‘Electric Dreams’, a groundbreaking exhibition at Tate Modern in London explores the interplay between art and technology from the mid-1950s to the early 1990s. Through iconic works like Atsuko Tanaka’s ‘Electric Dress’, the show celebrates media art’s vibrant history and evolving creativity. Yet, as curator and art critic Antonio Geusa points out, some remarkable artworks from the other side of the Iron Curtain are sadly missing.

Between the risk of death by electrocution in ‘Electric Dress’ by Atsuko Tanaka (1932–2005) and a nod to one of the most famous suicides in Greek mythology ‘Liquid Views – Narcissus Mirror’ by Monika Fleischmann (b. 1950) and Wolfgang Strauss (b. 1951) lies the rich, multifaceted history of media art before the advent of the web as told through the exhibition ´Electric Dreams: Art and Technology before the Internet´ currently at Tate Modern in London. Far from claiming to be a definitive account of this titanic subject, the catalogue aptly suggests that this is a “partial and selected account of a subject too vast and complex to define and contain”, and what are told here are some of the most relevant stories that have contributed to its history.

Defining the intersection of art and technology is no easy task, nor is even delineating the history of what constitutes ‘technology’ – in the fifteen rooms of the exhibition space there are no 40,000-year-old stone tools, replicas of Gutenberg’s printing press, examples of camera obscura, daguerreotype cameras that could illustrate a wider historical perspective. The show focusses on the period from the mid-1950s to the early 1990s, which, as pointed out during the press preview, corresponds to the Cold War era. As far as its content is concerned, the press release intriguingly refers to the works on display as “incredible vintage tech art”, an expression that warms nostalgia up in those of us who were young when this technology was still state of the art (although if applied to other media, it would sound odd - would anyone refer to Mark Rothko’s (1903–1970) art as vintage paintings?)

Atsuko Tanaka’s ‘Electric Dress’ made in 1956 is, as the title suggests, a wearable artwork evocative of a traditional Japanese bridal kimono. Crafted from a network of electrical wires and neon light bulbs painted with vibrant primary colours using enamel, the piece is a striking fusion of technology and tradition as well as a perfect start, coupled with Tanaka’s drawings that map out the intricate network of electrical circuits, wires, and light bulbs making up the garment’s structure. This iconic dress is defined in the catalogue as “a costume, a sculpture, a painting, an installation and a time-based work”; a classification that may initially seem nebulous but captures the fluidity and complexity of media art, underscoring the need to embrace its interdisciplinary nature. This openness is perhaps the best testament to the essence of such experimental approaches in art, an invitation to stop worrying about strict classifications and simply engage with the work.

The first room establishes Cybernetics as the cornerstone of the whole art and technology structure. Norbert Wiener’s pioneering studies of the principles of regulation, communication, and control within complex systems and the ways these systems adapt to achieve stability or respond to environmental changes paved the way for the integration of new technologies into art. Cybernetic principles inspired artists to create works that responded to the viewer's actions, emphasizing engagement and direct participation. Importantly, this methodology also highlighted the interconnected nature of art systems and reframed the artist not as a solitary genius but as part of collaborative and iterative processes. ‘Network’ is a keyword that identifies a way of seeing the purpose of art and giving a sense of belonging, as brilliantly illustrated by a floor to ceiling wall chart mapping the extensive interconnections between artists and creative hubs.

There are lots of dreams and not much electricity in many of the works housed in Room Two. Pointing at a 1965 work by Venezuelan artist Jesus Rafael Soto (1923–2005) called ‘Cardinal’, a cascade of painted metal sticks suspended by nylon thread set against a striped background of black, purple and white lines, curator Val Ravaglia explains that it is the “technology of vision” that is important rather than the machine status of the work. Here visitors walk through “Materializing Invisible Forces”, the first of the four sections into which this exhibition has been divided. It examines the unseen energies that underpin both the creation and the fruition of these works, many of which have a kinetic character (either implied or in actual motion). To provide some context and underline the connections between scientific principles and artistic creativity, a small glossary on the wall defines terms such as ‘Algorithm’, ‘Alpha waves’, ‘Generative pattern’ and ‘Pattern recognition’.

