Abstract

In the context of our current society in which mass media renders the image more ephemeral every day, this essay aims to investigate our relationship with technology through analysis of visual storytelling so that we can understand how we might interact with images in an increasingly complex future.

As visual storytelling is one of humanity's oldest traditions, this essay is able to draw on multiple specific examples of image-making from throughout history wherein technology has shaped narratives. The encompassing nature of this study, which is by no means a complete record, allows us to see trends across vast swathes of time and effectively analyse the cultural impact of various technological developments.

After completing this research, it became evident that popular narratives are often informed by the technological innovations of the time. By focusing on the reproducibility of the image, this study discovered that stories generally become concerned with place, then society, and then the individual as technology continues to evolve. Presently, it's been found that due to the near perfect quality of digital reproduction technologies, the key factor in our relationship with visual narratives is not the image itself but the reader's interaction with it.

Knowing this, as well as understanding how technology has consistently affected the ways in which we tell stories with images throughout history, we as designers can begin to imagine how technology will shape narratives in the future.

Introduction

Historians theorise that humans began telling stories "not long after the development of language itself," (National Geographic [1]) and were creating images to communicate complex ideas as far back as 51,200 years ago (Ghosh, 2024). But as technology advances and methods of image-making develop and evolve, what happens to the stories we tell? Are we able to articulate concepts we previously couldn't? Will our stories be seen by new people, or by more people? Do common practices shape popular narratives?

In 'The Printed Picture' (2008), Richard Benson argues that "the way pictures are made shapes the way they look and behave, and hence what they can mean." By examining these ways of making, as well as the structure of stories (i.e. beginning, middle and end), we as designers are able to examine the dynamic between form and meaning, between creator and audience, and the energy that exists in the spaces between them - after all, "Design is Storytelling," (Lupton, 2017). Observing the impact of technological innovation on storytelling, which humans have been practicing for millennia, allows us to see how methods of communication have changed throughout history and how they might change in the future.

This essay doesn't claim to portray a definitive, objective timeline of events or discoveries. As Paul Duguid states in 'Material Matters: The Past and Futurology of the Book' (1996), there is very rarely a single origin for developing processes and technologies and that to say otherwise and ignore "the genuine complexities of history," degrades our understanding of the past. Rather, through analysis of specific examples, we can begin to understand how we create meaning through form and process, for instance using old paper documents to make sense of complex digital archives (Duguid). Duguid, and others like Graeber and Wengrow (authors of 'The Dawn of Everything' (2021)), believe that by understanding various historical processes, we will be better equipped to navigate an increasingly unintelligible future. With the emergence of a 'digital sublime' (Mosco, 2004), it's useful today to develop new strategies for processing vast quantities of data.

This essay is comprised of three chapters. Chapter One looks at early examples of the image and its close relationship to place, ritual and religion. Chapter Two focuses on visual storytelling in the age of mechanical reproduction (Benjamin, 1935) and what happens to the story once images become detached from place. Finally, Chapter Three explores the potential futures of storytelling as the image becomes increasingly ephemeral in our society of digital mass media.

Hand prints from Cueva de las Manos, Argentina, UNESCO

Chapter One - In which art is made in the service of rituals

In his widely influential essay 'The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction' (1935), scholar Walter Benjamin discusses the work of art's 'aura', its uniqueness that is lost as it is reproduced by mechanical processes such as photography. Benjamin traces the aura back to palaeolithic cave paintings, artworks that "originated in the service of a ritual." These images can be found around the world in places such as Chauvet and Lascaux in France, Altamira in Spain and Sulawesi in Indonesia and date back at least 50,000 years.

A common image in cave art is the hand print, the earliest ancestor of the fundamental print techniques of relief and stencil (Benson). It is thought that caves were spiritual places and that by painting yourself into the landscape, an artist's spirit could become one with this "important spiritual membrane," (Conneller, 2020). Artists would leave multiple prints throughout a cave system, allowing us to track their journey and follow in their footsteps. A characteristic example of a hand from Chauvet Cave features a crooked pinkie finger, distinguishing this artist's marks and thus the journey they made from those of their contemporaries (Herzog, 2010).

