Category: MIL-OSI

Source: The Conversation – UK – By Trang Chu, Associate Fellow, Saïd Business School, University of Oxford

What turns a democratically elected leader into an authoritarian? The process is rarely abrupt. It unfolds gradually and is often justified as a necessary reform. It is framed as what the people wanted. All this makes it difficult for citizens to recognise what is happening until it’s too late.

Consider Viktor Orbán’s transformation in Hungary. Once celebrated as a liberal democrat who challenged communist rule, Orbán now controls 90% of the Hungarian media and has systematically packed the country’s constitutional court. His trajectory is now widely recognised as a textbook case of democratic backsliding.

Turkish president Recep Tayyip Erdoğan was initially praised for showing that democracy and Islamic governance could coexist. In early reforms, he lifted millions from poverty by challenging Turkey’s secular establishment – a feat that required exceptional confidence and a bold vision. Now, a decade on, Erdoğan has turned Turkey into what political scientists call a competitive authoritarian regime.

In the US, Donald Trump rose to power promising to “drain the swamp”. In Brazil, Jair Bolsonaro campaigned as an anti-corruption crusader who would restore the country’s moral foundations. Both have since weaponised democratic institutions to consolidate their own power.

Part of this shift is a psychological process we term the hubris arc. This sees a visionary leader become increasingly myopic once in office. Their early successes bolster their belief in their transformative capabilities, which gradually diminishes their capacity for self-criticism.

The visionary stage typically coincides with systemic failure. When established institutions prove inadequate for addressing public grievances, it provides fertile ground for leaders with exceptional self-confidence to emerge. These outsiders succeed precisely because they possess the psychological conviction that they can challenge entrenched systems and mobilise mass support through bold, unconventional approaches.

Such leaders excel at crafting compelling narratives that enable them to to transform public frustration into electoral momentum. They offer simplified solutions to complex problems, providing certainty where establishment politicians offer only incrementalism and compromise.

Losing perspective

But as visionary capacity increases, so too does myopia. Seeing a singular path with exceptional clarity necessitates narrowing one’s perceptual field.

These leaders initially succeed because their heightened focus cuts through the paralysis of nuanced thinking. But they quickly reach an inflection point where they face a fundamental choice: accept institutional constraints as necessary feedback mechanisms or redefine them as obstacles to their vision.

Those who maintain a productive vision actively build systems for honest feedback. They allow formal channels for dissent to continue and construct diverse advisory teams.

Where strong democratic institutions endure – independent media, empowered legislatures, autonomous courts – leaders must continue negotiating and compromising. This tends to keep their confidence grounded. Some leaders successfully work within these constraints, which proves that the descent into myopia is actually more a reflection of institutional weakness than psychological destiny.

Where institutions lack strength or leaders resist self-discipline, electoral success may embolden rather than restrain authoritarian tendencies. As leaders become increasingly convinced of their transformative vision, their ability to perceive alternatives diminishes.

This psychological narrowing manifests in predictable behaviours, notably eliminating dissenting voices. With every election victory, Orbán has replaced independent-minded allies with loyalists. Trump’s first presidency featured constant turnover among advisers who challenged him. His second is populated by people who can be trusted to toe the line.

Myopic decline follows when hubris reaches saturation. Once leaders systematically eliminate feedback mechanisms, they lose all capacity for self-correction. As their ability to process contradictory information deteriorates, they may increasingly conflate personal power with national interest.

This conflation appears most pronounced in cases where leaders have systematically weakened independent media and judicial oversight.

When leaders achieve complete institutional capture, this self-conception becomes institutionalised. Orbán’s declaration, “We have replaced a shipwrecked liberal democracy with a 21st-century Christian democracy,” reveals how personal vision becomes indistinguishable from national transformation.

Institutional capture occurs through different methods but serves similar purposes. Orbán’s control of the media and courts means he has created parallel institutions that exist solely to validate his vision. Erdoğan used emergency powers after a 2016 coup attempt to instigate mass purges.

