I don't know what the hell I'm doing here. I was born in a Scots Presbyterian ghetto in Canada, and dropped out of high school. I don't own a cell phone, and I paint on paper using gouache, which hasn't changed in 600 years. But about three years ago I had an art show in New York, and I titled it "Serious Nonsense." So I think I'm actually the first one here -- I lead. I called it "Serious Nonsense" because on the serious side, I use a technique of painstaking realism of editorial illustration from when I was a kid. I copied it and I never unlearned it -- it's the only style I know. And it's very kind of staid and formal. And meanwhile, I use nonsense, as you can see. This is a Scottish castle where people are playing golf indoors, and the trick was to bang the golf ball off of suits of armor -- which you can't see there. This was one of a series called "Zany Afternoons," which became a book. This is a home-built rocket-propelled car. That's a 1953 Henry J -- I'm a bug for authenticity -- in a quiet neighborhood in Toledo. This is my submission for the L.A. Museum of Film. You can probably tell Frank Gehry and I come from the same town. My work is so personal and so strange that I have to invent my own lexicon for it. And I work a lot in what I call "retrofuturism," which is looking back to see how yesterday viewed tomorrow. And they're always wrong, always hilariously, optimistically wrong. And the peak time for that was the 30s, because the Depression was so dismal that anything to get away from the present into the future ... and technology was going to carry us along. This is Popular Workbench. Popular science magazines in those days -- I had a huge collection of them from the '30s -- all they are is just poor people being asked to make sunglasses out of wire coat hangers and everything improvised and dreaming about these wonderful giant radio robots playing ice hockey at 300 miles an hour -- it's all going to happen, it's all going to be wonderful. Automotive retrofuturism is one of my specialties. I was both an automobile illustrator and an advertising automobile copywriter, so I have a lot of revenge to take on the subject. Detroit has always been halfway into the future -- the advertising half. This is the '58 Bulgemobile: so new, they make tomorrow look like yesterday. This is a chain gang of guys admiring the car. That's from a whole catalog -- it's 18 pages or so -- ran back in the days of the Lampoon, where I cut my teeth. Techno-archaeology is digging back and finding past miracles that never happened -- for good reason, usually. The zeppelin -- this was from a brochure about the zeppelin based, obviously, on the Hindenburg. But the zeppelin was the biggest thing that ever moved made by man. And it carried 56 people at the speed of a Buick at an altitude you could hear dogs bark, and it cost twice as much as a first-class cabin on the Normandie to fly it. So the Hindenburg wasn't, you know, it was inevitable it was going to go. This is auto-gyro jousting in Malibu in the 30s. The auto-gyro couldn't wait for the invention of the helicopter, but it should have -- it wasn't a big success. It's the only Spanish innovation, technologically, of the 20th century, by the way. You needed to know that. The flying car which never got off the ground -- it was a post-war dream. My old man used to tell me we were going to get a flying car. This is pitched into the future from 1946, looking at the day all American families have them. "There's Moscow, Shirley. Hope they speak Esperanto!" Faux-nostalgia, which I'm sort of -- not, say, famous for, but I work an awful lot in it. It's the achingly sentimental yearning for times that never happened. Somebody once said that nostalgia is the one utterly most useless human emotion -- so I think that’s a case for serious play. This is emblematic of it -- this is wing dining, recalling those balmy summer days somewhere over France in the 20s, dining on the wing of a plane. You can't see it very well here, but that's Hemingway reading some pages from his new novel to Fitzgerald and Ford Madox Ford until the slipstream blows him away. This is tank polo in the South Hamptons. The brainless rich are more fun to make fun of than anybody. I do a lot of that. And authenticity is a major part of my serious nonsense. I think it adds a huge amount. Those, for example, are Mark IV British tanks from 1916. They had two machine guns and a cannon, and they had 90 horsepower Ricardo engines. They went five miles an hour and inside it was 105 degrees in the pitch dark. And they had a canary hung inside the thing to make sure the Germans weren't going to use gas. Happy little story, isn't it? This is Motor Ritz Towers in Manhattan in the 30s, where you drove up to your front door, if you had the guts. Anybody who was anybody had an apartment there. I managed to stick in both the zeppelin and an ocean liner out of sheer enthusiasm. And I love cigars -- there's a cigar billboard down there. And faux-nostalgia works even in serious subjects like war. This is those wonderful days of the Battle of Britain in 1940, when a Messerschmitt ME109 bursts into the House of Commons and buzzes around, just to piss off Churchill, who's down there somewhere. It's a fond memory of times past. Hyperbolic overkill is a way of taking exaggeration to the absolute ultimate limit, just for the fun of it. This was a piece I did -- a brochure again -- "RMS Tyrannic: The Biggest Thing in All the World." The copy, which you can't see because it goes on and on for several pages, says that steerage passengers can't get