This practice of ritual image-making and a connection to place extends into representational cave art. Despite the misconception that these figurative paintings of animals were stories about hunting (Wisher, 2024), it's actually believed that they were often created as a form of sympathetic magic (Pike, 2020). This term refers to the act of painting as an attempt to "change the circumstances of the world," a kind of magical process to renew the things palaeolithic people were dependant on for survival - painting animals would conjure more prey that they could hunt, for example (Schonig, 2021). These images "were not yet made with the aesthetic mode of appreciation in mind," (Schonig) yet they often portray distinct narratives and observations of the natural world such as rhinos fighting or lions mating (Herzog). Inspired by the shapes of the rock walls (Conneller) and almost animated by flickering firelight and shadows (Wisher), the cave paintings come alive with a story that could only exist in that place.

A cave painting from Lascaux, France, Time Magazine

Geoglyph sites such as the famous Nazca lines in the Peruvian desert are also examples of this ritual image-making. Whilst many of the largest geoglyphs are geometric in their design, measuring up to 30 miles long, representational animal figures known as 'biomorphs' are also fairly common, with the largest of these hummingbirds, spiders and monkeys measuring 1200 feet long (Golomb). Scientists have recently discovered altars littered with dead sea creatures at the entrances to some trapezoid geoglyphs, likely used for rituals in which locals would plead for rainfall, although it's still largely unknown why the Nazca people made their art. Curiously, these designs made by moving rocks and earth are so vast that it would have been impossible for their creators to see the finished work in its entirety from the ground - perhaps the process and associated ritual of making the Nazca lines was more important than what the images themselves represented.

Aerial view of the Nazca Lines, Peru, National Geographic

‘The Nativity’, by Everhard Rensig and Gerhard Remisch, V&A

Benjamin refers to the "cult value," of this kind of art, and how the image plays a similar role even as ritual becomes less magical and more religious (Schonig). Much like how people gathered around paintings in caves with a shared purpose (Pike), congregations meet in chapels lined with stained-glass windows and painted frescos depicting biblical stories, often lavishly decorated as a kind of offering to the divine (Deschanel, 2023). There is a kind of sensory quality to visual storytelling in these community centres, as light reflects off of walls or passes through glass, filling the space and informed by the architecture. For many illiterate churchgoers in the past, this imagery would have been an important means of engaging with religious literature and local community, all tied to a certain place.

Whilst there was a societal shift in 15th and 16th century Europe away from religious worship (Benjamin, 1935), there remained a secular worship of beauty throughout the Renaissance and into the Enlightenment period of European history (Benjamin, 1935). During this time, a distinct tradition of narrative painting emerged, which Erika Langmuir defines as work relating "a sequence of particular events unfolding through a given period of time, and involving real or fictional individuals," (Langmuir, 2003).

It's generally agreed that there are three distinct techniques present in work from this time that guide the viewer through a given story. 'Instantaneous' paintings depict a "telling moment," from a single point of view and often rely on inscriptions and symbolic imagery to support the narrative or allude to a story that the audience may already know. 'Cyclical paintings' made by "mainly mural artists and printmakers, 'serialised' the story in separate images," on walls or furniture. Finally, 'continuous narratives' contained "several episodes of one story within one pictorial space," with repeating characters illustrating multiple points in time on the same canvas (Langmuir).

A significant development in Western narrative art came in the form of 'history painting' or 'istoria', defined by Leon Battista Alberti in 'On Painting' (1435). In an attempt to rival the grandeur and drama of the Graeco-Roman tradition (Gombrich, 1960), artists adhered to three principles so that they could "move and elevate the soul of any and every viewer," via their storytelling. Through avoiding an abundance of luxury, depicting actions worthy of emulation and working in public spaces to affect a large community, 'istoria' applies "to an intellectually ambitious art that challenges artists and profoundly engages viewers," (Langmuir).

Pioneering knowledge of perspective and anatomy was key in facilitating this engagement with visual narratives. The invention of 'single vanishing-point perspective' could convince viewers of a subject's "bodily existence," and make a painting seem more relatable to a wide audience. In works like Jacopo Pontormo's 'Joseph with Jacob in Egypt', the perspective guides the viewer's eye from foreground to background throughout the continuous narrative, subtly directing the gaze across a square canvas that would otherwise have no obvious narrative path. Furthermore, a keen attention to anatomy allowed artists to populate their three-dimensional scenes with lifelike figures whose gestures and expressions could elicit greater sympathy than those "constrained by religious or courtly etiquette." This greater emotional response allows more of the narrative to take place in the space between artist and viewer, as an audience can readily apply their own experiences to the painting by relating to the subjects depicted (Langmuir).

