these will emerge. These dreams are not my own but no matter how much I try I cannot sense where they are from.

After this point the journal becomes increasingly incoherent and rambling, seeming to at once fear and welcome the coming of this “mall at the end of the world” and James seemed to become increasingly desperate to locate any trace of it, scrawling for many pages on developments in self-repairing robotics, machine learning, and the engineering of underground developments, none of which (I am fairly certain) he understood particularly well. Still, I find myself wondering if James was right and at a certain point, the mall at the end of the world will have become real and we will all have to reconcile ourselves to the fact that our actions in what we now call the present did nothing to avert or hinder it. James used to say that our critiques, resistances, vegan diets, Extinction Rebellion protests, commitment to championing the UN’s Sustainable Development Goals at our universities, flurries of publishing, or hopeful attempts to reengineer capitalism will have done nothing to alter or affect the process. He seemed convinced that it was always coming in one form or another. Perhaps the hyperstition will always have made itself real, and the question is not if but when.

On the mechanology of hyperstitions

The term “hyperstition” is a conjunction of the prefix “hyper-” and the word “superstition”. In the surreal theory-fiction, Origins of the Cthulhu Club, Nick Land (2012, p. 579) describes hyperstitions as “a term we have coined for semiotic productions that make themselves real – cryptic communications from the Old Ones, signalling return.” Hyperstitional storying thus names the reaching into our collective legendarium and drawing into the real some previously fictional element of culture that will have been seeking to transgress out of myth and into history. The concept of a hyperstition is entangled with the emergence of the Cybernetic Culture Research Unit (Ccru) at the University of Warwick in the mid-90’s attached to the work of Sadie Plant, Nick Land, and others interested in the development of poststructural theory, the occult, cybernetic culture, and experiments in collective and collaborative authorship. To fully comprehend the replicative processes of hyperstitions as they came to sit at the core of Ccru’s experimentation with the limits of theory, we must see them as mechanisms for the actualization of futures that will have already happened, story fragments that travel “back” through time and make themselves real through an assembly of various elements which find a human or cultural host to operationalize and enact them. “The hyperstitional process of entities ‘making themselves real’ is precisely a passage, a transformation, in which potentials – already active virtualities – realize themselves” (Ccru, 2017, p. 36).

To think in terms of hyperstitions is to reckon with the acceleration of the rate at which cultural fictions are becoming real. In the 1890 science fiction novel Mizora, Mary E. Bradley Lane speaks about “chemically prepared meat” made by members of an all-female society who had “combined the elements” and in 2013 Mark Post at Maastricht University does this to create the first lab grown beef burger patty. The father of the handheld cellular phone, Martin Cooper once commented that he’d dreamed for a long time about producing a mobile phone before it happened in 1973, but his inspiration was the two-way wrist watch from the Dick Tracy comic strip, popular in the 1930s and 1940s. “Cyberspace”, which began as a term in the fictions of William Gibson in the early 1980s, particularly the novel Neuromancer, makes itself real in the research of Tim Berners-Lee and the emergence of the World-Wide Web in 1989. These are isolated and superficial examples of a deeper process that is always taking place. While there are always antecedents to an emergence and always subsequent developments, these are only ever the story, the hyperstition, realizing different degrees of reality. To understand this process thus requires a dissociation of our temporal apperceptions and an aggregate abandonment of our subjectivation and narratives of “progress” in the present. It is to think about the becoming-real of a story in a process that stretches into what we might think of as the far future, based on traces and partial connections in what may seem to be the past, in ways that can be sensed or intuited in what we might call the present in ways that spiral out and disorient time. Ccru’s conceptualization of hyperstition thus involves in taking seriously Burroughs’ (1991, p. 17) proposition that “time is a human affliction; not a human invention but a prison.”

In many ways Ccru seemed to understand itself to be embroiled in a metaphysical war against the post-Kantian conceptualization of time and the simplistic distinctions consequently drawn between fiction and degrees of reality, and the past, present, and future in which these distinctions play out.