In both cases, motivated reasoning becomes institutionalised: leaders come to control the institutions that usually determine what information is legitimate and enable forms of dissent.

The endpoint is a transformation in which opposition becomes an existential threat to the nation. When Orbán positions himself as defender of “illiberal democracy” against EU values, or when Erdoğan arrests his rivals, they frame dissent as treason.

Opposition is a threat not just to their power but to the nation’s essence. Maximum vision has produced maximum blindness. Institutions have been redesigned to perpetuate rather than puncture the delusion.

Resisting the decline

The robustness of democratic institutions is decisive in determining whether hubristic tendencies can be contained within democratic bounds or whether they culminate in authoritarian consolidation.

Hungary and Turkey display a more linear model of democratic erosion. Both Orbán and Erdoğan leveraged initial electoral mandates to systematically capture state institutions. Their hubris evolved from a tool for challenging establishments into a self-reinforcing system in which the regime’s vast sway over state institutions eliminated feedback mechanisms.

Bolsonaro’s slide toward authoritarianism – denying COVID science, attacking electoral systems, attempting to overturn his 2022 defeat – triggered immediate institutional pushback. Unlike Hungary or Turkey, where courts and civil society gradually bent to executive pressure, Brazilian institutions held firm.

Bolsonaro’s trajectory from populist outsider to authoritarian to electoral defeat and institutional rejection suggests that robust federal structures and an independent judiciary can function as circuit breakers. They can prevent permanent democratic capture.

The American experience presents a third model: democratic resilience under stress. Unlike Hungary and Turkey, where institutional capture succeeded, Trump’s first presidency tested whether these patterns could emerge in a system with deeper democratic roots and stronger institutional checks.

While his efforts to pressure state election officials and weaponise federal agencies followed recognisable authoritarian scripts, American institutions proved more resistant than their Hungarian or Turkish counterparts. Courts blocked key initiatives, state officials refused to “find votes,” and congressional oversight continued despite partisan pressures.

Yet even this institutional resistance came under severe strain, suggesting that democratic durability may depend more on specific design features and timing than general democratic culture.

The Trump stress test has revealed vulnerabilities. The erosion of democratic norms – when parties prioritise loyalty over constitutional obligations – creates openings for future exploitation.

The second Trump term could systematically target the weaknesses identified during his first: expanded emergency powers, strategic appointments to undermine the administrative state, and novel statutory interpretations to bypass Congress. The critical question is whether American institutions retain sufficient strength to again disrupt Trump’s trajectory.

The hubris arc appears inherent in populist psychology, underscoring why constitutional constraints and institutional checks are indispensable. Democracies survive not by finding perfect leaders but by constraining imperfect ones.

The authors do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. The hubris arc: how visionary politicians turn into authoritarians – https://theconversation.com/the-hubris-arc-how-visionary-politicians-turn-into-authoritarians-262562

Source: The Conversation – UK – By Nicholas John Wheeler, Professor of International Relations, Department of Political Science and International Studies and Non-Resident Senior Fellow at BASIC, University of Birmingham

The world entered its nuclear epoch 80 years ago on August 6 1945. The US dropped an atomic bomb on the Japanese city of Hiroshima, killing between 70,000 and 140,000 civilians by the end of that year.

A stark reminder of this immense destructive power came recently. On August 1, US president Donald Trump announced the redeployment of two submarines – presumably Ohio-class subs carrying ballistic missiles – in response to what he called “highly provocative statements” by Russia’s former president Dmitry Medvedev.

It may have been empty posturing by Trump. But one Ohio-class submarine (the US Navy has 14 in its fleet) carries approximately 90 warheads, each with destructive power many times greater than the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and, three days later, Nagasaki.

As the world remembers the devastation wrought by these bombings, the threat of nuclear conflict remains a persistent threat to humanity.

Frisch-Peierls memorandum

For many years it was believed that building an atomic weapon was not feasible given the amount of uranium-235 required for a bomb. This assumption changed in March 1940 when two refugee physicists – Rudolf Peierls and Otto Frisch, who both worked at the University of Birmingham – produced in secret what became known as the Frisch-Peierls memorandum.