‘Joseph with Jacob in Egypt’, by Jacopo Pontormo, The National Gallery

Also using the continuous narrative technique, Eastern narrative art relied on axonometric perspective instead of linear perspective in order to tell stories with images. As opposed to the Western tradition of viewing art from a distance, both Chinese handscrolls and Japanese 'Emakimono' are read by unfurling sections of silk or paper with your own hands, a format that has an inherent narrative structure with a beginning and an end (Delbanco, 2000). The handscroll thus lends itself to depicting journeys that unfold both narratively and literally as the reader's eye takes in each new section in sequence. As axonometric perspective doesn't require a vanishing point (Krikke, 2000), the handscroll artist is able to continually expand on a scene as they themselves complete the depicted journey. Reading a handscroll is thus "a progression through time and space," and one that due to its size and form creates a uniquely intimate relationship between artist and reader (Delbanco).

A section from ‘Eighteen Songs of a Nomad Flute: The Story of Lady Wenji’, unknown, the Met

Works like the Ukiyo-e prints of Hiroshige and Hokusai that depict views along a certain path, like 'The Fifty-three Stations of the Tokaido' for instance, are similar in that a reader feels a connection to the artist as they follow their journey through the images. Instead of a handscroll, 'Fifty-three Stations' is a series of woodblock prints, each featuring a distinct landscape and depiction of everyday life in Edo Japan. By utilising multiple perspectives or no perspective at all, woodblock printmakers and handscroll painters were able to tell intimate stories with images through the unique form of their work.

It's easy to see the connection between image-making and place, ritual and religion, which makes sense considering the importance of storytelling in so many cultures throughout history. Studying this association tells us about the technology artists had access to, but also the ways in which they used that technology to tell stories about their lives and beliefs. Many stories have been kept alive for thousands of years because of the images they inspired and because of the technology used to create them, enriching our understanding of past cultures.

Chapter Two - In which the book kills the building

Michael Wilson interrogates the act of storytelling in his essay 'Another Fine Mess' (2014), and ponders the common structure of "home and away," found in many stories around the world. Echoed by Aristotle's ideas of 'equilibrium-disruption-equilibrium', (335 BC) and Joseph Campbell's theory of the 'Mono-myth' or 'Hero's Journey' (1949), this is the notion that many stories involve a protagonist leaving the familiar world, entering an unknown world and then returning having changed.

Wilson then applies this structure to Walter Benjamin's essay 'The Storyteller' (1936), which imagines the ideal storyteller as someone with the experience of travel, like a sailor (away), yet who is trustworthy and familiar with tradition, like a farmer (home). It makes sense then that coastal towns would historically become hubs for storytelling, where mercantile sailors traded stories with local townsfolk (Luzel, 1995). "Storytelling traditions were strengthened through engagement with other cultures and weakened by cultural isolation," (Wilson).

If this is true, then what happens to the story when we start to distribute images on paper? Victor Hugo considers the implications of this in his novel 'Notre-Dame de Paris' (1831), where he states, rather dramatically, that "the book will kill the building… The Press will kill the church… printing will kill architecture." What Hugo means by this is that people no longer express their identity through architecture, but instead through print. "No longer are symbols of history built into the walls of cathedrals," writes Olivia Jacklin (2020), "instead, they are commemorated on the pages of a book." Print is then afforded "a new kind of permanence, not of stone which erodes, but rather a permanence of constant replication." Jacklin notes that, ironically, even the titular Notre-Dame is not safe from this erosion as she reflects on Hugo's writings a year after the famous cathedral was destroyed in a fire.