their to bunks before the voyage is over, and it's so safe it carries no insurance. It's obviously modeled on the Titanic. But it's not a cri de coeur about man's hubris in the face of the elements. It's just a sick, silly joke. Shamelessly cheap is something, I think -- this will wake you up. It has no meaning, just -- Desoto discovers the Mississippi, and it's a Desoto discovering the Mississippi. I did that as a quick back page -- I had like four hours to do a back page for an issue of the Lampoon, and I did that, and I thought, "Well, I'm ashamed. I hope nobody knows it." People wrote in for reprints of that thing. Urban absurdism -- that's what the New Yorker really calls for. I try to make life in New York look even weirder than it is with those covers. I've done about 40 of them, and I'd say 30 of them are based on that concept. I was driving down 7th Avenue one night at 3 a.m., and this steam pouring out of the street, and I thought, "What causes that?" And that -- who’s to say? The Temple of Dendur at the Metropolitan in New York -- it's a very somber place. I thought I could jazz it up a bit, have a little fun with it. This is a very un-PC cover. Not in New York. I couldn't resist, and I got a nasty email from some environmental group saying, "This is too serious and solemn to make fun of. You should be ashamed, please apologize on our website." Haven't got around to it yet but -- I may. This is the word side of my brain. (Laughter) I love the word "Eurotrash." (Laughter) That's all the Eurotrash coming through JFK customs. This was the New York bike messenger meeting the Tour de France. If you live in New York, you know how the bike messengers move. Except that he's carrying a tube for blueprints and stuff -- they all do -- and a lot of people thought that meant it was a terrorist about to shoot rockets at the Tour de France -- sign of our times, I guess. This is the only fashion cover I've ever done. It's the little old lady that lives in a shoe, and then this thing -- the title of that was, "There Goes the Neighborhood." I don't know a hell of a lot about fashion -- I was told to do what they call a Mary Jane, and then I got into this terrible fight between the art director and the editor saying: "Put a strap on it" -- "No, don't put a strap on it" -- "Put a strap on it -- "Don't put a strap on it" -- because it obscures the logo and looks terrible and it's bad and -- I finally chickened out and did it for the sake of the authenticity of the shoe. This is a tiny joke -- E-ZR pass. One letter makes an idea. This is a big joke. This is the audition for "King Kong." (Laughter) People always ask me, where do you get your ideas, how do your ideas come? Truth about that one is I had a horrible red wine hangover, in the middle of the night, this came to me like a Xerox -- all I had to do was write it down. It was perfectly clear. I didn't do any thinking about it. And then when it ran, a lovely lady, an old lady named Mrs. Edgar Rosenberg -- if you know that name -- called me and said she loved the cover, it was so sweet. Her former name was Fay Wray, and so that was -- I didn't have the wit to say, "Take the painting." Finally, this was a three-page cover, never done before, and I don't think it will ever be done again -- successive pages in the front of the magazine. It's the ascent of man using an escalator, and it's in three parts. You can't see it all together, unfortunately, but if you look at it enough, you can sort of start to see how it actually starts to move. (Applause) Pretty elegant. Nothing like a crash to end a joke. That completes my oeuvre. I would just like to add a crass commercial -- I have a kids' book coming out in the fall called "Marvel Sandwiches," a compendium of all the serious play that ever was, and it’s going to be available in fine bookstores, crummy bookstores, tables on the street in October. So thank you very much. The story starts in Kenya in December of 2007, when there was a disputed presidential election, and in the immediate aftermath of that election, there was an outbreak of ethnic violence. And there was a lawyer in Nairobi, Ory Okolloh -- who some of you may know from her TEDTalk -- who began blogging about it on her site, Kenyan Pundit. And shortly after the election and the outbreak of violence, the government suddenly imposed a significant media blackout. And so weblogs went from being commentary as part of the media landscape to being a critical part of the media landscape in trying to understand where the violence was. And Okolloh solicited from her commenters more information about what was going on. The comments began pouring in, and Okolloh would collate them. She would post them. And she quickly said, "It's too much. I could do this all day every day and I can't keep up. There is more information about what's going on in Kenya right now than any one person can manage. If only there was a way to automate this." And two programmers who read her blog held their hands up and said, "We could do that," and in 72 hours, they launched Ushahidi. Ushahidi -- the name means "witness" or "testimony" in Swahili -- is a very simple way of taking reports from the field, whether it's from the web or, critically, via mobile phones and SMS, aggregating it and putting it on a map. That's all it is, but that's all that's needed because what it does is it takes the tacit information available to the whole population -- everybody knows where the violence is, but no one person knows what everyone knows -- and it takes that tacit information and it aggregates it, and it maps it