Their memorandum showed that a powerful atomic bomb could be built using only a small amount of uranium-235. What drove Frisch and Peierls was fear that Nazi Germany might build the bomb first.

They wrote: “If one works on the assumption that Germany is, or will be, in the possession of this weapon … The most effective reply would be a counter-threat with a similar bomb. It would obviously be too late to start production when such a bomb is known to be in the hands of Germany, and the matter seems, therefore, very urgent.”

The Frisch-Peierls memorandum was submitted to the British government as a warning. Prime Minister Winston Churchill heeded the message, establishing the Maud committee a month later to investigate the military potential of atomic energy.

It reported in secret in July 1941, urging production of a bomb and Britain’s cooperation with the US in this endeavour. In a now-famous line, the committee said: “No nation would care to risk being caught without a weapon of such decisive possibilities.”

The demonstration of what the atomic bomb was capable of at Hiroshima, and then at Nagasaki, spurred others to follow the committee’s logic. The Soviet Union, fearing a US atomic monopoly, tested its first bomb in 1949. Britain joined the nuclear club in 1952, followed by France in 1960 and China in 1964.

It is widely accepted that Israel had developed nuclear capability by the early 1970s, though it has maintained a position of ambiguity. India and Pakistan became declared nuclear powers in 1998 and North Korea followed in 2006.

While factors such as national ambition and status played a role in proliferation, a key driving force was fear, fear of adversaries achieving a lasting strategic advantage and, in the case of North Korea, an external attack.

Fear’s centrality to the nuclear story is not only in relation to its role as a driver of proliferation. Nuclear fear has also been a key source of restraint. The most dramatic manifestation of this was the October 1962 Cuban missile crisis.

As I have argued elsewhere, shared fear of nuclear catastrophe led the then US president, John F. Kennedy, and his Soviet counterpart Nikita Khrushchev to develop empathy and trust. This was a key factor in the peaceful resolution of the crisis.

However, nuclear fear – and the deterrence it makes possible – is a fragile basis on which to safeguard humanity’s future. The world may have avoided the use of nuclear weapons since August 1945 through a combination of prudent statecraft and good luck. But how long is it before some combination of bad luck and reckless risk-taking leads to the use of nuclear weapons once again?

Russian nuclear sabre-rattling over Ukraine and the May 2025 conflict between India and Pakistan, unleashing military force between two nuclear-armed states, are warnings that the ever-present threat of nuclear weapons still hangs over humanity.

In the cold war’s climate of deep distrust and nuclear fear, the US and Soviet Union at least had some shared guardrails and channels of communication. Arms control agreements agreed after the Cuban missile crisis limited superpower competition through the 1960s and 1970s. They continued to restrain US-Soviet competition in the early 1980s.

Nowadays, however, arms control has all but collapsed while reliable and trusted channels of communication between major nuclear adversaries are virtually non-existent. The prospects for regulating the nuclear arms competition between Russia, the US and China are bleak.

Replacing fear with trust

To mark the 80th anniversary of the advent of the nuclear epoch, the Nobel Laureate Assembly – a gathering of Nobel laureates and nuclear experts at the University of Chicago – warned in its 2025 Declaration for the Prevention of Nuclear War that: “Ultimately, security cannot be built on fear.”

If the bomb was born out of fear, then ensuring it is never used again requires replacing fear with trust. Ten years into the nuclear epoch, Albert Einstein and philosopher Bertrand Russell issued a manifesto signed by 11 signatories. It was created principally as a trust-building project between the east and west.

The manifesto concluded: “We appeal as human beings to human beings: remember your humanity, and forget the rest. If you can do so, the way lies open to a new paradise; if you cannot, there lies before you the risk of universal death.”

We now face the same choice the manifesto laid bare. One path leads to annihilation, the other to survival through a recognition of our common humanity.

