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[Book] Concerning the Quantum in Art (Paul Thomas) [Routledge] (2025) #150
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https://www.routledge.com/Concerning-The-Quantum-in-Art/Thomas/p/book/9781041161943
https://www.taylorfrancis.com/books/mono/10.4324/9781003683285/concerning-quantum-art-paul-thomas
Concerning The Quantum in Art (Oct 2025)
By Paul Thomas
About
This book offers an artist’s perspective on the intriguing relationship between quantum physics and fine art, focusing particularly on the role of probability, chance and uncertainty.
The author, rather than approaching quantum mechanics as a scientist, explores how its concepts shape perception and creative expression. Drawing inspiration from Walter Benjamin’s approach to photography and art, Thomas reframes the question: not whether artists can interpret quantum mechanics, but how quantum ideas influence artistic thought. Through metaphors, signs and serendipitous experiences, the book examines how the language and imagery of quantum theory intersect with the intuitive, often contradictory nature of artistic practice. It argues that while science attempts to measure phenomena, art probes sensation—offering new ways to visualise, question and internalise complex realities and showing how intuition and uncertainty have always played roles in both scientific and artistic revolutions.
Why am I talking about quantum physics when I am not a physicist? As Walter Benjamin pointed out when discussing whether photography was art, the debate itself may be misplaced. Benjamin reframed the question by suggesting that the critical inquiry was not whether photography was art but how photography would affect art. Similarly, as an artist, I am drawn to exploring how quantum mechanics has influenced the way I—and other artists—perceive and express the world.
The role of the artist-as-observer evolves over time. Each new development in technological innovation prompts artists to alter their engagement with the world. In this chapter, we explore the evolution of the quintessential investigative practice of drawing, culminating in the age of quantum uncertainty. Let’s begin with a blank sheet of paper (or any material substrate) placed on the drawing desk before us. At this moment, the page is pristine—its whiteness undisturbed by any mark. Yet, by being brought before the artist with intent, the page is already defined as a distinct field, separate from the smooth wooden surface of the desk—a tabula rasa. This page is analogous to a vacuum, a void or a miniature universe. The artist disturbs the void by making a mark, an abstract intervention that, in its initial indeterminacy, resembles a probability game. Through this act, the artist translates their perception of the world into physical existence.
Is “jet black” a tautology of blackness? Is “jet” a black that is deeper, or somehow a richer black, or perhaps true blackness? What is it that constitutes blackness—culturally, socially, scientifically, politically and universally? Is it an absence of light, or the sum of everything we attribute to the concept of black? Blackness becomes an infinite, paradoxical apparition—both weightless and full of lightness. But could darkness even exist without light? Here we can start to forge a connection between a new modality of thought inspired by quantum mechanics and the concept or sensation of blackness. Let’s elaborate further by considering the void or emptiness in relation to the concept of blackness.
Language struggles to describe the fundamental properties of an electron at the quantum level, where the classical inability to measure both its position and momentum simultaneously reveals an intriguing paradox. 1 In the classical world, this irreconcilability would understandably signify some failure of calculation or measurement. Yet, quantum mechanics, where the position and momentum of an electron in the same moment become unmeasurable—embraces uncertainty, probability and chance—is among the most successful scientific theories ever produced. The irony here lies in how we attribute such success to a theory that, by both design and necessity, embraces unpredictability and uncertainty.
Art has the remarkable capacity to reveal things previously unrecognisable until they emerge visually, allowing us to accept new images and expand our ability to interpret the world. Such images become additions to the mental archive we use to recognise and understand our surroundings. Imagining something entirely new is, perhaps, altogether impossible insofar as our understanding is rooted in mental models we compare with external images. When it comes to quantum theory, for instance, we struggle to find any existing schema in our reliquary of mental images to draw from—with attempts to visualise quantum phenomena frequently creating only greater confusion as we try to make sense of its novel qualities within more traditional frameworks. An artwork expressing something unfamiliar about the world can challenge viewers to expand their canvas of consciousness, welcoming new possibilities. By attentively examining a work of art, we can sidestep preconceptions that might otherwise cast the unknown as alien. Art invites us to ask, “What sensations does this image offer me? What gift is it extending?”
The influence of cultural and scientific events on artists’ styles has long intrigued theorists and historians, especially concerning the art movements of the 20th century in Europe. One such connection often discussed is the relationship between Einstein’s theory of relativity and Picasso’s exploration of space and time. Scholars such as Henderson (1983) and Miller (2001) have documented these connections, speculating on whether Picasso drew inspiration from the scientific community of his time or whether his work shaped perceptions of four-dimensional space. While such conjectures are insightful, they also prompt us to consider the broader range of influences affecting artists at any given moment.