and it makes it public. And that, that maneuver called "crisis mapping," was kicked off in Kenya in January of 2008. And enough people looked at it and found it valuable enough that the programmers who created Ushahidi decided they were going to make it open source and turn it into a platform. It's since been deployed in Mexico to track electoral fraud. It's been deployed in Washington D.C. to track snow cleanup. And it's been used most famously in Haiti in the aftermath of the earthquake. And when you look at the map now posted on the Ushahidi front page, you can see that the number of deployments in Ushahidi has gone worldwide, all right? This went from a single idea and a single implementation in East Africa in the beginning of 2008 to a global deployment in less than three years. Now what Okolloh did would not have been possible without digital technology. What Okolloh did would not have been possible without human generosity. And the interesting moment now, the number of environments where the social design challenge relies on both of those things being true. That is the resource that I'm talking about. I call it cognitive surplus. And it represents the ability of the world's population to volunteer and to contribute and collaborate on large, sometimes global, projects. Cognitive surplus is made up of two things. The first, obviously, is the world's free time and talents. The world has over a trillion hours a year of free time to commit to shared projects. Now, that free time existed in the 20th century, but we didn't get Ushahidi in the 20th century. That's the second half of cognitive surplus. The media landscape in the 20th century was very good at helping people consume, and we got, as a result, very scott66@example.net. But now that we've been given media tools -- the Internet, mobile phones -- that let us do more than consume, what we're seeing is that people weren't couch potatoes because we liked to be. We were couch potatoes because that was the only opportunity given to us. We still like to consume, of course. But it turns out we also like to create, and we like to share. And it's those two things together -- ancient human motivation and the modern tools to allow that motivation to be joined up in large-scale efforts -- that are the new design resource. And using cognitive surplus, we're starting to see truly incredible experiments in scientific, literary, artistic, political efforts. Designing. We're also getting, of course, a lot of LOLcats. LOLcats are cute pictures of cats made cuter with the addition of cute captions. And they are also part of the abundant media landscape we're getting now. This is one of the participatory -- one of the participatory models we see coming out of that, along with Ushahidi. Now I want to stipulate, as the lawyers say, that LOLcats are the stupidest possible creative act. There are other candidates of course, but LOLcats will do as a general case. But here's the thing: The stupidest possible creative act is still a creative act. Someone who has done something like this, however mediocre and throwaway, has tried something, has put something forward in public. And once they've done it, they can do it again, and they could work on getting it better. There is a spectrum between mediocre work and good work, and as anybody who's worked as an artist or a creator knows, it's a spectrum you're constantly struggling to get on top of. The gap is between doing anything and doing nothing. And someone who makes a LOLcat has already crossed over that gap. Now it's tempting to want to get the Ushahidis without the LOLcats, right, to get the serious stuff without the throwaway stuff. But media abundance never works that way. Freedom to experiment means freedom to experiment with anything. Even with the sacred printing press, we got erotic novels 150 years before we got scientific journals. So before I talk about what is, I think, the critical difference between LOLcats and Ushahidi, I want to talk about their shared source. And that source is design for generosity. It is one of the curiosities of our historical era that even as cognitive surplus is becoming a resource we can design around, social sciences are also starting to explain how important our intrinsic motivations are to us, how much we do things because we like to do them rather than because our boss told us to do them, or because we're being paid to do them. This is a graph from a paper by Uri Gneezy and Aldo Rustichini, who set out to test, at the beginning of this decade, what they called "deterrence theory." And deterrence theory is a very simple theory of human behavior: If you want somebody to do less of something, add a punishment and they'll do less of it. Simple, straightforward, commonsensical -- also, largely untested. And so they went and studied 10 daycare centers in Haifa, Israel. They studied those daycare centers at the time of highest tension, which is pick-up time. At pick-up time the teachers, who have been with your children all day, would like you to be there at the appointed hour to take your children back. Meanwhile, the parents -- perhaps a little busy at work, running late, running errands -- want a little slack to pick the kids up late. So Gneezy and Rustichini said, "How many instances of late pick-ups are there at these 10 daycare centers?" Now they saw -- and this is what the graph is, these are the number of weeks and these are the number of late arrivals -- that there were between six and 10 instances of late pick-ups on average in these 10 daycare centers. So they divided the daycare