Journal articles: 'Maury (Ship)' – Grafiati (2024)

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There are cases of ships accidents with significant damage to the hulls when they follow parallel courses at a relatively small distance from each other. For example, the collision of the passenger ship “Olympic” with the cruiser “Hawk” (1921), “Queen Mary” with the cruiser “Curacao” (1942). The reason of such accidents is usually explained by the attraction forces of “suction” arising from the approach of the ships (in accordance with the Bernoulli equation [1,2]), that is doubtful taking into account the serious damage to the hulls.

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The paper examines the intact stability of historic passenger ships from the point of view of the contemporary notion of the intact stability, i.e. the Second Generation Intact Stability Criteria (SGISC) framework. An intact stability assessment using the Vulnerability Level 2 calculation procedures of SGISC for the dead ship condition was performed on four ocean liners: RMS Titanic, RMS Queen Mary, SS United States and SS Michelangelo, and two cruise ships: MS Song of America and MS Costa Concordia. In addition, the intact stability of the selected ships was appraised using the present-day mandatory intact stability requirements contained in the 2008 Intact Stability Code. The selected ships are believed to be good representatives of the main trends in passenger ship design over a one-hundred-year span bounded by two well-known maritime catastrophes: the sinking of the Titanic in 1912 and the Costa Concordia disaster in 2012. The paper offers an insight into how major design changes have affected the intact stability properties of passenger ships over this period. It was found that the examined ocean liners would perform well in terms of intact stability in the dead ship condition even from the point of view of the SGISC. The analysis also confirmed the advantages of the approach using the SGISC framework over simplified, (semi)empirical stability assessment methods. By looking into the evolution of the intact stability of ocean liners and cruise ships from the contemporary perspective, the paper draws the conclusions which are considered useful for the design of future passenger ships.

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Ships of different shapes and times are lying in harbours, on land or in museums, all over the world. Our aim with this paper was to review work done on digital documentation of ships in Cultural Heritage based on different initiatives in Europe using Coordinate Measuring Machine (Newport Ship and Doel 1); Total Station Theodolite (Vasa and Mary-Rose) and Laser scanning (LaScanMar and Traditional boats of Ireland). Our results showed that some discrepancy exist between the projects, in terms of techniques and expertise at hand. Furthermore, few guidelines have been in practice but only for Archaeology and Ethnology. However, no standards are existing. Three focuses have emerged: documentation of single ship elements, monitoring of the long-term deformation processes and the documentation of collections of ships. We discussed the diversity of expert’s background and the complexity of comparability between projects.<br><br> In conclusion, guidelines are necessary to enable a common ground for all professions to work together, e.g. in Architecture. This path must be taken now for digital documentation of ships, if not information and knowledge will be lost on the way.

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It is the end of the world — that button has been pushed. Most of the world's population have managed to escape to another planet. The remaining ten people are about to board the last space flight to safety. Due to a mistake in the calculations there is now only space on the space ship for seven people. You have to select which three will remain behind and face certain death. The ten people are Paul Keating, John Hewson, Madonna, the Queen, Jeff Kennett, Pat Cash, Bronwyn Bishop, Princess Diana, Mary Smith and an unmarried mother. Spend a couple of minutes deciding whom you would leave off the space ship.

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Elizabeth Mary Moys, known to all her colleagues as Betty, was born on 26 June 1928 at Wickford, Essex. She was brought up in Kent where she spent most of her life when in the UK. She attended Chislehurst County Grammar School then went on to Queen Mary College, London, to read English and took a BA (Hons) degree in 1949. Her first job was in Crayford Branch of Kent County Library Service from 1949–50. After library school in 1950–51 (Northwestern Polytechnic School of Librarianship, where she was one of the leading spirits in starting a School of Librarian-ship Students' Association), Betty became reference librarian at the Royal Institute of International Affairs in 1951.