The printed image is able to regenerate, be passed on and thus permeate society in a way that is impossible for work tied to a location (Benson). The ability to print on paper and mechanically reproduce imagery removes many of the previous geographical restrictions preventing the distribution of information. Now that stories can spread around the world and throughout human culture, the image becomes detached from place and ritual, losing its aura of uniqueness but gaining a more universal reach. Benjamin, as a Marxist thinker, saw potential in mechanical reproduction as a means of making art for the masses that could incite revolutionary thought (Deschanel). Where the work of art once had "cult value," then "exhibition value," (Benjamin, 1935) reproducibility affords the work of art a new mobility, and with it comes the power to tell stories that sway the public.

We can clearly see this increase in mobility through the inception of processes like lithography, which exploits the chemical properties of oil and water and the unique surface of specific limestone blocks to create printed imagery. Compared to existing techniques like etching, engraving or woodcut, lithography was a "much more direct process… distinguished by the tracing of the design on a stone," that allowed printing to keep up with daily changing market demands (Benjamin, 1935) and afforded the hand of the artist unprecedented control over the image (Benson).

A page from ‘Histoire de Mr Jabot’, by Rodolphe Töpffer, the Internet Archive

The combination of these factors led to much quicker production and the popularisation of cartoons in 19th century newspapers like 'The Glasgow Looking Glass', which were often satirical in nature and able to comment on contemporary society with newfound agency. It's during this time that the form of the comic book as we know it today began to take shape through the work of Rodolphe Töpffer, the Swiss artist famously dubbed 'Father of the Comic Strip' (Kunzle, 2007). Beginning with caricatures to entertain his students, Töpffer would eventually publish 'Histoire de Mr. Jabot' in 1833, a story about a foolish dandy trying to infiltrate the upper class, which features many hallmarks of modern comics like "cartooning and panel borders," (McCloud, 1994) as well as an energetic style afforded by the innovative use of lithography. Despite practically inventing a new medium, Töpffer was embarrassed about the 'unserious' nature of his publications. Caricature and lithography were thought of as amateurish and cheap at the time, yet by combining these two disciplines and using new technology, Töpffer was able to pioneer an entirely new genre of visual storytelling (Matttt, 2023).

Comics as a medium continues to evolve to this day and in recent years, experimentation with form is becoming more popular through publications like 'Lagon Revue', a French avant-garde comics anthology. Founded by printmakers and cartoonists, each anthology that 'Lagon' releases is a painstakingly crafted design object made mostly in-house. The publishers work with each individual contributor to decide on materials and printing processes so that each piece is produced to the highest standards and in a way that compliments the narrative of the work - an artist might switch paper stock to indicate a change in location, for example. They use a mixture of offset printing, risograph and silkscreen, various papers of different weights and colours and unconventional inks like metallics to tailor their production to the work of the artists. What could be seen as chaotic is celebrated by each issue, the binding often being exposed to highlight the different paper stocks used and therefore the diversity of its participants. 'Lagon' embraces a variety of print technologies to inspire narratives and experiment with visual storytelling in all aspects of its production in a way that is wholly unique in the current comics landscape (Bascouert, 2024).

Although not commonly thought of as 'comics', the work of William Hogarth was also extremely innovative in terms of sequential storytelling (McCloud, 1994). Originally a history painter, Hogarth turned to printmaking to create "modern moral subjects," sets of narrative images like "A Harlot's Progress' and 'Marriage A-la-mode' that were unique in their lack of accompanying text. Hogarth was able to convey details of the narrative within the frames themselves through clever placement of symbolic imagery and set dressing. Despite "Protestant abhorrence of 'image worship'," and the rise of private collecting making it difficult to work in public spaces during his time, Hogarth was able to use new printmaking technology to create 'istoria' and distribute his work amongst a wide audience (Langmuir).

The series of six prints titled ‘A Harlot’s Progress’, by William Hogarth, Michael Finney Antique Books and Prints

‘View from the Window at Le Gras’, by Joseph Nicéphore Niépce, National Geographic

Despite all of these advances in print technology democratising access to images and stories, nothing has withered the work of art's aura and freed it "from its parasitic subservience to ritual," (Benjamin, 1935) more than the invention of photography. The first photograph, titled 'View from the Window at Le Gras', was created by French inventor Joseph Nicéphore Niépce in 1826 and, unsurprisingly, depicts the view from the window in his studio. By using a 'camera obscura' to expose a sheet of bitumen-coated metal for several hours, Niépce was able to create a perfect visual reproduction of his surroundings using technological and chemical processes (National Geographic [2]). Whilst the exposure itself is blurry and faint by today's standards, it marks a momentous shift in the way we create images - art that has no original and "created by technology itself," (Deschanel).