“Because the future is a fiction it has a more intense reality than either the present or the past. Ccru uses and is used by hyperstition to colonize the future, traffic with the virtual, and continually re-invent itself.” (Ccru, 2017, p. 12)

What does it mean to use and be used by hyperstitions in this way? Who is the agent that writes the story? In the uncategorizable work, Lemurian Time War, Ccru explores the authorship of Burroughs’ short story, The Ghost Lemurs of Madagascar, reclassifying the text as a “self-confessed time-abomination” because of the fact that the protagonist Captain Mission, speaking from a time of muskets and quills, observes an old gilt-edged copy “The Ghost Lemurs of Madagascar”, presumably written by Burroughs in the 1990s, the text thus necessitating a rift in time or some form of magic or sorcery to exist. Its inherent anachronism makes its writing become a kind of anamnetic process of possession where, for Ccru, someone or something else writes through Burroughs. For Land (2009), the hyperstition appears to disjoint time, creating a “positive feedback circuit”, from which point the human subject is able to retroactively misapprehend for historical and technological progress what, from a hyperstitional point of view, is the knowledge of the Old Ones, something from the Outside, finding human components to actualize itself.

For many this disjunctive property of hyperstitions is a potentially revolutionary vector. Viewed in this way, hyperstitions are a source of new potential futures that can be actualized through the power of storytelling. Fisher (2017), for example, once suggested that “much of capitalism functions through hyperstitional processes […] I believe we need to think about what a communist hyperstitional practice would look like,” holding on to the belief that it was possible to “invent the future” (see Srnicek & Williams, 2015) or crack it open to the possibilities of the Outside (Williams & Srnicek, 2013) and thus make critical interventions into the process, and as such, even small stories of “alternative political and economic possibilities can have a disproportionately great effect” (Fisher, 2009, pp. 80–81). Constructing and storying visions of a future that run contra to those of capitalist realism is here the prime task of all people in the anthropocene. Conversely, for Land (2017), “the process is the critique”, and any new stories that one tries to tell immediately undergo capitalist axiomatization (Deleuze & Guattari, 2000) and thus come to serve Capital’s interests of nihilistic growth and expansion. Indeed, though it is difficult to admit to ourselves, the “alternatives” of our rebellious storytelling may well occur wholly immanent to Capital, creating new markets, new sustainable or green identity plays, and new dreams of a future for Capital alone.

As such, understanding the mechanics of hyperstitions may thus very well mean accepting that “new” stories are no longer possible in the anthropocene. Instead, stories and forms of storying that will have been true, produce themselves backward in what we misunderstand to be time, attaching fragments to whatever semiotic resonances, intellectual resources, human bodies, and forms of storytelling are available in order to create the conditions for their own emergence. Such an occulted acknowledgement of Capital as a demonic intelligence, signal origin, or omniscient agent with the knowledge of the Old Ones which could thus know in advance the ultimate course and trajectory of the future, rejects the human as storyteller and protagonist of anthropocene storying, and thus represents the beginning of the “positive destruction” of our myths around the authority and coherence of the author, their identity and the position from which they might speak, and the importance of the human (see O’Sullivan, 2017).

To think hyperstitionally in the anthropocene is to imagine the Earth in an interminable state of meltdown as a “planetary technocapital singularity” where the “dissolution of the biosphere into the technosphere” (Land, 2012, p. 442) sees Capital as artificial intelligence finally sloughing off the drag of the human meat shell that it has been forced to inhabit in order to survive. A global death drive will finally realize itself in the moment when the anthropocene actually does become the capitaloscene (cf. Haraway, 2017) and Capital completes the process of xenoforming the planet in a way that best suits its interests – a process that its former human hosts began – the production of a planet on which only it can survive because auto-production has exceeded production, value can be created infinitely and growth exponentially; without the human attachment to a reality to slow it down simulations of production can continue forever. Land’s imaginaries are here themselves hyperstitional actualizations of cyberpunk novels like Neuromancer and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? or films like Bladerunner, Terminator, Akira, and Ghost in the Shell. These fictions cross into theory in the process of making themselves real.