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Not surprisingly, the late medieval Digby Play of Mary Magdalene offers itself as an ideal text for an advanced university class on late medieval English literature, being an extraordinary literary mirror of the biblical figure of Mary Magdalene and her historical context, with numerous tyrant figures appearing on the stage and exposing their own hypocrisy and hubris in contrast to the main protagonist, apart from Jesus, of course. Numerous figures appear on the stage, engaging with Mary Magdalene, such as knights, heathen priests, a Jew, Pilate, a messenger, Herod, a provost, the emperor, the archangel Raphael, etc. The play was composed between 1515 and 1525, and despite the late date still fully fits into the Middle Ages, considering its religious framework and mental-historical character, even though the language is already far removed from that used by Chaucer. Nevertheless, the playwright expected a vast amount of highly challenging stage work to happen, including a ship traveling <?page nr="484"?>around or a temple to come crushing down, which indicates major cultural changes on their way.

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James Somerset was taken from Africa as a slave to the Americas in 1749. He was sold in Virginia to Charles Steuart, a Scottish merchant and slave trader in Norfolk who served after 1765 as a high-ranking British customs official. In 1769, Steuart took Somerset with him to England. After two years in England, Somerset escaped from Steuart, but was recaptured. Steuart decided to sell Somerset back into slavery in Jamaica, and, in late November 1771, Somerset was bound in chains on a ship on the Thames, theAnn and Mary, awaiting shipment.

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Abstract The subgenre of the science fiction horror has a lengthy history, one that is purported to begin with Mary Shelley's novel, Frankenstein (1818). In Shelley's novel, the body is a space in which a man enacts his ambitions. Significantly, the female voice that was so prominent in the novel disappears in later adaptations including Danny Boyle's National Theatre production examined here. In the science fiction horror film of the later twentieth century, the monstrosity appears famously in what is now a franchise. Ridley Scott directs Alien (1979), a renowned haunted ship mystery (territory of the horrific). When she is not defending herself from attacks, Ripley must contend with her objectification by Ash, the corporation's representative and by the rest of the crew. A new addition to the science fiction horror subgenre is Syfy channel's adaptation of George R. R. Martin's Nightflyers. Unbeknownst to the crew of the Nightflyer, the former captain of the ship, Cynthia, has had her consciousness transferred to the ship and she is watching everyone. Like Ripley, the Nightflyer's female characters ‐ Agatha, Melantha and Cynthia ‐ are subjected to others' fear of the unknown, namely the changing roles for women and how that will impact their societal construction. Here, I will examine the body on display. This essay is primarily interested in the female characters and whether or not they are empowered or violated by the act of looking or violated.

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We begin with an image, and a story. Explanation will emerge from what follows. Figure 1 depicts a huge wooden statue of the Virgin Mary, once the figurehead on the prow of a ship, but now on the high altar of the church of Saints Vittore and Carlo in Genoa, and venerated as Nostra Signora della Fortuna. On the night of 16-17 January 1636 a violent storm struck the port of Genoa. Many ships were wrecked. Among them was one called the Madonna della Pieta, which had the Virgin as its figurehead. A group of Genoese sailors bought this image as part of the salvage washed up from the sea. First setting it up under a votive painting of the Virgin in the harbour, they repaired it, had it repainted, and on the eve of Corpus Christi brought it to the church of San Vittore, close by the port. A famous blind song-writer was commissioned to write a song in honour of the image. Sailors and groups of young girls went through the streets of the city singing and collecting gifts. The statue became at once the focus of an extraordinary popular cult, thousands of people arriving day and night with candles, silver crowns, necklaces, and crosses in gratitude for the graces which had immediately begun to be granted. Volleys of mortars were let off in celebration. The affair was managed by the sailors who, in the face of mounting criticism and anxiety from local church leaders, directed devotions and even conducted exorcisms before the image. To stem the gathering tide of visitors and claims of miracles, and to try to establish control, the higher clergy first questioned the identity of the statue (some held it to represent, not the Virgin, but the Queen of England); then the statue was walled up; finally the church was closed altogether. Still, devotees climbed into the church, and large-scale demonstrations of protest were held. The archbishop instituted a process of investigation, in the course of which many eye-witnesses and people who claimed to have experienced miracles were interviewed (giving, in the surviving manuscript, rich detail of their responses to the image). Eventually the prohibition was lifted, and from 1637 until well into the twentieth century devotion to Nostra Signora della Fortuna remained strong, with frequent miracles or graces being recorded. So here we have a cult focused on an image of secular origin, transformed by the promotion of the sailors into a devotional object which roused the enthusiasm of thousands of lay people. It was a cult which, significantly, sprang up at a time of unrest in the city of Genoa, and which thus focused pressing issues of authority. The late 163os witnessed growing tension between factions of ‘old’ and ‘new’ nobility, the latter being marked by their hostility to the traditional Genoese Spanish alliance. Hostilities were played out both within the Senate and in clashes in the streets of the city. The cult of Nostra Signora della Fortuna grew up in this context, but survived and developed in subsequent centuries, attracting devotion from all over Italy.

