This morning, just like any other, she pushed off the heavy pile of blankets to the tune of a blaring alarm. She put coffee to a boil and stuffed the remainder of the bread and cheese into an edible breakfast. Papers for the upcoming seminar along with a scrappy spiralled notebook and some favorite carving tools were hastily found. Despite a sense of hurry, she let herself stop in front of the window in one still moment, just to notice that she did not feel deprived of her personal digital device. Why would she? It was the same requirement for everyone: to cut digital connections and avoid screens during this study period.

All material was thrown into a huge bag, and she made her way.

The university building towered up at the end of the park, its façade blending in among surrounding trees and plants. ‘Here we go again,’ she felt the sting of daily apprehension. ‘I suppose that the pressure of cutting digital connections is a small price for the first generation to savour the privileges of the humanities turn.’

She spotted CC by the university entrance. He usually carried a high-tech camera, a useful tool for collecting photos and clips for his ‘world betterment’ project. Now, he was drawing in his sketchbook. ‘His solution to the no-digital-device period, I presume.’

‘CC!’ He turned in a startled movement, frowning as if she had just ruined his day. ‘Hilma! I am learning to draw here, with a lousy piece of coal and some half-recycled paper sheets.’

CC needed some cheering up. ‘Don’t worry! You will learn by doing like the rest of us. Remember the message of last class: it is not the material that counts, it is what you see in the material and how you approach it.’

‘I don’t have the patience!’ exclaimed CC, lifting his arms and sketchbook above his head as if the sky would rescue him from this tormented situation.

The sky was of little help. During the final years of the war, extreme weather and scarcity of primary resources had reached their peak. CC’s family was among the victims; they lost everything in a wildfire. Hilma’s family had opened their house to them, and Hilma and CC became close friends. They had been experimenting with creating impossible objects for years by attempting to blend digital solutions and tech things with organic and recycled materials.

‘Hey, CC! Remember when we were nominated for our “outdoor de-conflict sauna”? You posed exactly like that when they announced our names among the winners. But then you were rejoicing!’

They were awarded by the French initiative Le Régime de Sobriété (The Sobriety Regime). During the scarcity years, the new regime sought sustainable innovation in areas side-lined during ‘the unaware era’ such as art, culture, and education.

‘Of course I remember! And you, you were standing stiff like the Iberian Lady of Elche. Completely turned into stone! I am still happy for this scholarship, but it is challenging to bridge the old Snow (1959/2001) gap that divides artistic and scientific thinking. Don’t you agree?’

Hilma knew what he meant. Co-creation between art and science did not arise easily. Sometimes, the divide between traditional engineering sciences and artsy-intellectualism for ‘the happy few’ was far too deep.

She left CC with a smiling ‘Yes, I know!’ and made her way down the stone steps of the building’s first level into a well-cushioned lecture hall clad in smooth wood. A chemist and a painter were discussing different artifacts with a group of students. These days, artists and academics were trying to reinvent the teaching, learning, and practice of art. Hilma worked mostly with driftwood, plastic, and recycled glass.

‘Hilma! Stop daydreaming! We will now continue the woodwork in ancient Indian architectural style. Get to work!’

Hilma obeyed the coordinator’s strict voice and joined the group of architects and engineers who needed her skills for housing constructions in Kerela. She feverishly wrote and sketched in her notebook, barely registering the discussion on the implementation of smart housing solutions. The well-informed project leader responded dynamically to every point brought up by colleagues and students.

When the huge screen at the end of the room was illuminated by an oil painting from the sixteenth century, Hilma dropped her notebook. She instantly knew that the painting was retrieved from the brand-new archival database. ReprArt was a monumental digital archive that contained a wide range of works across time and cultures: from unknown scraps and sketches to fully-fledged oil paintings and abstract sculptures.

This was a positive development, as students could see extremely high-resolution pictures of world-renowned paintings. They could grasp textures, brushstrokes, and infinitesimal artistic and technical achievements. Information on the composition of every material and pigment could be retrieved, offering great learning possibilities.

There was a downside, too. Once digitized, the physical artwork was destroyed for the lack of space. This procedure meant that the digital reproductions were completely cut off from their origins. She contemplated: ‘what will happen if the works somehow disappear from the digital archive?’.

CC came over. ‘Why do you look so sad? We’re going for a coffee. Wanna come along?’.

‘Well, I just thought of this old French philosopher with an impossible name to pronounce… Baudrillard? He wrote (1995) about something called the simulacre, or the idea that we live in a world of copies of copies, never reaching the origin. Don’t you think it sounds similar to ReprArt? I just don’t want copies… I want to experience art in all its materiality!’

‘You are so nostalgic, Hilma! Some artworks will obviously disappear. It has always been like that. ReprArt is a great innovation! One day we will be able to reconstruct everything digitally. But we enrolled in this program to learn crafts; create and innovate – not to reproduce! Remember the academic device: Skills are Knowledge.’

She looked up the screen and let herself fall into the astonishing reality of a long-gone episode in human life. ‘Amazing technology!’