Japan gives expression to that common humanity every August when Hiroshima and Nagasaki hold their peace memorial ceremonies. Remembering the victims and those who continue to suffer from the effects of the atomic bombings, these memorials look to a future where nuclear weapons no longer exist.

The nuclear bomb may have been born in fear. But only the building of trust, which may spring from that fear, can ensure it is never used again.

I have received past funding from the Economic and Social Research Council and the Open Society Foundations.

– ref. Fear built the nuclear bomb – only trust can ensure it is never used again – https://theconversation.com/fear-built-the-nuclear-bomb-only-trust-can-ensure-it-is-never-used-again-262637

Source: The Conversation – UK – By Cat Acheson, Research Associate, School of Social and Political Science, University of Edinburgh

Plastics are everywhere – they’re even in you right now – and are making many of us sick. Now, global negotiators are fighting over whether that matters.

As 180 countries meet in Geneva to seek agreement on a global treaty on plastic pollution, a landmark review published in medical journal The Lancet has made the stakes clear. Plastics, the evidence shows, are a threat to human health – from womb to grave.

They’re linked to miscarriages, birth defects, heart disease and cancer. Plastics are harming people at every stage of the plastics lifecycle – from initial oil extraction to the production and use of plastic products, and their eventual disposal via landfill, incinerator or just being left in the environment.

Yet the possibility of a strong, health-centred treaty hangs in the balance. Campaigners, scientists and healthcare groups are pushing for strong measures to cap production and ban hazardous chemicals. But petrochemical producers and industry lobbyists are pushing back – arguing, against mounting evidence, that plastics are essential to saving lives.

The UN meeting in Geneva is the culmination of several years of negotiating. In theory, delegates will agree on a global treaty by August 15.

The current draft text, which will be the basis for these negotiations, contains provisional elements which could make a real difference. These include cutting plastic production (Article 6), banning plastic products and chemicals that are hazardous to humans or the environment (Article 3), and a section dedicated to protecting human health (Article 19).

But some negotiators oppose these elements, and there is a risk they will be watered down or scrapped entirely in the final treaty.

The so-called Like-Minded Group of countries – many of whose members are petrochemical producers including Saudi Arabia, China, Iran, and Russia – has led the opposition to a health-centred treaty. They have done so by arguing that plastics are in fact essential for protecting health, due to the role of single-use plastic in modern medicine.

For example, Kuwait’s submission to the previous negotiating round in Busan, South Korea, last year called concerns about plastic “not inclusive”, and cited medical devices as proof that plastic saves lives. Saudi Arabia has opposed the inclusion of a dedicated article on health, arguing that this would divert the treaty away from its core purpose of managing plastic waste.

Since almost all plastic is made from oil or gas, these petrostates have a clear incentive to maintain the status quo of plastic production and dependency. No wonder they want to focus on managing waste, rather than making less in the first place.

Plastics industry lobbyists have also been accused of “infiltrating” the negotiations and wielding outsized influence. They too have pushed the narrative that plastics are essential for human health – for example, with posters displayed in Busan which claimed “plastics save lives”.

These lobby groups are pushing for healthcare plastics to be exempted from the treaty entirely, which would provide a significant loophole for plastic producers.

As evidence grows of the ways plastics are harming humans, claims they are necessary to safeguard our health are looking increasingly far-fetched. Of course, plastics are everywhere in modern healthcare. But in most cases, and especially with single-use plastics, they can and should be replaced with a less harmful alternative.

Civil society groups, scientists and healthcare professionals are building momentum for a strong health-centred treaty. The international nongovernmental organization Health Care Without Harm has coordinated an open letter rejecting exemptions for the health sector. Signed by 65 organisations representing 48 million health workers across 88 countries, it calls for a treaty that tackles the full plastics lifecycle – and says cutting unnecessary plastic in healthcare is both possible and necessary to protect patients.