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Chaucer addressed some of his best known poetry to the Virgin Mary. Whatever basis such poetry may have had in personal religion, this discussion is interested in the fact that Chaucer’s marian writings are in large part the result of translation, adaptation, quotation, and allusion. That observation is not meant to be iconoclastic, for literature of the time did not have the present-day obsession with novelty, and much mediaeval religious poetry is derivative. In writing about the Virgin Mary, Chaucer sometimes layered borrowed passages in a complex of sources themselves borrowed, leaving the reader with echoes — echoes of other great writers such as Bernard of Clairvaux and Dante, as well as of the Bible, the Church’s hymnody, and the liturgy. Most of this layering occurs in, or prefaces, folkloric works which are hagiography at least in their origins: the Second Nun’s tale of St Cecilia and the Prioress’s tale of the schoolboy murdered for singing Alma redemptor is mater in a ghetto. Less complex is the short poem known as Chaucer’s A B C , translated from Guillaume de Deguilleville’s Pèlerinage de la vie humaine. Even less so are the two marian verses uttered by the Man of Law’s Constance as she enters her rudderless ship (II. 841-854). These pieces by Chaucer are not uniformly excellent. Some are marian passages in other works not themselves marian.

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This article focuses on Mary Hays’s entry of María de Estrada in her Female Biography (1803), and how this English writer dealt with issues of gender, race, religion and nation by means of the mere inclusion of Estrada in this collection of women’s biographies. It studies the life of María de Estrada as inscribed in the fruitful transatlantic dialogue between the Iberian metropolis and the American continent at the beginning of the sixteenth century. In the analysis of her ordeal, issues of colonization are intermingled with those of ethnic persecution. De Estrada is believed to have been a Jew suffering difficulties in the Spanish city of Toledo; she had later an additional plight as a foundling girl living with the Gypsies in order to blur her origin, and thus escape ethnic cleansing. Subsequently, her role as an expatriate woman, who would leave her country of origin on board of a ship in the Hernán Cortés Expedition, is also analyzed.

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Propelled by the sometimes opportunistic, sometimes desperate desire for better living conditions, migrants leave one land to occupy another. This act is inherently transgressive; whether this transgression is justified as “progress” or used as fodder for persecution depends on who controls the historical narrative. In recent work, artists Zineb Sedira, Allan deSouza, and Mary Evans express both the instability of the migrant as a cipher and the anxieties that the migratory experience creates. The current global refugee crisis has fanned the flames of xenophobia and virulent nationalism in Europe and the United States, and these works offer a rebuttal to degrading rhetoric and imagery that stigmatizes the migrant. Sedira’s 2008 photographs and 2009 videos of a Mauritanian ship graveyard evoke desperate emigration as well as economic stagnation and environmental degradation. DeSouza’s World Series (2011), inspired by Jacob Lawrence’s Migration Series (1941), suggests bodily movement within a matrix of geopolitical, state-controlled, and natural environments, while referencing historical precedents such as Columbus. Evans’s series Please Do Not Bend (2015–16) is a touching tribute to the resilience of Africans and their descendants who have migrated, voluntarily or by force, over the centuries. In Evans’s Thousands Are Sailing (2016), anonymous silhouettes of brown bodies are in a liminal space, unmoored from one nation and locked out of another. Migration is an unstable experience, and an equally unstable subject. These works reclaim the imagery associated with the “abject immigrant” to restore their agency as well as their humanity.

