We live in a society saturated with images. In the media, on the street, on our phones, images are everywhere and none of them are neutral. But the question the students behind Mise au Point chose to ask was a more specific and more uncomfortable one: what happens when images are used not to document reality, but to control it?
The exposition traced this question across four technological eras, from the invention of photography to artificial intelligence, showing at each stage both the liberating potential of a new visual technology and the speed with which governments moved to weaponise it. Photography, celebrated in the 1860s as a revolutionary scientific and artistic tool, was used after the Paris Commune of 1871 to identify and execute revolutionaries. Photomontage, which gave dadaist artists a way to ridicule fascism between the wars, was simultaneously being deployed by Soviet constructivists to manufacture propaganda for the state. Social media opened space for independent journalism in authoritarian contexts, and also handed extremist organisations a global recruitment platform.
The exposition traced this question across four technological eras, from the invention of photography to artificial intelligence, showing at each stage both the liberating potential of a new visual technology and the speed with which governments moved to weaponise it. Photography, celebrated in the 1860s as a revolutionary scientific and artistic tool, was used after the Paris Commune of 1871 to identify and execute revolutionaries. Photomontage, which gave dadaist artists a way to ridicule fascism between the wars, was simultaneously being deployed by Soviet constructivists to manufacture propaganda for the state. Social media opened space for independent journalism in authoritarian contexts, and also handed extremist organisations a global recruitment platform.
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Artificial intelligence produced a viral image of solidarity that reached 47 million accounts in four days, and deepfake videos of weeping soldiers designed to demoralise an enemy army.
The installation made this argument spatially as well as intellectually. The space was circular and enclosed, modelled on Foucault's panopticon: a central tower built from cardboard, lit from within, surrounded by panels of photographs with explanatory texts in blue for the positive use and red for the propagandistic one. Newspaper pages covered the windows and ceiling lights to dim the room. A recording of Vietnamese radio broadcaster Trịnh Thị Ngọ played throughout. Visitors did not simply walk in. Dressed in black, the students approached people in common areas and, with their consent, took them by the arm and led them to the exposition without explanation. At the entrance, guards stood in silence and made visitors wait for permission to enter. Inside, talking was forbidden. Laughter drew an immediate reprimand. 76 people passed through in three hours. Most read every panel. Most, at the end, felt they needed to ask permission to leave. Some came specifically because they had heard about being kidnapped and wanted to experience it. The exposition had crossed into something the students had not entirely planned for: visitors were not just observing a system of control. For the duration of the visit, they were inside one. 
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