The Scientists’ Coalition, made up of independent experts, has been instrumental in bringing evidence of plastics’ health effects into the debate, while groups like the Global Alliance for Incinerator Alternatives have been pushing for the treaty to recognise that plastics, and especially their disposal, affect marginalised populations hardest. They argue that justice for the most affected people and places should be at the heart of the treaty.

The global plastics treaty is an unprecedented opportunity to take decisive, coordinated action to tackle one of the planet’s biggest threats. At stake in Geneva is whether health will stay at the heart of this treaty – or be sacrificed under pressure from industry and petrostates.

Cat Acheson receives funding from The Wellcome Trust for a project which partners with Health Care Without Harm.

Alice Street received a Wellcome Discovery Award for the project: ‘After the Single Use: Rethinking Medical Devices for Reuse, Resilience and Renewal’, which partners with Health Care Without Harm.

Rob Ralston is a member of Scientists’ Coalition for an Effective Treaty.

– ref. Plastics and human health: what’s at stake in the global treaty talks in Geneva – https://theconversation.com/plastics-and-human-health-whats-at-stake-in-the-global-treaty-talks-in-geneva-262593

Source: The Conversation – UK – By Nick Megoran, Professor of Political Geography, Newcastle University

Japan’s Emperor Hirohito ordered his country’s surrender in a radio broadcast on August 15 1945. After the deaths of some 70 million people, the second world war had finally come to an end.

Reflections on the anniversary of the conflict’s end often turn, understandably, to the cataclysmic atomic bombings of Hiroshimi and Nagasaki that precipitated the emperor’s decision.

But to research a strikingly different – and little-known – story from the final stages of the war in the Pacific, we recently travelled to the remote Japanese island of Aka, where a scarcely believable truce between US and Japanese soldiers took place 80 years ago. In the shadow of one of the war’s fiercest battles, enemy combatants stopped fighting to negotiate, exchange souvenirs, eat – and even pray together.

The battle of Okinawa was the last great engagement of the second world war, and one of its most terrible. The US and UK saw Okinawa as a staging post to the full-scale invasion of mainland Japan, some 400 miles further north. For Japan, defending Okinawa was a way to prolong the war and strengthen its hand in eventual peace negotiations.

To prepare for a battle of attrition, the Japanese army spent months fortifying Okinawa. Sheltering in tunnels and caves, the troops were largely unscathed by a massive initial US air and naval bombardment. They emerged to fight what historian Yunshin Hon called a “three-month orgy of killing”.

After ten weeks of intense combat, the battle was lost. Rather than surrender, before committing ritual suicide, the Japanese commanding generals Mitsuru Ushijima and Isamu Chō issued a final communique ordering every man to “fight to the end of the sake of the motherland … Do not suffer the shame of being taken prisoner.”

Okinawa’s Cornerstone of Peace memorial records the names of more than 240,000 people who died in the battle – more than half of them Okinawan civilians. The Japanese army coerced the civilian population into mass collective suicides, with family members killing each other to prevent them falling into the hands of US troops.

Given this horror, the events on Aka island, 15 miles west of Okinawa, are all the more extraordinary. Using declassified military reports, interviews with participants and eyewitnesses plus archives held by their relatives, we were able to piece together this forgotten story.

An unlikely truce

The Aka operation began on June 13 1945, led by led by US marine reservist Lt. Col. George Clark. About a dozen American soldiers and marines had volunteered for the dangerous mission of going ashore to secure the surrender of a 200-strong Japanese garrison, concealed in the jungle.

The US operation was supported by Japanese prisoners who, having been persuaded of the futility of further deaths in a now-unwinnable war, broadcast appeals for the garrison to surrender from portable loudspeakers.

There was no initial response from the Japanese. But on June 19, the final day of the scheduled mission, the team spotted some civilians. In his official report, Clark recounted that “in a last desperate attempt to save the day”, Lt. David Osborn (a US marine officer who had volunteered to help Clark lead the expedition) “plunged into the water and, naked with the exception of a pair of white skivvy shorts, made off in hot pursuit”.