The most lucid dream in this room is perhaps the projected documentation of ‘Tele-Mack’ by Heinz Mack (b. 1931), a striking example of integrating art, nature, and technology to create immersive experiences. Made in 1968, the project involved transporting mirrors, metallic objects, and other reflective materials into the stark, sunlit expanse of the Tunisian desert to explore the interplay between light, space, and perception on a monumental scale. A fascination with light, its interplay with surfaces, and its profound impact on human perception runs as a central thread through the entire exhibition. This focus has the unquestionable merit of inviting viewers to ponder the ways technology, both a tool and a collaborator, can amplify, enhance, or transform one’s sensory experiences beyond mere visual pleasure.

The next section, ‘A Programmed Openness: Art as Visual Research’, focuses mostly on Italy’s ‘Arte programmata’ movement and Croatia’s ‘New Tendency’ group. Out of the darkness of the main room, expressly designed to heighten the impact on viewers of the electric-powered works, another vital aspect of what art and technology before (and after) the internet is all about is brought, literally, to light. These are dynamic illustrations of what Umberto Eco called an ‘open work’. That is a work of art that invites interpretation, participation, and interaction from its audience, standing in contrast to closed works that convey fixed meanings and prescribe singular interpretations. Open works leave space for ambiguity, variability, and personal engagement. They do not impose a single, definitive meaning but allow the audience to actively shape the meaning of the piece. If not the death of the author yet, very close.

The most active instance and a crowd-pleaser is the site-specific immersive installation ‘Chromointerferent Environment’ (1974–2019) by Carlos Cruz Diez (1923–2019). Talking about his works, a blend of kinetic and optical art, the artist defined them as a “reality without a past or a future”, which exists “in a perpetual present”. In this installation, the entire room is bathed in shifting, colourful parallel lines that create constantly changing chromatic effects based on the viewers’ position and movement. These effects are further amplified as visitors interact with cubes and balloons scattered throughout the space. Cruz-Diez firmly believed that colour is not an attribute of an object but rather an event occurring in time and space. ‘Chromointerferent Environment’ vividly demonstrates this principle by removing traditional boundaries, allowing colour to become a dynamic, transformative force that redefines the space itself.

The following section, ‘Dialogues with the Machines’, could just as playfully be titled ‘Hello Computer’. Here the focus is on computer-based technology which, amongst its main merits, celebrates the key role of mathematicians, programmers, and engineers who built the systems and wrote the algorithms enabling these works. The emphasis is all on the synergy between human intention and machine capability, as here artists use computers not merely as tools but as partners in the creative process. The ‘dialogue’ in the title is not one-sided: artists guide machines with intent and vision, while machines, through their computational processes, inspire new artistic directions and possibilities. From generative art, where algorithms autonomously produce intricate patterns or designs, to interactive installations that respond to viewers’ inputs, the works illustrate how machines have evolved into active participants in shaping the aesthetic experience. This dynamic collaboration raises questions widely debated today about authorship, the nature of creativity, and the role of technology in building people’s cultural narratives.

Particularly notable in this context are Harold Cohen's (1928–2016) AARON’s drawings displayed in this room.Developed in the early 1970s, AARON is a pioneering computer program designed by Cohen to create original artworks autonomously, making it one of the earliest examples of Artificial Intelligence programming for the creation of art. AARON was conceived as an evolving system capable of generating drawings and paintings based on coded instructions that allowed it to independently make decisions about composition, form, and, later, colour. As technology advanced, Cohen expanded AARON’s capabilities, enabling it to create more complex compositions and mimic human artistic techniques such as shading and perspective. Simply put, AARON, alongside the other works in this section, stands as tangible proof that the exhibition answers the thorny question, “Can a machine be truly creative, or is it simply executing its programmer’s intentions?” once and for all with: “Yes, a machine can be truly creative”.