centers into two groups. The white group there is the control group; they change nothing. But the group of daycare centers represented by the black line, they said, "We are changing this bargain as of right now. If you pick your kid up more than 10 minutes late, we're going to add a 10 shekel fine to your bill. Boom. No ifs, ands or buts." And the minute they did that, the behavior in those daycare centers changed. Late pick-ups went up every week for the next four weeks until they topped out at triple the pre-fine average, and then they fluctuated at between double and triple the pre-fine average for the life of the fine. And you can see immediately what happened, right? The fine broke the culture of the daycare center. By adding a fine, what they did was communicate to the parents that their entire debt to the teachers had been discharged with the payment of 10 shekels, and that there was no residue of guilt or social concern that the parents owed the teachers. And so the parents, quite sensibly, said, "10 shekels to pick my kid up late? What could be bad?" (Laughter) The explanation of human behavior that we inherited in the 20th century was that we are all rational, self-maximizing actors, and in that explanation -- the daycare center had no contract -- should have been operating without any constraints. But that's not right. They were operating with social constraints rather than contractual ones. And critically, the social constraints created a culture that was more generous than the contractual constraints did. So Gneezy and Rustichini run this experiment for a dozen weeks -- run the fine for a dozen weeks -- and then they say, "Okay, that's it. All done; fine." And then a really interesting thing happens: Nothing changes. The culture that got broken by the fine stayed broken when the fine was removed. Not only are economic motivations and intrinsic motivations incompatible, that incompatibility can persist over long periods. So the trick in designing these kinds of situations is to understand where you're relying on the economic part of the bargain -- as with the parents paying the teachers -- and when you're relying on the social part of the bargain, when you're really designing for generosity. This brings me back to the LOLcats and to Ushahidi. This is, I think, the range that matters. Both of these rely on cognitive surplus. Both of these design for the assumption that people like to create and we want to share. Here is the critical difference between these: LOLcats is communal value. It's value created by the participants for each other. Communal value on the networks we have is everywhere -- every time you see a large aggregate of shared, publicly available data, whether it's photos on Flickr or videos on Youtube or whatever. This is good. I like LOLcats as much as the next guy, maybe a little more even, but this is also a largely solved problem. I have a hard time envisioning a future in which someone is saying, "Where, oh where, can I find a picture of a cute cat?" Ushahidi, by contrast, is civic value. It's value created by the participants but enjoyed by society as a whole. The goals set out by Ushahidi are not just to make life better for the participants, but to make life better for everyone in the society in which Ushahidi is operating. And that kind of civic value is not just a side effect of opening up to human motivation. It really is going to be a side effect of what we, collectively, make of these kinds of efforts. There are a trillion hours a year of participatory value up for grabs. That will be true year-in and year-out. The number of people who are going to be able to participate in these kinds of projects is going to grow, and we can see that organizations designed around a culture of generosity can achieve incredible effects without an enormous amount of contractual overhead -- a very different model than our default model for large-scale group action in the 20th century. What's going to make the difference here is what Dean Kamen said, the inventor and entrepreneur. Kamen said, "Free cultures get what they celebrate." We've got a choice before us. We've got this trillion hours a year. We can use it to crack each other up, and we're going to do that. That, we get for free. But we can also celebrate and support and reward the people trying to use cognitive surplus to create civic value. And to the degree we're going to do that, to the degree we're able to do that, we'll be able to change society. Thank you very much. Of the five senses, vision is the one that I appreciate the most, and it's the one that I can least take for granted. I think this is partially due to my father, who was blind. It was a fact that he didn't make much of a fuss about, usually. One time in Nova Scotia, when we went to see a total eclipse of the sun -- (Laughter) Yeah, same one as in the Carly Simon song, which may or may not refer to James Taylor, Warren Beatty or Mick Jagger; we're not really sure. They handed out these dark plastic viewers that allowed us to look directly at the sun without damaging our eyes. But Dad got really scared; he didn't want us doing that. He wanted us instead to use these cheap cardboard viewers, so that there was no chance at all that our eyes would be damaged. I thought this was a little strange at the time. What I didn't know at the time was that my father had actually been born with perfect eyesight. When he and his sister Martha were just very little, their mom took them out to see a total eclipse -- or actually, a solar eclipse -- and not long after that, both of them started