In the dense undergrowth, the unarmed Osborn stumbled across a Japanese soldier who, remarkably, did not harm him. Instead, the garrison commander, Major Yoshihiko Noda, agreed to meet the Americans – but only if they were accompanied by an old comrade of his, Major Yutaka Umezawa, who had been injured and taken prisoner at the start of the battle.

On June 26, the team returned to Aka (with Umezawa carried on a stretcher), landing on the remote Utaha beach for this conference between Noda and Clark. Umezawa – whose views on the Americans and the war had been transformed by his benign treatment in captivity – strove to persuade Noda of the futility of suicidal resistance.

As negotiations continued, Clark had lunch brought onto the beach and shared with the Japanese: pork and sweet potatoes for the officers, canned goods for the men.

In his official report, Clark noted this led to “the most amazing spectacle it has ever been my lot to behold … On the sand dunes and on the beaches were Jap soldiers and officers, United States marines, soldiers, sailors who had brought in the food, Jap prisoners, officers as well as enlisted men, white folks, black folks, yellow folks; a general melee if there was ever one.”

As a gesture of mutual trust, Noda invited Osborn and another officer, Lt. Newton Steward, back to his command post. He had his men wash and dry the Americans’ shirts, which had become sweaty during the negotiations, and served them tinned pineapple. The Americans then left the island with Noda promising a formal response the next day.

When the marines returned on June 27, Noda’s adjutant, Second Lt. Yoshiyuki Takeda, informed Clark that, regrettably, they were unable to surrender without permission from the emperor. However, the two sides agreed a tacit truce. Noda promised that if the Americans refrained from military action, their men could go “hunting shells or swimming along the beaches” without danger.

In a remarkable final gesture, Clark asked Takeda “if he would like to join the group in a prayer to the Supreme Being of all faiths for international understanding and peace”.

In his report, Clark wrote that Takeda “readily agreed” and, as US and Japanese soldiers knelt together by the shore in prayer, was “visibly moved, arose and thanked us all when the gist of the prayer had been interpreted for him”.

Clark left the island disappointed that he had failed to secure a surrender. However, the truce held until the end of the war. It prevented further Japanese and US military casualties, and spared the island’s inhabitants the devastation that was unleashed on the rest of Okinawa.

Shared humanity

The Aka truce was an isolated event, and we should not romanticise it. Noda’s garrison was responsible for the deaths of a dozen starving Korean conscripted labourers at the start of the battle for Aka, executed for “theft” when they were found with rice stuffed in their pockets.

But like the 1914 Christmas truces on the western front, the Aka truce captures the imagination – and we believe offers three instructive and hopeful lessons.

First, even in the most appalling of circumstances, enemy combatants were able to recognise each other’s shared humanity. They attended to basic needs of food and comfort, and joined together in a moment of spiritual intimacy that transcended cultures.

Second, it showed that enemy soldiers were able to enter into dialogue and choose not to continue fighting – risking not only immediate death or injury, but also future courts-martial. This raises the ethical question: “Do soldiers on the battlefield have the right not to fight?” It is a right that soldiers have increasingly sought to assert, in contexts ranging from Vietnam to the occupied Palestinian territories.

Finally, the Aka truce offered a glimpse of the subsequent Allied-Japanese reconciliation that seemed unthinkable at the time. On the 80th anniversary of the end of history’s most terrible war, that is a story and message worth retelling.

Nick Megoran received funding for this research from Hakusem Partners Ltd, Sapporo City, Japan. He is grateful to the Director, Yasuhiro Kawamoto.

Hiroshi Sakai received funding for this research from Hakusem Partners Ltd, Sapporo City, Japan. He is grateful to the Director, Yasuhiro Kawamoto.

– ref. When US and Japanese troops stopped fighting to talk, eat and pray together – https://theconversation.com/when-us-and-japanese-troops-stopped-fighting-to-talk-eat-and-pray-together-262068

Source: The Conversation – UK – By David Bate, Professor at Westminster School of Arts, University of Westminster

Virtual Beauty is the summer show at Somerset House, London, featuring a fascinating collection of visual work by artists dealing with the connection between technology and beauty. As you might expect, it focuses on the human form and the reshaping of the body and face through computational processes.