The fourth and final section, titled ‘Electronic DIY’, highlights a hands-on approach to technology, featuring works that engage in electronic experimentation and emphasize the artist as an inventor, who adopts a do-it-yourself ethos to push the limits of the tool well beyond the instruction booklet. For today’s artists drawn to the machine as a source of inspiration in their practice, the works in this section demonstrate that curiosity about the potential of the machine can fuel creativity. This curiosity leads to experiments with hacking, building, or modifying devices, as well as writing programs to forge new paths in artistic expression. More than just a showcase of inventive works, this section is also an inspiring call to action. It encourages viewers to perceive technology as accessible and customizable – something to be moulded to fit the artistic process, rather than as an authoritative system where users are mere puppets of the content makers.

Particularly effective is the resurrection of three Minitel machines, a type of digital typewriter. Minitel was a French videotext system launched in the early 1980s that allowed users to access a variety of services, such as directories, messaging, and information retrieval, through a terminal connected to the telephone network. In many ways, it served as a precursor of modern internet chat systems. Eduardo Kac's (b. 1962) works here on display represent some of the earliest examples of telecommunication art, where the network becomes both the medium and the space for artistic exploration. In these works, Kac has reprogrammed Minitel's software to create text-based graphic compositions in which words transcend their literal semantic meaning, instead entering the realm of computer aesthetics – visual experiments that could be rightly described as animated concrete poetry.

Just before the exit through the gift shop, the final work on display is Monika Fleischmann’s and Wolfgang Strauss’s ‘Liquid Views – Narcissus Mirror’ (1992), an installation activated by viewers and deeply rooted in their participation. As the title suggests, the work draws inspiration from the Greek myth of Narcissus, who fell fatally in love with his own reflection. The installation invites viewers to engage directly with their own image, creating a dynamic interplay between the physical and the virtual realms. It consists of a screen designed to resemble a pool of water, which reflects the image of those who look into it. Touching the screen generates ripples in the virtual pond, distorting the reflection and creating an immersive, intimate encounter with one’s digital self. This interaction prompts viewers to reflect, both literally and metaphorically, on how technology mediates and reshapes their understanding of identity and self-representation. Thus, the exhibition ends with a declaration: as far as the pre-internet art and technology ecosystem is concerned, the cybernetics principles celebrated at the very beginning of the exhibition culminate in the recognition of the viewers as an integral and indispensable part of the system.

We can now revisit the title of the show and consider that these artists are, indeed, dreamers. Yet, John Lennon’s song about imagining a world at peace without the divisions of religion, countries, or material possessions reminds us they were not the only ones. While it would be overly simplistic to claim that this song serves as an anthem of those artists making media art in the period that history has set in stone as ‘Cold War’, its sentiment resonates. Prompted by the song that goes on, “I hope someday you'll join us. And the world will be as one”, it would be an exercise in storytelling to have a look at the dark side of the Cold War moon (dark because they were not included in the exhibition) and mention some significant examples of artists and works that would further enrich the already rich collection of short stories told in this exhibition. To avoid reservations, it is important to acknowledge that the artists in question were the outcasts in a system dominated by the political forces in power that demanded art would obey the ideological agenda of socialism in content and realism in form. In their case, the devil in their ‘sympathy for the devil’ was pursuing, at great risk for their social, psychological, and physical safety, an art that did not conform to the dictates of the rulers of the Soviet Union.