losing their eyesight. Decades later, it turned out that the source of their blindness was most likely some sort of bacterial infection. As near as we can tell, it had nothing whatsoever to do with that solar eclipse, but by then my grandmother had already gone to her grave thinking it was her fault. So, Dad graduated Harvard in 1946, married my mom, and bought a house in Lexington, Massachusetts, where the first shots were fired against the British in 1775, although we didn't actually hit any of them until Concord. He got a job working for Raytheon designing guidance systems, which was part of the Route 128 high-tech axis in those days -- so, the equivalent of Silicon Valley in the '70s. Dad wasn't a real militaristic kind of guy; he just felt bad that he wasn't able to fight in World War II on account of his handicap, although they did let him get through the several-hour-long army physical exam before they got to the very last test, which was for vision. (Laughter) So Dad started racking up all of these patents and gaining a reputation as a blind genius, rocket scientist, inventor. But to us he was just Dad, and our home life was pretty normal. As a kid, I watched a lot of television and had lots of nerdy hobbies like mineralogy and microbiology and the space program and a little bit of politics. I played a lot of chess. But at the age of 14, a friend got me interested in comic books, and I decided that was what I wanted to do for a living. So, here's my dad: he's a scientist, he's an engineer and he's a military contractor. So, he has four kids, right? One grows up to become a computer scientist, one grows up to join the Navy, one grows up to become an engineer ... And then there's me: the comic book artist. (Laughter) Which, incidentally, makes me the opposite of Dean Kamen, because I'm a comic book artist, son of an inventor, and he's an inventor, son of a comic book artist. (Laughter) Right? It's true. (Applause) The funny thing is, Dad had a lot of faith in me. He had faith in my abilities as a cartoonist, even though he had no direct evidence that I was any good whatsoever; everything he saw was just a blur. Now, this gives a real meaning to the term "blind faith," which doesn't have the same negative connotation for me that it does for other people. Now, faith in things which cannot be seen, which cannot be proved, is not the sort of faith that I've ever really related to all that much. I tend to like science, where what we see and can ascertain are the foundation of what we know. But there's a middle ground, too -- a middle ground tread by people like poor old Charles Babbage and his steam-driven computers that were never built. Nobody really understood what it was that he had in mind except for Ada Lovelace, and he went to his grave trying to pursue that dream. Vannevar Bush with his memex -- this idea of all of human knowledge at your fingertips -- he had this vision. And I think a lot of people in his day probably thought he was a bit of a kook. And, yeah, we can look back in retrospect and say, "Yeah, ha-ha, it's all microfilm -- (Laughter) But that's not the point; he understood the shape of the future. So did J.C.R. Licklider and his notions for computer-human interaction. Same thing: he understood the shape of the future, even though it was something that would only be implemented by people much later. Or Paul Baran, and his vision for packet switching. Hardly anybody listened to him in his day. Or even the people who actually pulled it off, the people at Bolt, Beranek and Newman in Boston, who just would sketch out these structures of what would eventually become a worldwide network, and sketching things on the back of napkins and on note papers and arguing over dinner at Howard Johnson's -- on Route 128 in Lexington, Massachusetts, just two miles from where I was studying the Queen's Gambit Deferred and listening to Gladys Knight &amp; The Pips singing "Midnight Train to Georgia" -- (Laughter) in my dad's big easy chair, you know? So, three types of vision, right? Vision based on what one cannot see, the vision of that unseen and unknowable. The vision of that which has already been proven or can be ascertained. And this third kind, a vision of something which can be, which may be, based on knowledge but is, as yet, unproven. Now, we've seen a lot of examples of people who are pursuing that sort of vision in science, but I think it's also true in the arts, it's true in politics, it's even true in personal endeavors. What it comes down to, really, is four basic principles: learn from everyone; follow no one; watch for patterns; and work like hell. I think these are the four principles that go into this. And it's that third one, especially, where visions of the future begin to manifest themselves. What's interesting is that this particular way of looking at the world, is, I think, only one of four different ways that manifest themselves in different fields of endeavor. In comics, I know that it results in sort of a formalist attitude towards trying to understand how it works. Then there's another, more classical attitude which embraces beauty and craft; another one which believes in the pure transparency of content; and then another, which emphasizes the authenticity of human experience and honesty and rawness. These are four very different ways of looking at the world. I even gave them names: the classicist, the animist, the formalist and iconoclast. Interestingly, they seem to correspond more or less to Jung's four subdivisions of human thought. And they reflect a dichotomy of art and