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Typically, to be incarcerated is to be fixed: limited within specific parameters or boundaries with liberty and agency greatly reduced. Yet, recent literature has attended to the movement (or mobilities) that shape, or are shaped by modes of incarceration. Rather than simply assuming that experiences are inherently ones of immobility, such literature unhinges carceral studies from its framing within a sedentary ontology. However, the potential of mobility studies for unpacking the movements enfolded in carceral space and imprisoned life has yet to be fully exploited. When attending to mobilities, criminologists have investigated the politics of movement through a traditional horizontal frame of motion (between prison spaces, between court and prison, etc.). This paper contends that studies of mobility in criminology could be productively rethought. Drawing on movements of convicts from Britain to Australia aboard prison ships, this paper argues that straightforward, horizontal mobilities at work in regimes of control and practices of resistance marry together with vertical mobilities. Paying attention to the complex mobilities involved in carceral experience leads to a more nuanced understanding of regimes of discipline and practices of resistance that shape how incarcerated individuals move (or are unable to move) within carceral spaces, past and present.

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The diversity of Masurian dialects, the lack among the Masurian society of well-educated people who use these dialects on a daily basis made it impossible to develop a uniform dialect pattern. This, in turn, caused that there are no examples of Masurian dialect literature. In 1975, Prof. Wojciech Chojnacki described John Bunyan’s “The Holy War”, which was published in 1900 in Herne, Westphalia, translated into the Masurian dialect and given the dialect title “Ta Swenta Woyna”. The book was translated and published by a miner, Jacob Sczepan. A renewed interest in the translation of Bunyan’s work appeared after the publication of its digitized version by the University Library of the University of Warmia and Mazury in Olsztyn in 2017. The analysis of the dialect used by Sczepan allowed to classify it to the West Masurian dialect in its Nidzica form. Research queries of address and parish registers revealed only one person who could have been the author of the translation, i.e. Jacob Sczepan, born on 21.7.1867 in Witówko (Nidzica Poviat). The same Jacob Sczepan, a mining foreman, was recorded in the address register of the city of Herne in 1900. The Westphalian miner from Masuria was probably a member of the Fellow-ship Movement, while Bunyan’s work was one of the most significant and popular pietistic works. Sczepan ad-dressed his translation to pious Masurian exiles like him. For this reason, his dialect is faithful to the language spo-ken at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries by the inhabitants of the Nidzica, Działdowo and Szczytno areas. This authenticity of Sczepan’s dialect makes his work unique. There is no other such extensive and authentic record of the already extinct dialect in the Masurian culture. The translation of Bunyan’s book was intended to enlighten and comfort his countrymen torn from steeped-in-traditional-piety Masuria, who were thrown into the industrialised world of the Ruhr region. However, for us, it is a valuable monument of the culture that no longer exists today.

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Background:Sexual health is an essential element of overall health and well-being. Rheumatic diseases may affect sexual functioning in many ways related to pain, fatigue, stiffness, functional impairment, depression, anxiety, negative body image, reduced libido, hormonal imbalance and drug treatment. However, these issues are rarely addressed in clinical practice.Objectives:The aim of this study was to evaluate sexual function in a cohort of men with rheumatic disease compared to healthy controls.Methods:This was an observational, single-center, cohort study conducted between august 2019 and march 2020 in the Rheumatology department of “Saint Mary” Clinical Hospital in Bucharest which included 120 men with ages between 18 and 60 years - 60 patients with rheumatic diseases and 60 healthy controls. The study tools were the Sexual Health Inventory for Men (SHIM) questionnaire and one questionnaire referring to personal data, history of the rheumatic disease, comorbidities, treatment and sexual impairment. Also, the disease activity was assessed using specific scores for each condition.Results:In this cohort of 60 patients, the mean age was 45.26 (7.8) years and the diagnoses wereankylosing spondylitis (AS) - 37%,psoriatic arthritis (PsA) - 18%, rheumatoid arthritis (RA) - 17%, systemic sclerosis (SS) - 15% and gout - 13%. More than half of the patients (62%) had active disease based on specific scores (ASDAS for AS, DAS28-CRP for RA, EScSG disease activity indices for SS, DAPSA for PsA). Regarding sexual life, this study showed a significant decrease in sexual life quality after rheumatic disease diagnosis(before diagnosis: 71,67% - satisfying and 16,67% - not satisfyingversus after diagnosis: 21,67% - satisfying and 68,33% - not satisfying). Most patients (90%) reported impairment of their sexual life after diagnosis. In terms of sexual dysfunction (SD), a significantly higher proportion of patients (40%) mentioned reduced libido compared to the control group (18,33%) (p=0.043). Also, 21,66% of the patients reported erectile dysfunction (ED) in comparison with only 8,33% in the control group (p=0.009). Most patients with AS, RA, PsA and gout had mild ED while most patients with SS presented with mild to moderate ED. Also, the SHIM score mean value was significantly lower in the study group (17,65)compared to the control group (20,15) (p=0.009). The importance of SD in this cohort is emphasized by the fact that only one patient conceived after rheumatic disease diagnosis. Concerning treatment, more than half of the patients (55%) reported no effect of the therapy on their sexual life while 38.33% mentioned that medication improved their sexual life and very few (7%) reported a worsening.Conclusion:This study revealed a higher prevalence of sexual dysfunction in male patients with rheumatic disease in comparison with healthy controls. Considering the importance of sexual and reproductive health, rheumatologists should approach this topic with their patients and offer them guidance.References:[1]AG Tristano, “The impact of rheumatic diseases on sexual function”, Rheumatol Int 2009 Jun;29(8):853-60Disclosure of Interests:None declared