‘Attitudes of Animals in Motion’ by Eadweard Muybridge, the Met

In terms of storytelling, it didn't take long for many photographers to begin experimenting with the medium's unique properties to capture movement, the most notable of these being Eadweard Muybridge. Known for his studies of animal and human motion made in the 1870s and 1880s, Muybridge used multiple fast cameras to capture movement in a series of photographs. Scientifically, this was groundbreaking for being able to observe anatomy in motion but Muybridge's studies have a distinct artistic value, too (Campany, 2010). Viewing the frames in sequence, the viewer's mind can piece together a narrative from still images, filling in the gaps between each moment based off of their own knowledge and intuition. Seeing normally natural movements dissected in this way is also rather surreal, almost as if Muybridge is exposing the hidden mechanics of the world that photographic technology renders visible to the human eye, thus exploring new kinds of visual narrative.

Muybridge, along with contemporaries like the Lumière brothers, developed new cinematic technologies such as the 'Zoopraxiscope' (Campany) and 'Cinématographe' (Martín, 2019) that were capable of projecting still frames in sequence. Whilst this technology was revolutionary and pioneered moving image as a genre, it was the work of filmmakers like Georges Méliès who "turned it into something wonderful," (Spira, 2020) and told stories with film.

Originally a stage magician, Méliès saw potential in film to bring "fantasy and storytelling to the screen while others were still just showing documents of real life," inventing many iconic special effects and editing techniques like forced perspective and jump-cuts. Director Guillermo Del Toro is quoted as saying "At the time that the Lumière brothers were recording a train coming into the station, the workers exiting the factory, there was a man called George Méliès recording what was not there, what wasn't possible. At the time of chronicle, fable was born." Becoming the first science fiction and fantasy filmmaker, Méliès adapted his skills as an illusionist to a new medium and new technologies, thus unlocking the narrative potential of cinema (Spira) and telling stories that were entirely new.

As imagery and image-making became less ritualistic, so did the stories being told. The ability to reproduce the work of art, first with the printing press, then the photograph, meant it could be distributed to a wider audience than that of a cult-community. We can see through works like 'Histoire de Mr Jabot' and 'A Harlot's Progress' that narratives concerned with societal issues became popular and appealed to a wide audience. Additionally, mechanical reproduction is directly responsible for spawning many new genres of art which innovators like Töpffer and Méliès quickly adapted for narrative purposes - the evolution of technology led to the creation of more images and new kinds of images.

Chapter Three - In which the image disappears

It is now apparent that Hugo's fears surrounding the future of the image in 'Notre-Dame de Paris' were in fact somewhat justified. Some writers like Olivia Jacklin believe it is no longer profitable for authors to tell stories about history, that nowadays we tell stories to entertain (Jacklin). Whilst it may be easier than ever to record information and make images with technological developments like camera phones, our general relationship to image-making has become diluted and apathetic within an oversaturated visual environment.

Author Douglas Davis sees potential in this new digital era, however, in his essay 'The Work of Art in the Age of Digital Reproduction' (1995). Responding to Walter Benjamin's predictions regarding the work of art's aura within a contemporary context, Davis admits that "There is no longer a clear conceptual distinction between original and reproduction in virtually any medium." Where analog reproductions are, whilst effective, subject to degradation and never quite the same as the original, the digital reproduction "can be endlessly reproduced without degradation, always the same, always perfect." Since digitisation is so flawless and images can be shared so effortlessly around the world via the internet, the work of art's aura is transferred to what Davis calls "the individuated copy." The aura no longer lives in the original itself (which no longer exists), but instead in the moment we interact with a work of art. Digital reproduction allows "Artist and viewer [to] perform together," as any meaning or story derived from a given image is defined by our own subjective interaction with it (Davis).

Davis makes reference to James Joyce's 'Ulysses', a prominent work of 'hyper-fiction', as one such work of art that unlocks a "pluralist world," for the individual (Davis). Hyper-fiction, or 'hypertext fiction', is a genre of literature defined by the use of links to connect text segments in a non-linear space - as Robert Coover puts it in 'The End of Books' (1992), it frees storytelling "from the tyranny of the line." Although hyper-fiction isn't strictly limited to digital spaces (choose-your-own adventure books are an example of hyper-fiction in print), it was the invention of the hyperlink used to navigate computer interfaces that truly enabled this genre to exist.