The study of cybernetics profoundly shaped Yuri Zlotikov’s (1930–2016) transition from figurative to abstract art, a shift that gained momentum after he attended Norbert Wiener’s lecture at the Polytechnic Museum in Moscow in 1960. Between 1957 and 1962, he created a series of works on paper called ‘Signal System’, where spontaneity intertwines with synthesis, demonstrating an awareness of the scientific laws governing the interaction between form, colour, and perception. Through careful observation and analysis of human responses to visual stimuli, Zlotnikov identified recurring patterns in psychophysiological motor reactions. These patterns became the foundation of his graphic signs and compositions, which captured the fluid dynamics of sensory and cognitive reactions. In this series, the artist reimagined the canvas as a ‘living space’ – an active and psychologically resonant topology. Each composition functioned as an interactive field, embodying the cybernetic principles of feedback, adaptation, and interconnected systems. Far from static, Zlotnikov’s works suggest movement and transformation

Vyacheslav Koleychuk (1941–2018) is an artist/architect/engineer/inventor at the forefront of the art and technology movement in the Soviet Union. His works span a range of practices that would seamlessly fit into each of the four sections of the exhibition. His many pioneering contributions to kinetic and interactive art, along with his innovative exploration of structural forms and dynamic systems, cemented his reputation as a visionary in experimental and technological art. Employing simple materials and mechanisms, Koleychuk crafted intricate objects that emphasized the aesthetic potential of movement and interactivity. Many of his works incorporated feedback loops, inviting audiences to actively engage with and influence the artistic experience. Among his most notable innovations are his ‘tensegrity’ creations – structures composed of isolated elements under compression inside a network of continuous tension. The term ‘Tensegrity’ (short for tensional integrity), which refers to balanced systems of tension and compression, could be a pertinent addition to the glossary in Room 2.

In my opinion the absence of Koleychuk’s 1971 ‘The Impossible Object № 1’ in the ‘technology of vision’ section of the exhibition is even problematic. This sculpture is a material realization of the Penrose Triangle, a figure in which the bottom bar appears to exist simultaneously in front of and behind the topmost point of the shape, creating a visual paradox that defies spatial logic. This figure is known for being an entity that cannot exist in reality, as its structure violates the principles of Euclidean geometry. British mathematician Roger Penrose described it as “impossibility in its purest form”. Koleychuk was the first artist to make the impossible become possible by creating the physical model of the triangle. His process began in 1969 with a model crafted from plasticine and tempera and culminated in 1971 with a refined version in mahogany.

One more story that could be added in the narrative about art and technology should be told by the Prometheus Institute from Kazan, a collective of engineers, scientists, and artists who, since 1962, have collaborated to create innovative audiovisual projects, multimedia installations, and experimental devices. Prometheus specialized in creating ‘light-music’ systems, which combined visual and auditory elements into immersive experiences. One of their remarkable achievements was the development of electronic devices and installations that transformed television screens and other media into interactive tools for creating visual art. One of these objects is ‘The Electronic Artist’, developed and produced between 1976 and 1980. It consists of an electronic add-on for standard colour TVs that allows the user to draw luminous images directly on the TV screen, with options to modify their configuration, colour, brightness, and scale. It also enabled transformations such as switching between positive and negative images, adding raster-filled structures, programming the movement and pulsation of light images, and more. Additionally, the device could also operate in an automatic light/music mode, where the images dynamically changed their brightness or color in response to musical signals.

Similar to an add-on for an existing TV set, these three examples are just three stories that could widen the anthology of the ‘Electric Dreams’. As already pointed out, the exhibition does not claim to be the most comprehensive historical account of art and technology made before the internet impacted the rules of the game – after all, two rings (Africa and Oceania) out of five in the Olympic flag are completely missing. Furthermore, in accordance with the anti-colonial ethics that now guide major Western art institutions, it would be questionable to assign ultimate validation to London, Venice, Berlin, New York, or even Moscow. What truly matters here is the richness and relevance of the stories that the exhibition narrates through its masterful balance of solo rooms and group arrangements. If the organizers intended to focus exclusively on technology-driven art in order to make clear the artificiality of borders between art made with new technologies and art made with more traditional media, the mission has been accomplished; the world is as one.