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Ralph Ambrose Kekwick was born on 11 November 1908 at Leytonstone, Essex. Records of the Kekwick family go back to 1750, when they were living near Warrington in the parish of Daresbury. They were then Quakers and were involved in the local dye industry. In about 1800 they started to move south, and Ralph's grandfather, John Kekwick (1815–82), lived first in Abingdon and then, after the death of his first wife, moved to Bromley-by-Bow, where he worked as a corn factor. A second marriage outside the sect made him unacceptable to the Society of Friends and thus broke the family association with the Quakers. John Kekwick had two daughters and six sons by his second wife; of these, Ralph's father, Oliver A. Kekwick (1865–1939), was the youngest but one. He eventually became a managing clerk in a firm of ships' chandlers in Albert Docks, London. Ralph's maternal great-grandfather, James Price (1820–1900) had an administrative post at the Guildhall, London, and was responsible for the organization of the Lord Mayor's procession and banquets at the Guildhall. His eldest son, James Price (1840–1911), Ralph's grandfather, followed his father into employment at the Guildhall. James Price had three daughters and a son; Ralph's mother, Mary E. Price (1868–1958) was his eldest child. At the age of 13 she became a pupil-teacher at Bromley St Leonard's Church school, Bromley-by-Bow, where she had been a scholar. She was compelled to give up teaching when she married in 1898, in accordance with the regulations then in force, but she was called back to teach in Leyton during World War I at a boys' elementary school and, although Essex reinstated their ‘no married women’ rule after the war, London County Council had less strict regulations and she continued to teach until she reached retirement age. Ralph was the youngest of her three children; she had an elder boy, Leslie Oliver (1899–1975) and a girl, Phyllis Mary (1902–78); with her strong character and interest in education she was a considerable formative influence in Ralph's early life and had taught him to read before he started school. Ralph attended infants' and elementary schools in Leytonstone and then in 1919 gained a scholarship to Leyton County High School for boys. He remembered two outstanding masters, W.F. Woolner-Bird, who taught mathematics, and W.E. (later Sir Emrys) Williams, who aroused his interest in English literature. Ralph enjoyed his schooldays and was keen on all forms of sport. His elder brother, Leslie, lived at home while studying for a degree in chemistry at University College London (UCL), and it was his accounts of the experiments that they were doing that excited Ralph and firmly set him on a course towards a career in science. .In 1925, aged 16, Ralph passed the School Certificate with a sufficient number of subjects and distinctions to make him immediately eligible for university entrance. His father was in poor health at the time and it was decided that Ralph should go up to university rather than stay on at school for two more years to take the Higher School Certificate.