Can our stories do anything to avert this, or do they all occur immanent to Capital, and the becoming real of this future? What the three stories in the preceding sections – interminglings of truth and fiction, remembered narrative and surreal dreaming – have in common is their protagonist’s slowly dawning realization that someone or something else is storying. That something is becoming real, and the “storyteller” is little more than a medium, hub, or transitory point via which the thing can transition into the real, leaving a certain warm feeling as it does. The thing which becomes looms in the future and in each case there is a disquieted sense of foreboding that it will always have emerged, and whether we call it “capitalism, artificial intelligence, or enveloping catastrophe (at the limit, the terms are interchangeable)” (Land, 2014, p. 364) makes no difference to its emergence. Yet each of these three stories reflect a hypersitional fragment at a different stage of becoming real that is worth dwelling upon.

Thomas’s story is quite early in its becoming real as hyperstition and we cannot yet tell what will happen to it; whether it will actualize itself in some form or whether it will just fall into the background as more cultural noise, a dream of unclear origin that becomes forever indecipherable, a meme without purpose, a random juxtaposition of images given weight by their faux cinematography. But what storying is Thomas a part of? The kind which seeks to acknowledge, however perversely, the inherent worth of the lives of the “critters” with which we share the planet Earth (Haraway, 2016), or is it something else? Of course, there is no way to know for sure, but it is easy to “imagine” a future where the death of the very last fieldmouse family, in the context of a mass extinction event that radically reduces global biodiversity, is mourned and regarded as a new Athenian tragedy and consequently, the cattle farming industry begins selling t-shirts and tote bags with happy fieldmice smiling on them.

Conversely, the ritual for summoning Sustainable Innovation comes at a point where the story has saturated the cultural imaginary, to the point where it is real, and has been obviously hijacked (Parr, 2009) by the kind of “business as usual” thinking which seeks to maintain capitalist relations. The ritual that these academics perform is its own storying. But as this hyperstition of a “sustainable” capitalism that lives forever (with or without the human) comes close to actualizing itself, we can observe contemporary sustainability discourses to beckon to an occulted “thing” which never arrives because it was a part of Capital all along. Perhaps this is why we are beginning to see calls to abandon the discourse of sustainability altogether and think about (un)sustainability in the anthropocene (see Ergene et al., 2020). Could it be that these surface-level performances, which we know change little about capitalist production, feel good because we are drawn into an affective experience of the hyperstition becoming real, Sustainable Innovation passing through us? Is this the pleasure of the death drive with which Capital is fundamentally imbricated (Bradshaw & Zwick, 2016) seeping through?

Lastly, the mall at the end of the world may well represent a hyperstition approaching a critical mass as our popular culture is inundated with images of dead malls and underground bunkers. They are becoming real, even if we cannot see how from the limited view of the narrative present. There will have been a point in the future when someone or something might be able to look back on the dreamings of the mall at the end of the world and identify these as hyperstitional fragments, not injections from an Outside, but Capital’s own dreamings of surviving the anthropocene. It appears in our dreams, this space at the heart of Capital, and signals to us our own irrelevance. In Lovecraft’s The Call of Cthulhu, R’lyeh appears in the dreams of those queer folk who are receptive to it, and Cthulhu’s dreaming seems to produce drives and incite human action. Who is to say that influence through dreams and somnambulant connection and association is not what takes place when we build, visit, and mourn shopping centres or indeed, occurs every time we reiterate our belief that Capital can be greened, reformed, or tamed to allow the human to survive the anthropocene? In its incalculability the mall at the end of the world thus invites us to begin drawing out and being drawn in to schizmic time loops in which Capital stories us and we will have produced its futures.

Or maybe the three preceding stories are not hyperstitional at all, and are merely intellectual dead-ends and nonsense. The point is that, from the perspective of the human in the present, it is impossible to know.