delight on left and the right; tradition and revolution on the top and the bottom. And if you go on the diagonal, you get content and form, and then beauty and truth. And it probably applies just as much to music and movies and fine art, which has nothing whatsoever to do with vision at all, or, for that matter, nothing to do with our conference theme of "Inspired by Nature," except to the extent of the fable of the frog who gives a ride to the scorpion on his back to get across the river because the scorpion promises not to sting him, but the scorpion stings him anyway and they both die, but not before the frog asks him why, and the scorpion says, "Because it's my nature." In that sense, yes. (Laughter) So this was my nature. The thing was, I saw that the route I took to discovering this focus in my work and who I was -- I saw it as just this road to discovery. Actually, it was just me embracing my nature, which means that I didn't actually fall that far from the tree, after all. So what does a "scientific mind" do in the arts? I started making comics, but I also started trying to understand them, almost immediately. One of the most important things about comics that I discovered was that comics are a visual medium, but they try to embrace all of the senses within it. So, the different elements of comics, like pictures and words, and the different symbols and everything in between that comics presents, are all funneled through the single conduit, a vision. So we have things like resemblance, where something which resembles the physical world can be abstracted in a couple of different directions: abstracted from resemblance, but still retaining the complete meaning, or abstracted away from both resemblance and meaning towards the picture plane. Put all these three together, and you have a nice little map of the entire boundary of visual iconography, which comics can embrace. And if you move to the right you also get language, because that's abstracting even further from resemblance, but still maintaining meaning. Vision is called upon to represent sound and to understand the common properties of those two and their common heritage as well; also, to try to represent the texture of sound to capture its essential character through visuals. There's also a balance between the visible and the invisible in comics. Comics is a kind of call and response, in which the artist gives you something to see within the panels, and then gives you something to imagine between the panels. Also, another sense which comics' vision represents, and that's time. Sequence is a very important aspect of comics. Comics presents a kind of temporal map. And this temporal map was something that energizes modern comics, but I was wondering if perhaps it also energizes other sorts of forms, and I found some in history. You can see this same principle operating in these ancient versions of the same idea. What's happening is, an art form is colliding with a given technology, whether it's paint on stone, like the Tomb of Menna the Scribe in ancient Egypt, or a bas-relief sculpture rising up a stone column, or a 200-foot-long embroidery, or painted deerskin and tree bark running across 88 accordion-folded pages. What's interesting is, once you hit "print" -- and this is from 1450, by the way -- all of the artifacts of modern comics start to present themselves: rectilinear panel arrangements, simple line drawings without tone, and a left-to-right reading sequence. And within 100 years, you already start to see word balloons and captions, and it's really just a hop, skip and a jump from here to here. So I wrote a book about this in '93, but as I was finishing the book, I had to do a little bit of typesetting, and I was tired of going to my local copy shop to do it, so I bought a computer. And it was just a little thing -- it wasn't good for much except text entry -- but my father had told me about Moore's law back in the '70s, and I knew what was coming. And so, I kept my eyes peeled to see if the sort of changes that happened when we went from pre-print comics to print comics would happen when we went beyond, to post-print comics. So, one of the first things proposed was that we could mix the visuals of comics with the sound, motion and interactivity of the CD-ROMs being made in those days. This was even before the Web. And one of the first things they did was, they tried to take the comics page as is and transplant it to monitors, which was a classic McLuhanesque mistake of appropriating the shape of the previous technology as the content of the new technology. And so, what they would do is have these comic pages that resemble print comics pages, and they would introduce all this sound and motion. The problem was that if you go with this basic idea that space equals time in comics, what happens is that when you introduce sound and motion, which are temporal phenomena that can only be represented through time, they break with that continuity of presentation. Interactivity was another thing. There were hypertext comics, but the thing about hypertext is that everything in hypertext is either here, not here, or connected to here; it's profoundly nonspatial. The distance from Abraham Lincoln to a Lincoln penny to Penny Marshall to the Marshall Plan to "Plan 9" to nine lives: it's all the same. (Laughter) But in comics, every aspect of the work, every element of the work, has a spatial relationship to every other element at all times. So the question was: Was there any way to preserve that spatial relationship while still taking advantage of all of the things