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The architect and carver Ivan Hreljić of Šibenik is one of the lesser known master builders from the circle of Giorgio Dalmata, whose activity can be followed during the third quarter of the fifteenth century. Although he is mentioned relatively frequently in the known documents, even in relation to specific projects, he has remained, like some other master builders from Šibenik, on the margin of scholarly interest, while different transcriptions of his surname resulted in a situation where even the pieces of information the scholars have had at their disposal have remained scattered and unconnected, meaning that there have been no attempts to examine his activity in more detail.Ivan Hreljić was a member of an active family of architects and stone-cutters who were originally from Žirje. Apart from his individual undertakings, he frequently took on specific commissions together withhis younger brother Luka, while their sons and nephews continued the family tradition in the stone-cutting business which was subsequently carried on into the third generation.The earliest mention of the stone-cutter Ivan Hreljić is that of 19 December 1448 when he acted as a witness at the signing of a document by which the carpenter Matej Naradinić took Matej Ratković as an apprentice. In this, he is mentioned as a builder from Žirje but a resident of Šibenik. The following year is that of his marriage and freedom from his father’s authority, and after that, he appears in a number of documents from the archives at Šibenik that portray his life and activity relatively well, as well as his connections with numerous other stonecutting masters of Šibenik.The first record of substantial work associated with him is that of 19 December 1449 when Giorgio Dalmata contracted him and Vukašin Marković to work on the town walls of Pag, and designated Ivo Stjepanov Franulović as their collaborator. It seems that he spent the next few years at Pag; he is again mentioned at Šibenik only on 25 February 1455 when, together with his brother Luka and the stone-cutter Disman Banjvarić, they committed themselves to supply the equivalent of thirty fathoms of wall in dressed stones to the representatives of the monastery of Holy Saviour. On 10 June 1458, the brothers Ivan and Luka Hreljić were contracted by Martin Ostojić, the parish priest of Uzdolje, to make six three-feet wide pilasters along the exterior wall of the Church of St. John at Uzdolje, up to the height of the wall itself, but also to plaster the exterior and interior of the church, cover the roof with slates and wall up an old door. The two brothers obviously collaborated well and on 13 January 1459, they werecontracted by the representatives of the village of Široke to build them a church dedicated to St. Jerome which would be as large as the one of St. Michael at Mitlo. They also committed to vault the church, make an altar with a base carved from white stone, cover the roof with slates, erect a bell-tower similar to the one at Mitlo, and plaster the entire church on the inside and the outside.On 3 March 1462, Ivan took on the commission of the Guardian of the Franciscan monastery of St. Mary at Vranduk to accompany him to Bosnia and work for him there for three months for the monthly payment of three ducats. It seems that he remained in Bosnia for much longer than the anticipated three months; after his return to Šibenik, he is frequently mentioned in the archival records from the autumn of 1464 onwards, more as an entrepreneur and intermediary, or an interested party in disputes, and as the owner of a ship, than with regard to specific stone-cutting jobs. Only on 23 October 1469 is Ivan mentioned as committing himself to supply a fixed amount of white stone for the building of theChurch of St. Mary at Fermo, an obligation confirmed in a document which features Radmil Ratković, another master who was active in the circle of Giorgio Dalmata, as his guarantor. The last document that mentions Ivan as being alive is that of 21 January 1474, but it is only on 8 December 1477 that he 4was referred to as dead, and so it is not possible to establish the exact year of his death.Not a lot remains from Ivan Hreljić’s documented works and it is difficult to identify his contribution to the extant works with certainty, let alone any specific morphological elements which might point to the idiosyncrasies of his architectural or stone-cutting expression. Although the remains of the town walls at Pag are best preserved exactly in the portions for which Hreljić may have been responsible together with otherbuilders, their character is such that it prevents any assessment of specific artistic abilities and skills. Apart from the extremely simple wall surface, the north-west section of the fortifications at Pag is marked by a striking semicircular tower which has been identified as one of Giorgio Dalmata’s projects. The job on the Church of St. John at Uzdolje consisted of the strengthening and stabilization of the building through the addition of six strong exterior supports. The remains of all six pilasters built by the Hreljić brothers have been preserved only in their foundations, and these demonstrate that this specific architectural task was carried out professionally and solidly.The Church of St. Jerome in the village of Široke is the only relatively well-preserved work on which it is possible to note at least some details which reveal the achievements of Ivan Hreljić’s craftsmanship as a carver. Unfortunately, this church was significantly remodelled and then transformed into the sanctuary of the new, much larger church, and its original façade was completely demolished. In addition, the originalframes of the doors and windows, which might have demonstrated Ivan’s carving skills to a certain degree, have also been lost. The only original carved element which still survives is a tabernacle niche in the shapeof a small Gothic window, which was carved into a block of stone next to the triumphal arch of the church. This modest and somewhat clumsily executed carving reveals that Ivan Hreljić was not a particularlysuccessful carver, and far from a sculptor. It is likely that his stone-cutting skills sufficed only for a solid dressing of stone blocks which were to be used by builders and, up to a certain degree, for the carving ofsimple mouldings. His involvement with the Franciscan monastery of St. Mary at Vranduk is more important as a testimony about the reputation of the builders who belonged to Giorgio Dalmata’s circle at Šibenik, than as a concrete building task, especially since the monastery at Vranduk has only been preserved in its archaeological remains, which makes it impossible to establish Ivan’s possible contribution to its building.Equally so, the supply of stone for the building of the Cathedral of St. Mary at Fermo still cannot be connected to specific parts of this structure.Apart from information about Ivan’s life and business, archival records bear evidence of his frequent and numerous contacts with other stone-cutting masters of Šibenik. Regardless of whether these documents referto some sort of collaboration, assessment of the quality of someone else’s work, usage of a ship, or merely feature stone-cutters as witnesses for each other’s job contracts, such documented contacts reveal strong mutual links in the developed community of stonecutting masters at Šibenik. The list of names which appear in the documents mentioning Ivan Hreljić (Giorgio Dalmata, Lorenzo Pincino, Vukašin Marković,Ivo Stjepanov Franulović, Disman Banjvarić, Ivan Obertić, Juraj Radeljić, Matej Radeljić, Andrija Butčić, Ivan Pribislavljić, Matko Stoislavljić, Martin Krešulov from Korčula, Blaž Dianišević, Antun Oštričić, Radmil Ratković, Pavao, Grgur and Petar Pripković, Radoslav Dragčić, Pavao Spauleta, Martin Pavlinović, Petar Berčić) provides a representative cross-section ofarchitectural and stone-cutting circles in Šibenik from the time when Giorgio Dalmata played the leading role in them. And, it was Ivan Hreljić and men like him who enabled Giorgio Dalmata to execute individualcommissions efficiently and realize specific ideas, but also to operate in that entrepreneurial approach so characteristic of him, through which he used the services of the masters who entered his circle according to how well they fitted into his designs and projects.