While humans have contemplated their self-image through mirrors and pictures of themselves for hundreds of years, digital inventions have reconfigured all this. Today, people regularly use mobile phone screens as mirrors and the camera to record themselves. Posting these images online only affirms that identity to their wider community and networks.

The rectangular shape of a phone screen is used extensively in the exhibition by digital artists to show the new malleability of human identity and how we can reimagine ourselves through digital technologies.

The artist Orlan, for example, conducted cosmetic surgery and recorded it live on video, originally live-streaming it into galleries in 1992. Astonishingly in the video she is seen awake and even discussing the aesthetics of her facial surgery with special guests while the surgeons work with a scalpel on the dotted lines on her face.

But today you don’t need a surgeon to change your image, you can use your phone and apps to “try out” new identities. This is our new digital world and the questions about what these processes mean is what concerns the artists here.

In visual anthropologist Mathilde Friis’s excellent accompanying essay to the exhibition From the Selfie to the Avatar: Beauty, Bias and the Digital Self, she suggests that the actual body no longer limits beauty thanks to our online lives.

In this online presentation of self, she argues, is a tension between our offline identity, the facets of ourselves we inherit and literally inhabit, and the freedom to escape these fixed features in how we present ourselves online.

Do you want to look like a well known model, an exotic anime character or something else? These are all possibilities in the digital world, but what kind of change do they represent? Such are the lingering questions for the viewer at the exhibition.

The artworks explore the trials and tribulations of identity and its relation to traditional notions of beauty and attempts at liberation from them. This point is strongly made in Filip Custic’s installation Pi(x)el (2022), where a 3D silicone mannequin has tiny screens attached in front of the key features of the body.

The screen images flicker between different images of eyes, ears, mouth, nose, genitals and fingernails to demonstrate the potential choices one might make to change them.

I was particularly drawn into Qualeasha Wood’s intriguing textile work It’s All For U (If U Rlly Want It), (2024). The tapestry looks like a photo-collage. At the centre is a black woman who reaches towards a phone screen.

Around her are the tools used to construct the digital self, the phone camera the screen of the selfie, its menu buttons, texts and her hand that taps out this creation. These facets are all beautifully scrambled together into a single work that invites the viewer to linger and meditate on them.

At the same time the many artworks that do use screens tend to play with traditional expectations of them. Some of these images can seem uncanny or confronting while other conform to more traditional ideas of what a digital avatar can be.

An example of one of these works in Angelfire’s XENA (2021), which is inspired by the TV series character Xena: Warrior Princess (1995-2001). This take on the character shows a powerful hyper hybrid figure, a kind of masculine and feminine, neither firmly one nor the other and maybe not even both.

Another is Lil Miquela’s Rebirth of Venus (2020), which presents a virtual figure who looks like a real person. Beautiful butterflies fly around and settle on her, as if to emphasise her beauty. Although Lil Miquela does not exist beyond her digital space, she has a massive following online as a viral influencer as well as a virtual avatar.

The exhibition is a welcome engagement with ideas of virtual beauty and into the growth of digital identities that are at once a part and separate or different from our offline selves. It shows how hybridity is a feature of virtual space and how we tend to sometimes subtly merge our own ideals with the computer images that we see.

It has been said that photography and cinema had a similar effect during the 20th century. The exhibition also offers great insight how these virtual spaces have allowed people to present identities online which might be challenged offline.

All in all, its is an interesting presentation of the tension between the animation of new selves and the palpable anxiety and questions about where we are all headed.

Virtual Beauty is on at Somerset House in London until September 28 2025

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David Bate has received funding from The Arts Council and The British Council.

– ref. Virtual Beauty exhibition – is our sense of beauty changed by new technologies? – https://theconversation.com/virtual-beauty-exhibition-is-our-sense-of-beauty-changed-by-new-technologies-262454