that digital had to offer us? And I found my personal answer for this in those ancient comics that I was showing you. Each of them has a single unbroken reading line, whether it's going zigzag across the walls or spiraling up a column or just straight left to right, or even going in a backwards zigzag across those 88 accordion-folded pages, the same thing is happening; that is, that the basic idea that as you move through space you move through time, is being carried out without any compromise, but there were compromises when print hit. Adjacent spaces were no longer adjacent moments, so the basic idea of comics was being broken again and again and again and again. And I thought, OK, well, if that's true, is there any way, when we go beyond today's print, to somehow bring that back? Now, the monitor is just as limited as the page, technically, right? It's a different shape, but other than that, it's the same basic limitation. But that's only if you look at the monitor as a page, but not if you look at the monitor as a window. And that's what I propose, that perhaps we could create these comics on an infinite canvas, along the X axis and the Y axis and staircases. We could do circular narratives that were literally circular. We could do a turn in a story that was literally a turn. Parallel narratives could be literally parallel. X, Y and also Z. So I had all these notions. This was back in the late '90s, and other people in my business thought I was pretty crazy, but a lot of people then went on and actually did it. I'm going to show you a couple now. This was an early collage comic by a fellow named Jasen Lex. And notice what's going on here. What I'm searching for is a durable mutation -- that's what all of us are searching for. As media head into this new era, we are looking for mutations that are durable, that have some sort of staying power. Now, we're taking this basic idea of presenting comics in a visual medium, and we're carrying it through all the way from beginning to end. That's that entire comic you just saw, up on the screen right now. But even though we're only experiencing it one piece at a time, that's just where the technology is right now. As the technology evolves, as you get full immersive displays and whatnot, this sort of thing will only grow; it will adapt. It will adapt to its environment; it's a durable mutation. Here's another one. This is by Drew Weing; this is called "'Pup' Ponders the Heat Death of the Universe." See what's going on here as we draw these stories on an infinite canvas is you're creating a more pure expression of what this medium is all about. We'll go by this a little quickly. You get the idea. I just want to get to the last panel. [Cat 1: Pup! Earth to Pup! Cat 2: Come play baseball with us!] (Laughter) [Pup: Did either of you realize that eventually the universe will be nothing but a thin, cold gas spread across infinite, lonely space?] [Cat 1: Oh ... Cat 2: We'd better hurry, then!] (Laughter) Just one more. Talk about your infinite canvas. It's by a guy named Daniel Merlin Goodbrey, in Britain. Why is this important? I think this is important because media -- all media -- provide us a window back into our world. Now, it could be that motion pictures and eventually, virtual reality, or something equivalent to it, some sort of immersive display, is going to provide us with our most efficient escape from the world that we're in. That's why most people turn to storytelling, to escape. But media provides us with a window back into the world we live in. And when media evolve so that the identity of the media becomes increasingly unique -- because what you're looking at is comics cubed, you're looking at comics that are more comics-like than they've ever been before -- when that happens, you provide people with multiple ways of reentering the world through different windows. And when you do that, it allows them to triangulate the world they live in and see its shape. That's why I think this is important. One of many reasons, but I've got to go now. Thank you for having me. Olive oil is 100% fat; there's nothing else in it. Pancake mix, on the other hand, is only about 11% fat. And, yet, olive oil is good for you, and pancake mix is not. Why is that? As it turns out, the amount of fat we eat doesn't impact our weight or our cholesterol or our risk of heart disease nearly as much as what kind of fat we eat. But let's back up: What is fat? If we were to zoom in on a salmon, which is a fatty fish, past the organs, past the tissues, into the cells, we would see that the stuff we call fat is actually made up of molecules called triglycerides, and they are not all alike. Here's one example. Those three carbons on the left, that's glycerol. Now, you can think of that as the backbone that holds the rest of the molecule together. The three long chains on the right are called fatty acids, and it's subtle differences in the structures of these chains that determine whether a fat is, let's say, solid or liquid; whether or not it goes rancid quickly; and, most importantly, how good or how bad it is for you. Let's take a look at some of these differences. One is length. Fatty acids can be short or long. Another, more important difference is the type of bond between the carbon atoms. Some fatty acids have only single bonds. Others have both single and double bonds. Fatty acids with only single bonds are called saturated, and those with one or more double bonds are called unsaturated. Now, most unsaturated fats are good for you, while saturated fats are bad for you in excess. For