The Age-Old Tree
A century of silence left behind by unreadable texts.
Consider a literary text. Although we know who wrote it and where it is kept, we cannot read it. We can attend the ceremony organised in its honour and find out why the author took part in the project. Yet we cannot read the text itself. Nor will we be able to read it any time soon.
We know that art can be expressed in many different ways. Sometimes, even when we cannot experience art directly, we can still perceive, appreciate, and interpret it. These perceptions can be both individual and collective. Today, I would like to take another look at one such form. I believe it serves as a good example of how the meaning of art can be rethought. Our topic is the “Future Library”.
The Future Library project begins with the organisation’s committee inviting selected authors to participate. The committee explains their rationale for selecting these authors as follows: “Their extraordinary contributions to literature and poetry, and their works' ability to capture the imagination of this and future generations”. Each year, the selected author deposits their written text in the Silent Room at the library in Norway. To my knowledge, no one has yet declined. No one other than the author knows the content of the text. Authors may submit any type of written text, such as a poem, short story, essay or novel, and there is no set word or page limit. They may write on any subject they choose. The only thing we know is the title of the text. This event has been held regularly since 2014.
As announced on 29 August 2026, this year's contributor will be Laurie Anderson, a performance artist, musician and filmmaker. I imagine the organisers are looking to expand this initiative, which began with literary writers, to include figures representing different areas of the arts. Perhaps for this very reason, the project's organiser, Katie Paterson, has noted that Anderson's contribution could be “a text, a score, a story, instructions, or something else we haven't yet named”. Just imagine: you’re leaving notes for the year 2114. Perhaps just one. After all, it’s entirely up to you.
This process takes the form of a ceremony. The author, the project architects and some participants gather in a forest to socialise and talk about the initiative. The author is also interviewed. This ceremony, which takes place a year after the selection process, is known as the “handover ceremony”.
Now, let's get back to our topic. I’d like to expand on the idea I introduced at the start of this piece.
When I recently came across an article about the project’s new writer, I found myself reflecting on it once more. Texts are being written now that will be read a hundred years from now. None of the writers or readers at the start of this period will be able to read this collection. At best, perhaps some people born in 2030 will be able to read them in 2114, when they are 84 years old. I suppose. I don’t know. That’s a very long time, and the world changes so much in just five years. Perhaps they will be shared within ten or twenty years for some reason (perhaps financial). Who knows?
In the meantime, this process leaves us feeling emotionally adrift, but it also provides food for thought from an artistic perspective. It's sad that we won't be around to see the contributions of the artists who came together for this magnificent long-term project. I liken this to the situation of writers who were unable to publish their books during their lifetimes but gained fame posthumously. The difference this time is that we are equally helpless.
From an artistic perspective, it is also possible to offer criticism of this project. After all, at its core, this project makes you question the very meaning of art. It was precisely this thought that prompted me to write this piece, as I found myself pondering it once again.
Can it really be considered a work of art or an art project? Should art not be something that is experienced? If admirers of art cannot access the work in question, what meaningful artistic approach do such initiatives represent? Ultimately, must the creation of a work not be an individual process? Is it correct to refer to this collective project as a single work of art? Will its value be determined by the quality of the written texts or their ability to withstand the test of time? Is the intention to create a time capsule for the future rather than an artistic expression?
Yes, there are texts present, but we cannot experience them yet. Nevertheless, we are experiencing the Future Library itself. So, are the texts the work of art, or is it the entire process, with its now-established structure?
As can be seen, this project raises many questions, despite initially sounding reasonable. Moreover, these are the kinds of questions that we might have prioritised over the past twelve years. It is likely that we will encounter different questions in the future. For example, if a writer were to produce a lengthy piece of work, —some would inevitably wish to create something different because art fosters creativity— would a rule be introduced in this case, or would artists be left to their own devices? If an animal were included to enhance artistic expression — I have seen dogs and elephants that paint better than I do — would this add value or would it be a waste of year? In the 2080s, for instance, will a “writer” necessarily be the same as we imagine today?
You might wonder why we are asking questions about the future now. However, this project is a long-term endeavour anyway. In fact, it may even seem pointless to some. Why are we getting excited about, spending time and money on, and attaching importance to forms of artistic expression that we know we will never experience? I'm sure some people will think along these lines.
I don't intend to talk for too long. The purpose of this text is to encourage you to ask questions and think about this topic.
Personally, I find forward-looking projects exciting, too. However, we cannot simply attribute this to “being human”. Conversely, some people prefer short stories to novels because they can derive enjoyment from them in a short space of time. This is also a valid perspective. The same approach may also apply to this aspect of art. I suppose it’s also partly related to our perception of the “future”. The uncertainty of the future may drive us to experience this excitement. Finding an official, artistic and socially accepted method of connecting the past and the future might evoke this feeling not only in those involved in the process, but also in the invited writers. Nevertheless, I wonder if one day this might be rejected by someone. I would particularly like to read their explanation.
I used to dream of achieving immortality in some way. Although we know this is impossible, deep down we imagine what it might look like. Having a child is one way of achieving this, for example. Of course, most people do not act with this aim in mind. Nevertheless, ensuring that one's name lives on in some form offers an opportunity for one's existence to continue. However, we must not forget that, just as a healthy brain forgets, we too must be forgotten over time. Apart from prominent figures, I would not want a future in which everyone is remembered. Otherwise, we would be inflating our past importance. This would make us seem less significant than we actually are. I believe that what truly makes a difference to humanity is what future generations will become. Society may be shaped by the past, but only the present can determine the future.
However, in the context of this project, this way of thinking may not be entirely accurate. It strikes me as an interesting thought that new writers will emerge throughout this endeavour. People whose names we have never heard before. Perhaps even those who weren't alive when the project began will find their place among the greats. The “giants” — those who may one day be regarded as classics, either to be emulated or scorned — will have legacies encompassing all kinds of new authors. Perhaps new genres and ideas will emerge at that time. Such moments reaffirm the significance of art. The unthought and the unexpressed will find their place.
A writer selected in 2014 and a writer selected in the 2090s will inhabit different worlds. They will not share the same understanding of literature, technology, or the artistic landscape. Indeed, the very concept of a “writer”, as we understand it today, may evolve.
There are eighty-eight years until 2114. One thing I’m curious about is how you would feel if you were one of the writers featured towards the end of the project. With this anthology, which is due to be published in four years' time, would you feel honoured to bring this century-long project, which might well have become famous by then, to a close? Or would you simply feel like just another link in the chain? Would you strive for artistic expression that would make you stand out, or would you find the project rather ordinary? Will the project lose its meaning in the future, or will it become even more successful? Will writers from the 2050s – a time we cannot yet imagine – still be remembered fifty years on?
When all these texts are published in 2114, what do you think will be read: the works of a hundred different authors, or traces of humanity’s evolving understanding of literature and art over a century?
These are the questions that truly intrigue me, and the ones to which I’ll never know the definitive answer. Isn’t the excitement of asking unanswerable questions just as thrilling as getting excited about unreadable future writings?
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