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The casket of St Simeon the God-Receiver is the most representative work in the applied arts of the Croatian Trecento and, at the same time, one which displays great iconographic complexity. Although it was the subject of two monographs and a large number of individual articles, a whole set of questions remains open and awaits plausible interpretations. Particularly great problems are connected to the interpretation of a number of scenes which were understood differently by different scholars. At the same time, it can be noted that the discussion about the casket’s complex iconographic programme lacks a study which would address it as a unique a coherent whole in which every single scene is viewed as its irreplaceable constituent part. This article aims to demonstrate that the casket’s iconographic programme, especially that of the eight panels on its main body, was selected and arranged according to a carefully developed programme the creators of which were five noblemen of Zadar to whom Queen Elizabeth, the wife of the powerful King Louis I the Great of Hungary (1342-1382), entrusted not only the silver for the making of the casket but other important details connected to the commission such as the choice of the artist and, even more importantly, the selection of the scenes through which the casket communicated with its spectators. There is no doubt that the queen had her own demands with regard to what was depicted as can be seen in the opulent dedicatory inscription which records that she was the patron of the casket but also in the donation scene where she appears together with her daughters. It can also be said with certainty that she gave instructions for the somewhat unusual panel which depicts her standing by the catafalque of her father, Ban Stephen of Bosnia (+1354) who is being sent off to the next world by St Simeon the Righteous. It should mentioned that Ban Stephen was considered a heretic – a Bogomil – which means that being a Catholic queen, his daughter attempted to rectify the past with this panel. All these scenes are at the back of the casket. The queen undoubtedly also had a say in the selection of scenes which were depicted on the front. Those relate to the life of St Simeon which, considering that we know of only one event in his life, was done in a very skilful way: the central panel shows the saint receiving the Christ Child in the scene of the Presentation in the Temple while the panels to its left and right depict the translation of the saint’s relics which have not been identified as such in the scholarly literature. The translation consists of three scenes which are always present in the cases of translation: the finding of the body (inventio corporis), the transport of the body to a new place (translatio corporis) and, finally, the placing of the body to a new site where it would remain in the future (colocatio corporis). These three scenes were interpreted by the noblemen of Zadar in an idiosyncratic way in order to affirm the medieval Zadar and its nobility on the casket itself. The scene of the inventio corporis depicts the rectors of Zadar intervening at the last moment before a group of monks from the outskirts of town get hold of the body and place it in their monastery. In the scene of the colocatio corporis, the body of St Simeon is being carried into the Church of St Mary Major in the presence of King Louis and the grateful citizens who are led by the Bishop Nicholas Matafar. This scene depicts the return of the saint’s body from Venice where, according to the author of this article, it had been taken during the local uprising against the Venetian rule (1346-1358). At the same time, the visual message of the two scenes which flank the central one was to show that the exclusive ownership of the relics belonged to the citizens of Zadar. The conflict with the monks which erupted on a local level is being resolved by the local authorities, that is, the rectors of Zadar. When the problem becomes ‘bilateral’, that is, when it involves Venice, the dispute is settled (to the benefit of the citizens of Zadar) by their sovereign, the king of Hungary and Croatia.The visual interpretation of the translation depicted on the casket relies greatly on the scenes from the cycle of the translation of the body of St Mark from the façade of St Mark’s basilica at Venice (the discovery and exhumation of the body, the transport of the body on a ship, the placing of the body in a new shrine). The author of the article, therefore, frequently compares the scenes on the Zadar casket to those from Venice.