Storying against Hope

What stories should we be telling in the anthropocene? For many, our inability to imagine any alternative to the destructive dynamics of neoliberal capitalism reflects “a corrosion of social imagination” (Fisher, 2012) and a need to tell the stories of alternatives. As such, perhaps we should believe that our stories upload something radical into the cultural matrix that might produce a random offshoot, schism, corruption, fracturing, or pluralization that might bring us closer to an agenda of climate justice (see Wittneben et al., 2012), or simply a life of automation free from drudgery (Srnicek & Williams, 2015). As such, maybe we should create new concepts (Deleuze & Guattari, 1994), experiment with writing (Hietanen et al., 2020) and fictocriticism (Rhodes, 2015), or trace the cartographies of indigenous dreamings (Glowczewski, 2016) and tell new stories.

Increasingly, however one suspects that perhaps the opposite is true and where our imagination reveals its decay is in the continued reproduction of the same hopeful narrative that some version of “the human” might be able to make it out of the near future (cf. Land, 2012). That is to say, are our stories critique or are they a part of the process by which Capital renders our planet uninhabitable for the human while we convince ourselves that our vegetarian diets, strategic missions, and imagination of new stories are enough to get us out?

Land’s rejection of the human and embrace of Capital as the only agential actor has been the subject of much critique, not only from other accelerationists like Fisher, Srnicek, and Williams (see also Noys, 2014) but also Black feminists like Aria Dean (2017) who challenge us to acknowledge that the non-human subject that accelerationist ideas champion existed already in the Black subject and their subjugation and annihilation by racialized capitalism. Yet it seems increasingly difficult to dispute that Capital now sees out of all of our eyes in both directions. The capitalized subjects who have come to desire what Capital desires (Lyotard, 1993), are us. That warm feeling that you get when you do something “good for the environment” is Capital giving positive reinforcement, a hit of dopamine to keep you productive and producing as many stories as possible. Anyone who believes their storying to be resistance and not part of a hyperstitional arc which may be constructing a future amenable to Capital’s desiring, has not yet reckoned with the completeness of its capture, or truly asked themselves whose dreams they are having, or considered Land’s (2012, p. 318) cryptic questioning: “how would it feel to be smuggled back out of the future […] to be a cyberguerrilla, hidden in human camouflage […] Exactly like this?” The agency and creativity which we might imbue the storyteller is perhaps a comforting myth, for who among us can say with certainty that we work against Capital’s interests, that the stories that we tell can change or destroy and not simply expand and perpetuate it? If we had been sent back in time to produce a future in which Capital lived forever in a mall at the end of the world, would we not tell the same stories that we do now? Everyday life would probably feel exactly like this.

The absolute and all-encompassing capture and determination of the future that such a possibility represents reminds us that no matter what stories we seek to tell in the anthropocene, we should seek out those that are incensed and distempered. Indeed, if Capital is an abstract parasite (Fisher, 2009), then the chief symptom that it produces in its host will be Hope. Hope is Capital’s chief virtue, championing continuance, growth, development, progress and expansion, all of those qualities that Capital loves. The stories that we tell now are ventriloquized by Hope. Perhaps it is time to ask what stories can work against Hope or whether a new kind of storyteller needs to emerge, one who is not a sage or a teacher (cf Benjamin, 2006) but the figure of madness who has hollowed themselves out and become sufficiently deranged and demented to exist as a medium or vector for Capital’s dreaming, so that they scream about the coming of the mall at the end of the world and fill us all with fear. If we want to effect change, as Fisher once dreamed, we may need to story against Hope; crush it with a black and virulent nihilism and a “hatred for this world” (Culp, 2016). Yet maybe even this is immanent to Capital.

For myself, I hope that the stories that we tell in the anthropocene matter, but I am acutely aware that this Hope is Capital’s alone.

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Author Bio

Sideeq Mohammed is a Lecturer in HRM/Organizational Behaviour at the University of Kent. He is the author of “Stories and Organization in the Anthropocene: A Critical Look at the Impossibility of Sustainability”.