saturated fats, the story pretty much ends there but not for unsaturated fats. The double bonds in these molecules have a kind of weird property; they're rigid. So, that means there are two ways to arrange every double bond. The first is like this, where both hydrogens are on same side and both carbons are on the same side. The second way is like this. Now the hydrogens and carbons are on opposite sides of the double bond. Now, even though both of these molecules are made up of exactly the same building blocks, they are two completely different substances, and they behave completely differently inside of us. The configuration on the left is called CIS, which you've probably never heard of. The one of the right is called TRANS, and you probably have heard of trans fats before. They don't go rancid, they're more stable during deep frying, and they can change the texture of foods in ways that other fats just can't. They're also terrible for your health, by far worse than saturated fat, even though technically they're a type of unsaturated fat. Now, I know that seems crazy, but your body doesn't care what a molecule looks like on paper. All that matters is the 3-D shape where the molecule fits, where it doesn't, and what pathways it interferes with. So, how do you know if a food has trans fat in it? Well, the only sure way to know is if you see the words, "partially hydrogenated" in the ingredients list. Don't let nutrition labels or advertising fool you. The FDA allows manufacturers to claim that their products contain "0" grams of trans fat even if they actually have up to half a gram per serving. But there are no hard and fast rules about how small a serving can be, and, that means, you'll have to rely on seeing those key words, partially hydrogenated, because that's how trans fats are made, by partially hydrogenating unsaturated fats. So, let's go back to our olive oil and pancake mix from before. Olive oil is 100% fat. Pancake mix is only 11% fat. But olive oil is mostly unsaturated fat, and it has no trans scott66@example.net. On the other hand, more than half the fat in pancake mix is either saturated or trans fat. And, so, even though olive oil has 10 times as much fat as pancake mix, it's healthy for you, whereas pancake mix is not. Now, I'm not trying to pick on pancake mix. There are lots of foods with this type of fat profile. The point is this: It's not how much fat you eat, it's what kind of fat. And what makes a particular fat healthy or unhealthy is its shape. I'm a storyteller, but I'm also a troublemaker. (Laughter) And I have a habit of asking difficult questions. It started when I was 10 years old, and my mother, who was raising six children, had no time for them. At 14, fed up with my increasingly annoying questions, she recommended that I begin writing for the local English-language newspaper in Pakistan, to put my questions out to the entire country, she said. (Laughter) At 17, I was an undercover investigative journalist. I don't even think my editor knew just how young I was when I sent in a story that named and shamed some very powerful people. The men I'd written about wanted to teach me a lesson. They wanted to shame me and my family. They spray-painted my name and my family's name with unspeakable profanities across our front gate and around our neighborhood. And they felt that my father, who was a strict man of tradition, would stop me. Instead, my father stood in front of me and said, "If you speak the truth, I will stand with you, and so will the world." And then he got -- (Applause) And then he got a group of people together and they whitewashed the walls. (Laughter) I've always wanted my stories to jolt people, to shake them into having difficult conversations. And I felt that I would be more effective if I did something visual. And so at 21, I became a documentary filmmaker, turning my camera onto marginalized communities on the front lines in war zones, eventually returning home to Pakistan, where I wanted to document violence against women. Pakistan is home to 200 million people. And with its low levels of literacy, film can change the way people perceive issues. An effective storyteller speaks to our emotions, elicits empathy and compassion, and forces us to look at things differently. In my country, film had the potential to go beyond cinema. It could change lives. The issues that I've always wanted to raise -- I've always wanted to hold up a mirror to society -- they've been driven by my barometer of anger. And my barometer of anger led me, in 2014, to honor killings. Honor killings take place in many parts of the world, where men punish women who transgress rules made by them: women who choose to marry on their own free will; or women who are looking for a divorce; or women who are suspected of having illicit relationships. In the rest of the world, honor killings would be known as murder. I always wanted to tell that story from the perspective of a survivor. But women do not live to tell their tale and instead end up in unmarked graves. So one morning when I was reading the newspaper, and I read that a young woman had miraculously survived after being shot in the face by her father and her uncle because she chose to marry a man out of her free will, I knew I had found my storyteller. Saba was determined to send her father and her uncle to jail, but in the days after leaving the hospital, pressure mounted on her to forgive. You see, there was a loophole in the law that allowed for victims to forgive perpetrators, enabling them to avoid jail time. And she was told that she would