(En) Let’s leave our capsules (lunar roving vehicles, streamlined space convertibles, whatever), just like Georges Méliès’s scientists once did, and make ourselves comfortable somewhere in this bizarre landscape to admire the view of the Earth rising – or even setting. Despite the circumstances, everything seems quite peaceful so far. Under metres of lunar dust, the surface is rugged, like the asphalt on Temple. Since KC Houseman can hardly be right about all the alien tech, a perfectly designed megastructure inside the moon, it is unlikely that things will look better underground.
At the edge of Mare Crisium, however, the rugged terrain lies liberally covered in pulverised rock created by the constant bombardment of meteorites. If the moonshot idea is to be believed, this material could soon help save our rapidly warming planet. To create a floating solar shield of moon dust, millions of tonnes of rock particles would have to be launched into an area of space around a million kilometres from Earth. This is just one of many concepts promoting extraterrestrial extractivism for the sake of disaster prevention. Moon rocks are thought to contain large deposits of helium-3. The theory of clean nuclear fusion without contaminated nuclear waste is still at odds with the dirty reality. It is far too expensive to bring this material to Earth, so visions of lunar mining remain vague for now. Yesterday’s space race destination will not become tomorrow’s Ruhr area overnight. The first mines are not expected to open until 2050.
Until then, let’s enjoy the calm, the view. A writer for the Neue Zürcher Zeitung sees “Images of inner worlds. Projections. Misunderstandings” in the moon and highlights the ontological indeterminacy of its celestial mechanics – an indeterminacy that the moon shares with painting. Are these mappings of imaginary craters? Blown up picture postcards from LA that contradict Finish Fetish with unpolished line work, yet still seem Californian somehow due to the abundance of science-fiction connotations? At least since Pioneer 0’s failed mission, every image of the moon evokes a certain – if occasionally thwarted – spirit of conquest; it is just as present in space as in the terrestrial West. In the milky moonlight, however, every emphatic gesture, no matter how compelling, seems a few degrees softer. The artistic material here is also loaded with conventions, with heavy baggage. But when gravity is reduced, probing any ground looks easier than usual, almost gentle.
“The moon is the mild yet decisive antithesis to the sun,” writes Hans Blumenberg in his essay “The Completeness of the Stars”. In the interest of completing his statement, it should be added that he understood the sun as the naked truth, and the moon as a symbol of reflective thoughts sheltered from the harsh light of day. Just as the dark side of the moon is in fact its true antithesis, depending on the angle, things are more complicated in reality: for example, many a dark spot on the canvas can be interpreted as an inverted ghost light. Are these images entirely painted conflict, cosmic detritus, foreshadowing of a future Milky Way battle? (Down below, at the Griffith Observatory, a small child asks where this “Way” actually leads, the one that gave its name to a Mars, Inc. chocolate bar, and which, viewed from Earth, looks like a milky brushstroke streaked across the firmament: “To the moon and pep?”) Or are we dealing with earthly dirtbike dreamscapes, completely churned up yet idyllic in their own way?
Although the future is currently presented primarily as a temporal space of imminent collapse, we don’t want to bury our heads in the sand right away; let’s bury our feet in the dust of the moon instead, as if we were on the beach. The undulating water masses of the world’s oceans, whose tides are governed by the moon, contrast with the Mare Crisium (“Sea of Crises”) and its striking rock structures as far as the eye can see. You can see better on the moon than on Earth, because there is no atmospheric haze. And visibility means evidence. These images enable empirical findings to be made. As close observation shows, the furrowed structures of the terrain have at times been driven over recklessly, crossed several times at excessive speed by moonbikes and rovers, alternative routes, absurd plans.
In the 1960s, planetary scientist Eugene Shoemaker proved that the radial lines in the moonscape were caused by bursting craters, which happens whenever an object of adequate size rapidly collides with the moon’s crust. Since then, these so-called “ejecta rays” – volcanic emissions that form in free flight – have been considered the result of ballistic sedimentation. Ballistics is a huge topic in general, both for Jules Verne’s Baltimore Gun Club as well as for the scientists of the Ames Vertical Gun Range, where high-speed celestial body impacts are simulated on a smaller scale. In a terrestrial context, we encounter the “study of projectiles” symbolically in Heidegger, and more concretely in criminology or road traffic. Shoemaker died in a car accident while visiting an impact crater on Earth. After his death, some of his ashes were taken to the moon on the Lunar Prospector mission, where they were presumably ceremonially scattered among the ray systems he had studied.
Of course, there have been more visually arresting scenes on the moon: for centuries it has served as a dependable setting, had dogs howling at it, and silvered countless artistic and cultural motifs throughout history. Because of its rich, romantically tinged past, the Futurists wanted to kill moonlight. In Roland Emmerich’s Moonfall, the opposite is true; here the moon is in danger of falling to Earth and turns out to be the only way to save humanity. “The moon must survive. Everything depends on it.”