Amid the artists and free thinkers of the Burning Man festival are thousands of information technologists, computer programmers, and Silicon Valley executives who incorporate parts of the experience into their work cultures, according to Fred Turner.
Every August, fire-breathing dancers, costumed performers, and free-thinking artists gather in the Nevada desert to celebrate Burning Man, a countercultural event devoted to communal living, radical art, and self-expression.
Turner, a professor in the School of Humanities and Sciences at Stanford University, has studied Burning Man’s appeal within the tech industry for over a decade. In a 2009 paper in New Media & Society, Turner described how the event has become a key site for product ideation for the Bay Area’s tech industries.
Turner has also argued that elements of the Burning Man world—such as its principles of participation, communal effort, and radical inclusion—have driven the collaborative work culture celebrated within Silicon Valley tech firms. For many working in the industry and elsewhere, Burning Man’s principles offer a new type of spirituality akin to the early Puritan settlers, Turner says.
Here, Turner discusses his research on Burning Man, the people who follow Burning Man’s principles (also known as “Burners”), and the event’s influence in the tech industry.
Why did you want to study Burning Man?
On my first visit to Google in Mountain View, I saw lots of pictures of Burning Man in the company’s lobby. I’ve found over the years that what companies put in their lobbies tends to say a lot about what kind of company they hope to be. And so I started exploring the connections. I’m still doing that work today, most recently with an essay on Facebook’s huge and largely unknown art collection.
You’ve been researching Burning Man and tech culture for over a decade. What are some of the changes you’ve seen?
I think the tech industry and Burning Man have followed parallel trajectories in that both have become suffused with so much money that the countercultural impulses that drove some of their founders have become much harder to see.
When I was attending Burning Man in the mid-2000s—which is still 20 years after it started—people went to great pains to make sure the playa was a brand-free environment. They taped over the logos on their U-Hauls, for instance, and staged anti-commercial art works of varying kinds.
Some of that is still there, but the last time I went, two years ago, brands were everywhere, famous people were sleeping in camps that they’d paid others to build and maintain, and the original, anti-capitalist edge that I remembered had been ground down to the point of disappearing.
A lot of this can be said about the internet itself, of course. The utopian, extra-economic aspects of the early internet have so morphed as to bring us a system that has become for far too many people an ad-supported highway on which to deliver mainstream media goods. The virtual communities of the 1990s have become the ad-supported social media of the 2000s and the open conversation-based communities of the early web have become sites of commercial and government surveillance. And the gift economy has been monetized through and through.
In the 1990s everyone thought the internet would democratize public life—why didn’t it? By the same token, early Burners designed the city on the playa to be a city outside mainstream society and now it’s visibly suffused by capital. More recently, reporters have begun to notice the corruption of the original countercultural intent and to call out some of the more egregious ways in which the wealthy have begun to buy their way into the event as one more carefully guided experience to check off their bucket lists.
What I’d want to study now, I think, is how systems designed for utopian ends lose their political mojo and why.
In your 2009 paper, you talk about how Burning Man provides a cultural infrastructure for emerging forms on new media manufacturing. How so, and what does that look like today?
It’s interesting—when I wrote the paper, I saw companies like Google turning to Burners and collaborating with them to create and test new products, such as interactive mapping software. The collaborative, project-centered building and play that Burning Man supports help build social and professional networks of folks who come together back here in Silicon Valley and make things.
I went back two years ago and the project-based social networking that I had seen a decade earlier was omnipresent. It’s baked into the place. People travel to Burning Man to build and stay in camps together and these camps provide the arts and services for the playa. We can see a city in the desert. Both the camps and the art are often technologically sophisticated and they have to be produced in difficult conditions.
For example, I met a group of engineers that built a complicated and technically advanced lighting strip. They invested a lot of money into the project and worked on it a year ahead of the festival. It required intense teamwork to set up the structure, especially in the harsh conditions on the playa.
The pleasure of working together intensely as a project-based team is also celebrated in Silicon Valley. I’ve seen Burning Man-like language infused in corporate statements, where tech workers are often described as “entrepreneurial team members” who work “intensely and ecstatically” on building something that will “change the world.” In the real world they’re building a product for Apple and Google. But when they come together on the playa, they’re making an artwork.
There’s also something about the way they’re working that reminds me of earlier American Protestants.
Can you tell us more about that? You describe how Burning Man has become a highly visible ritual in the Bay Area. Why does it appeal to tech workers and Silicon Valley workers?
I think Burning Man is to the contemporary tech world what the Protestant church was to industrial manufacturers. In the industrial era, you might work in a factory six days a week. On the seventh, you would go to church. The bosses would sit up front, the middle management right behind them, and the workers would fill out the pews. The church itself was a model of the factory, transformed into a spiritual community.
That’s how I think about Burning Man. Tech folks from Silicon Valley I’ve interviewed have described going out into the desert and building tech-centered art works and sophisticated camps. They describe the process as being something like product development—intense, high stakes, deadline-driven, hard.
At their day jobs, they are usually laboring to bring to life somebody else’s vision. But at Burning Man, they experience the kind of flow that is supposed to accompany engineering in the Valley on behalf of their own work. What they make in turn is high visible: Everybody sees everything on the playa, and celebrates what they like.
In this way, Burning Man models the kind of project-centered, team-oriented manufacturing practices that drive Silicon Valley and at the same time reconfigures them as a collective spiritual exercise.
When I was doing interviews at Burning Man with people who work in Silicon Valley, they would tell me that they work really hard in their companies but they are always fulfilling someone else’s vision. At Burning Man, they feel like they are fulfilling their own vision, which is beautiful for them.
As a communication scholar, what do you think of the media spectacle of the event?
Burning Man is designed to be photographed, talked about, circulated, watched.
The playa is set up to be a media spectacle. It is a single white dust stage and everyone out there is fully aware that they are acting in a kind of all-encompassing theater.
The first intellectual community with which I fell into scholarly love was the American Puritans. They dreamed that they were trying to become saints in an America that was a desert, an America watched over by the all-seeing eye of God. When I began seeing pictures of what was happening on the playa, I couldn’t help but remember the Puritans’ vision of themselves.
All of this is actually deeply American. When the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock, they thought they had arrived in a biblical desert. There they would build a model community and live lives of exemplary rectitude. Burning Man too is a model community and its citizens are very clear that they are modeling a way of life that is as different from daily life in middle America as Puritan life was from the everyday world of the England they’d left behind.
In the 17th century, the Puritans performed under what they thought was the eye of God. Today, Burners dance for each other and for each other’s cameras. The Puritan god has fled the scene. Now we just watch each other.
Source: Stanford University