Henri Bergson, in “An Introduction to Metaphysics,” describes intuition as “the kind of intellectual sympathy by which one places oneself within an object to coincide with what is unique and consequently inexpressible”. 1 In this context, the “inexpressible” refers to the complexity of quantum phenomena, which can only be grasped through intuition. Intuition allows us to perceive what is otherwise ineffable—an ephemeral potentiality that is recognised through an “intellectual sympathy” with the external world. Bergson’s theory of intuition parallels Timothy Morton’s theory of Hyperobjects, such as climate change or environmentalism, which require the same intellectual sympathy to fully comprehend their vastness. Hyperobjects, being either too large or too small to manage directly, demand a holistic approach rather than segmentation into smaller, manageable pieces. When we fail to view them holistically, we risk disempowering connections and resorting to superficial “band-aid” solutions. Intellectual sympathy fosters a more inclusive and expansive understanding of such large-scale phenomena.
Umberto Boccioni was a central figure in the Futurist movement, distinguished by his unique ability to grasp the emergent consciousness of his time—both its promises and perils. His role in shaping the Futurist manifestos, which aimed for a radical overhaul of Italian art, is well documented. However, for Boccioni, this shift was not solely political; it was deeply philosophical, particularly in its engagement with the concept of time. His writings and artworks were influenced by the philosophy of Henri Bergson, and his work fused new conceptualisations of intuition, matter and duration (i.e., dimensional time). While Bergson’s ideas permeated Boccioni’s manifestos and other writings, Boccioni’s work was not directly connected to contemporary physics. Rather, Boccioni and his Futurist peers drew heavily on Bergson’s philosophical theories. As mentioned in a previous chapter, the resulting work anticipated the evolution of quantum mechanics.
Quantum engineering has enabled the use of an electron’s superposition in a quantum computer’s microprocessor. This remarkable development means that in quantum computing, the traditional “bit” has been replaced by a “qubit.” This concept was hypothesised by Richard Feynman in his 1982 paper “Simulating Physics with Computers”, where he remarked, “if you want to make a simulation of nature, you’d better make it quantum mechanical, and by golly, it’s a wonderful problem, because it doesn’t look so easy.” 1 Feynman’s idea of controlling an electron, one of nature’s fundamental elements, lies at the core of quantum computing. However, we can also explore the intriguing possibility of whether the human brain itself has quantum potential. If nature uses quantum phenomena in its constant evolution, leveraging the most efficient methods to sustain life, it’s plausible that quantum phenomena are already at work in our brains. If that’s the case, why would we need quantum computers? How could quantum phenomena help us comprehend and expand the brain’s potential?
In my own artistic practice, I have sought to address the complexity of making the invisible visible. This statement is particularly true when it comes to my Quantum Chaos Series. Using a variety of mediums, from computer-based algorithms to traditional painting, I aim to visualise the liminal space dividing the “classical” and quantum worlds. We exist at an everyday level in a world made real by various cognitive systems and approaches to sensation. Yet at the submolecular level, the world of discrete and independent objects and the uncertain world of quantum flux are clearly distinct.
On the one hand, we have machine learning; on the other hand, we face questions about learning at the quantum level. Can we develop AI for quantum computers? Do we need to understand the role of intuition in the brain to enable the emergence of a Human Artificial Intelligence (HAI)? Vision operates at the speed of light, while a quantum event occurs faster than thought, at infinite speed. Yet, this event is slowed down as a sensation, allowing it to be interpreted into icons and language by thought. Sensation, however, due to the intermediary of language, can never directly become thought. (This is discussed more fully in the section “Quantum Conceptualised.”)
Quantum scarring, or many-body scarring, first captured the attention of physicists in 1984. The evocative name was coined by physicist Eric Heller in 1984, based on his interpretation of scientific data visualisation. This phenomenon carries a strange ephemerality—a conundrum that reveals a poetic jitterbug dance of atoms. Interest in quantum scarring has resurfaced again today. In a recent experiment, researchers took 51 atoms at different energy states and held them in place with a laser beam. When released, the 51 atoms began to thermalise, entering a chaotic state, but then—unexpectedly—retraced their chaotic steps, repeatedly returning to their original order. This hesitation or stuttering lasts only for a femtosecond before they resume their chaotic journey. Like most quantum phenomena, the repetition is inexplicable: we can observe the effects, but the cause remains elusive.