A reader of hyper-fiction makes their own way through the story, making choices and interacting with the text in a form of co-mapping with the author that defies the traditional authority of the novel. According to Coover, "much of the reading and writing experience occurs in the interstices and trajectories between text fragments… the real current of the narrative runs between them." Given the new agency of the reader, hyper-fiction narratives often feature branching paths that differentiate them from typical novels with a beginning, middle and end, as well as intertextual and "transmedia," (Cho, 2016) elements such as sound and animation that help to immerse you in the story (Coover).

A panel from ‘Homestuck’, by Andrew Hussie, Homestuck website

Many webcomics, like Andrew Hussie's 'Homestuck', utilise this transmediality extensively. Much like any other work of hyper-fiction, a reader progresses through 'Homestuck' by clicking links and typing suggestions that influence the events of the story. Interacting with a narrative in this way feels similar to playing a video game, which is incredibly appropriate considering the influence of internet culture on 'Homestuck' as a series. Hussie takes advantage of the digital format to integrate mini-games, animated cutscenes and music into the narrative, resulting in a uniquely engaging experience that spawned one of the biggest fan communities on the internet. Since the webcomic concluded in 2016, a print edition has been released compiling the first two acts of the story which Sloane Leong discusses in a review published by The Comics Journal (2018). Predictably, most of what made the comic so special doesn't translate well to print and many of the interactive elements are either clumsily included or absent entirely, proving that the development of new technologies enables artists to tell stories with images that would otherwise be impossible.

Other formats like 'webtoons' owe their existence to digital platforms, too. As Heekyoung Cho defines it in 'The Webtoon: A New Form For Graphic Narrative', "A webtoon is a combination of web and cartoon, and was coined in Korea to refer to webcomics," distinct from many other webcomics in large part due to its vertical format (Cho). Instead of importing the page layout of typical print comics or designing pages to fit on a landscape screen, webtoons are structured vertically in one long strip, making use of the computer screen's "infinite canvas," (McCloud, 2000). The reader progresses through the story by scrolling with a mouse wheel or by using the touchscreen on their smartphone, inspiring narrative innovations from artists - in Shin Joong-seok's 'Hellper' for instance, the reader is instructed to scroll quickly at certain points to create an animated effect, making the story's action scenes feel especially frenetic and powerful. This scrolling motion is curiously reminiscent of the handscroll paintings discussed earlier in this essay, with webtoons adapting this historic storytelling format to create a uniquely interactive digital experience.

A panel from ‘A Country Pumpkin’, by Yun T’aeho, the Comics Journal

Digital media is not the only way forwards for image-making, however. Contrary to ideas of technological supersession (Duguid), that new technologies will replace existing ones leaving no gaps behind, there is no one way forward for image-making much like how there is no one way to read history. The Sustainable Darkroom embodies this in their practice, using low-toxicity, experimental photographic processes to imagine a new future for photography. As opposed to traditional silver-gelatin prints which have "an uncomfortable history in colonialism and environmental racism," founder Hannah Fletcher experiments with more abundant metals like iron, which turns red after undergoing a redox reaction unlike silver which turns black - "perhaps the future of photography will be tones of orange, red, brown and white," instead of what we've become accustomed to since the 1800s (Fletcher, 2021). "It's with these limitations that we adapt and we begin to think in a different way, creating new paths and laying down new networks for ideas to form."

‘Redox Reactions’, by Hannah Fletcher, personal website

A still from ‘Yorkshire Dirt’, by Edd Carr, personal website

Sustainable Darkroom project leader Edd Carr experiments with new photographic processes in his animation practice, like in his film 'Yorkshire Dirt' which uses soil from the North York Moors in the analog development process. Believing "that digital media limits our genuine experience of ecosystems, in that we experience a detached abstracted version, as opposed to the multisensory living world," (Carr, see appendix) Carr incorporates materials from his surroundings to then tell stories about those same surroundings within his moving image projects. Analog animation affords Carr's work a "malleability," that digital technologies do not, with the artist often printing directly onto the frame with natural materials so that "multiple worlds can be melded into one." Similar to Fletcher's iron experiments, Carr's animations embrace the imperfections of the medium and offers "respite from the digital overload," with a textural allure. The Sustainable Darkroom and its network of collaborators represent an exciting new direction in terms of storytelling with images, placing emphasis on place and their surrounding ecology to create a better future of image-making.

