A robot arm sits in the centre of a glass-enclosed room in an Art Gallery, rotating around in constant motion as it aims to sweep a deep, and deeply symbolic, red liquid back towards itself. The floor and walls bear the stains of moments when the liquid made it too far away before being partially recouped. Between these turns and sweeps the robot performs one of a series of expressive movements, it jigs, twirls, dances and waves. Its motors and joints let out a series of mechanical screams and creaks. It’s movements are surprisingly evocative, particularly coming from a robot arm so often associated with purely functional and industrial settings.
This piece is rich in symbolism. The title, ‘Can’t Help Myself’, is objectively true; the robot is a programmed entity forced to continue its toil forever, but it also brings to mind many other meanings. As a product of two Chinese artists, Sun Yuan and Peng Yu, some have drawn parallels to the Chinese surveillance state: an endless worker constantly watched and daring only brief moments of expression. Others more broadly see the robot as an indictment of modern working culture. The way it is displayed also could bring to mind a mistreated trained animal, dancing for the pleasure of visitors while trying to manage its health.
My reading is perhaps less pessimistic. To me, the robot simply mirrors the constant balance that all people manage in their lives between necessity and indulgence. The robot constantly performs its bodily upkeep, pushing the ‘blood’ back toward itself, much as I must constantly feed, rest and relieve myself. Both I and the robot must constantly express intent and effort to perform this upkeep, and we both are ever so slightly slowing down with every movement, every second.
Yet the robot does not, literally cannot, devote itself fully to this vital task. It must play. It must dance. It must communicate with the audience. It must indulge itself. It's the same for me, for us. I cannot lead a life of pure efficiency, I must allow myself some vices, some indulgences. Friends, family, unhealthy food, games, lie-ins and pyjama days. I can’t help myself. Sometimes I make mistakes, spending too much time and effort on indulgence or expression and let my practical upkeep slip, just as the robot does. And that's okay. We are both, to some extent, programmed that way.
The robot eventually slowed down through its constant toil and was shut off in 2019. Mirroring its viewers and creators, it kept up its core actions of functional upkeep and self-expressive motion, each conflicting with the goals of the other, until the very end.
I love how many feelings and interpretations this artwork can evoke, how it provokes empathy for itself but also for other humans. But I also love from an affective design perspective how many potential apparent emotions a simple robotic arm can express through its movement and the context it's placed within. Some actions mirror the form and movement of a human arm to provide an immediate evocative comparison, but others are more alien and could bring to mind many things for many people. I think the work cements the potential for affective expression by robots regardless of if their physical features and familiarity.
We march toward a world where humans and robots will increasingly share social and work spaces, where robots can seek to support emotional interactions with users and people will imbue robots with thoughts, feelings and motives. This work demonstrates how effectively both these goals can be accomplished, but also the depth of meaning and interpretability designers, researchers and users will contend with.