I want to explore the intersection of failure and fiction (“fail-iction”) as a space for bringing new worlds into being. When confronting some invisible phenomenon, such as attempting to measure the internal dynamics of an atom, a physicist must make an intuitive connection to shed the doubt of not knowing. Whatever lies inside the atom remains uncertain; it is merely imagined or conjectured or conceptualised. The fiction or fantasy of quantum phenomena, formed as an internal mental image, must first be seeded and created before it can be nourished by the waters of curiosity. This mental image should be born of uncertainty rather than relying on archetypes and motifs from what is already known—not just another deterministic, Newtonian view of a classical planetary system. By this I mean, it is essential to hold the door open to the unknown when conceptualising uncharted phenomena.
“Concerning the Quantum in Art” is a nod to Kandinsky’s Concerning the Spiritual in Art. 1 The substitution indexes the connection between what are, ipso facto, entirely unrelated qualities. Yet, the absence of absolutes in quantum mechanics provides a more fertile space for the impossible—such as clairvoyance, the occult, chance, serendipity and fate. Various alternative spiritual groups have appropriated quantum theory to support dubious claims, using its uncertainties and probabilities to legitimise their beliefs. Quantum theory offers an appearance of truth that embraces possibility, probability and uncertainty, but only at the submolecular level. This parallels the artist’s quest to capture a sense of reality, which, as we’ve noted, can never be fully grasped. It dismantles the idea of absolutes and frees us from relying on analogies, metaphors and paradoxes as the primary frameworks for contextualising art.
In the context of this book, composed of a series of quantum and artistic reflections, the concept of mirroring plays a unique role. Quantum mirroring, viewed through an artistic lens, carries a poetic yet complex simplicity. Like many quantum phenomena, it reignites curiosity about how we as humans engage with the world. The phenomenon occurs when an electron or photon sees itself reflected in the mirror-like surface of mercury. 1 The self-awareness of a submolecular particle continues the theme of the dual-slit experiment. In this case, we encounter a form of narcissism at the quantum level. We’ve already touched on the flâneur, but now we turn to the electron or photon, which, once observed, changes from a wave to a particle. However, when it appears as a reflection in mercury, it creates a constant oscillation between wave and particle duality.
Immortality is identified as another unique quantum state warranting discussion within the realm of submolecular activity. Quantum mechanics forms the basis of all things, manifesting as an energy, force and wave phenomenon that pervades existence—akin to the universality of an electron, a fundamental component of the universe. Scientific discourse often seeks to categorise phenomena, leading to the prefix “quantum” being associated with unusual concepts, including immortality and even suicide. For art, immortality is complex, intersecting with industry standards of measurement, preservation and the consistency of materials. Take paper size: the ISO A0 standard, for example, is commonly used in many countries, with each A size a function of halving the preceding sheet. Deckle-edged paper, often deemed archival, is guaranteed to last 100 years in optimal conditions. Paper size thus becomes a given for artists, a domain in which limitations may go unchallenged. When drawing, works often conform to the standard paper size, suggesting that manufacturers, rather than artists, determine the dimensions of a piece. Artists, however, should be aware of the importance of defining the boundaries of their own work, questioning industry standards that can limit artistic vision; predetermined dimensions may, consciously or not, constrain creative expression. This is a small example of how industries prioritise consistency, permanence and “immortality” in art materials, especially in colour manufacturing. This is to say that when industry began producing colours for artists, durability became a chief concern, leading to the standardisation of palettes and reducing creative control.
If the universe is all that exists, then its cause must lie within itself. But does the universe have to be something intelligible? Is it an anthropocentric bias for an intelligent species (whatever that means on a cosmic scale) to demand that the universe is sensible? For everything in the universe to become intelligible, every part would need to be interconnected—underwritten by some unifying set of principles. If we consider the universe as encompassing everything, then it must be a self-creating entity—ourselves included. If we entertain this hypothesis, it might help us better understand our connection to the world and our place within it. In creating the expectation of an intelligible universe, we must question the concept of individuality. Are we, then, the cause of ourselves within the universe?
The process of creating an artwork is embedded in a complex narrative of psychological and physical human conditions. These conditions stem from an indefinable compulsion to translate sensations into visual experiences. Put simply, the body observes and then produces knowledge, which, in the case of art, materialises through various media to transmit sensations. This translation—from knowledge to sensation—is constant yet deeply complex, forming an arboreal growth of questions that expands into a structure of problem-finding rather than problem-solving. As an artist, I am driven by an inward search for authenticity—an elusive quest for a glimpse of truth, however fleeting. This truth, whatever it concerns, I endeavour to oversee the manifestation of into a discrete visual expression—providing it with momentary life before it is inevitably enervated and recycled back into thought.
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