A tag by 10 Foot, 10footspotter Instagram

Likewise, it's interesting to observe a return to ritual in the form of place-marking as a means to prove you exist in a period of heightened transience. By leaving distinctive, individualistic marks on the landscape, both ancient cave artists and modern day graffiti writers can map their journeys and tell stories with their imagery in much the same way. Stamping your identity on the landscape, be it a cave wall or urban development, retains a ritual permeation as the artist embeds a part of themselves in their surroundings. There remains an intimate connection between audience and artist as writers like 10 Foot and Helch become popular figures in cities, and the kind of cultural moment that occurs around a Banksy piece, for example, is comparable to the gathering of congregations who have for thousands of years met in caves and churches to collectively experience art. This kind of contemporary ritual extends to the ways we share images on social media or take part in viral creative trends like 'Inktober' and 'Basketclub', both of which are participatory movements stemming from social media that encourage artists around the world to share their work and foster a digital community.

The digital era has changed the way we interact with images and consume stories in many ways. Due to the accuracy of digital reproduction, the moment of interaction with the work of art becomes more important than the work itself, and many modern forms of storytelling like hyper-fiction and webtoons are explicitly preoccupied with how the reader navigates the narrative. It's also through groups of artists like the Sustainable Darkroom and graffiti writers, who reject the perfect digital reproduction in favour of messier processes, that visual storytelling continues to evolve. If observing the history of image-making has taught us anything, it's that humans will always find ways to tell stories with new technologies and processes, regardless of wether they are digital or analog.

Conclusion

Believing a society's stories to be "at least as interesting as the shape of its pots or spearheads," author Kurt Vonnegut perfectly illustrates the merit of studying narratives through the use of his shape diagrams. The diagrams are extremely simple by design, mapping the trajectory of happiness within a given story from beginning to end, allowing us to examine the recurring shapes of narratives throughout history. Whilst stories are artificial and graphing the complexities of life can seem almost futile, by mapping their shapes of stories we begin to understand life in ebbs and flows and can find truth in the artifice of storytelling, and in the creation of that artifice, via a graphic representation (Johnson, Big Think, 2022).

‘Shapes of Stories Diagrams’, by Kurt Vonnegut, the Marginalian

Through exploring specific examples of image-making techniques that we have used to tell stories from throughout history, such as those featured in this essay, we can retain "valuable cultural insights… [from] old communicative technologies," and build the resources needed to negotiate the future (Duguid). In a time of great technological change and in a culture of mass media, industry leaders like David Lee (CCO of Squarespace) see storytelling as the most vital creative skill of the future, especially as generative AI becomes ever more prevalent (Alagiah, It's Nice That, 2024).

It's therefore indisputable that technology has fundamentally changed the way we tell stories with images time and again throughout history, with both positive and negative ramifications. Authors like Vincent Mosco and James Bridle speak of 'the digital sublime' (Mosco, 2004) and how the massive bank of images and information being produced in the digital age is becoming more incomprehensible to humans - "More information, more data about the world isn't helping us to resolve it in any way," (Bridle, 2018).

Whilst it's easier for images, and thus stories, to get lost in a digital space, it's also easier to share images than ever before and to create interactive experiences accessible to people around the world. Technology has historically served to facilitate the distribution of images in many ways, as the work of art's aura and exclusivity diminishes. Digital innovations aren't the only emerging technologies either, evidenced by the Sustainable Darkroom who are experimenting with image-making in order to create a better future that is more respectful of our environment.

Storytelling in itself is an act of reproduction (Benjamin, 1936), of re-telling and re-listening over and over again (Wilson). The value of a good story exists in the space between teller and listener, between creator and audience, and regardless of positive and negative impacts, it remains important for designers to study stories and the ways in which technology shapes how we communicate so that we can continue to communicate effectively into the future.

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