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-Leslie G. Desmangles, Joan Dayan, Haiti, history, and the Gods. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995. xxiii + 339 pp.-Barry Chevannes, James T. Houk, Spirits, blood, and drums: The Orisha religion in Trinidad. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1995. xvi + 238 pp.-Barry Chevannes, Walter F. Pitts, Jr., Old ship of Zion: The Afro-Baptist ritual in the African Diaspora. New York: Oxford University Press, 1993. xvi + 199 pp.-Robert J. Stewart, Lewin L. Williams, Caribbean theology. New York: Peter Lang, 1994. xiii + 231 pp.-Robert J. Stewart, Barry Chevannes, Rastafari and other African-Caribbean worldviews. London: Macmillan, 1995. xxv + 282 pp.-Michael Aceto, Maureen Warner-Lewis, Yoruba songs of Trinidad. London: Karnak House, 1994. 158 pp.''Trinidad Yoruba: From mother tongue to memory. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1996. xviii + 279 pp.-Erika Bourguignon, Nicola H. Götz, Obeah - Hexerei in der Karibik - zwischen Macht und Ohnmacht. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1995. 256 pp.-John Murphy, Hernando Calvo Ospina, Salsa! Havana heat: Bronx Beat. London: Latin America Bureau, 1995. viii + 151 pp.-Donald R. Hill, Stephen Stuempfle, The steelband movement: The forging of a national art in Trinidad and Tobago. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995. xx + 289 pp.-Hilary McD. Beckles, Jay R. Mandle ,Caribbean Hoops: The development of West Indian basketball. Langhorne PA: Gordon and Breach, 1994. ix + 121 pp., Joan D. Mandle (eds)-Edmund Burke, III, Lewis R. Gordon ,Fanon: A critical reader. Oxford: Blackwell, 1996. xxi + 344 pp., T. Denean Sharpley-Whiting, Renée T. White (eds)-Keith Alan Sprouse, Ikenna Dieke, The primordial image: African, Afro-American, and Caribbean Mythopoetic text. New York: Peter Lang, 1993. xiv + 434 pp.-Keith Alan Sprouse, Wimal Dissanayake ,Self and colonial desire: Travel writings of V.S. Naipaul. New York : Peter Lang, 1993. vii + 160 pp., Carmen Wickramagamage (eds)-Yannick Tarrieu, Moira Ferguson, Jamaica Kincaid: Where the land meets the body: Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1994. xiii + 205 pp.-Neil L. Whitehead, Vera Lawrence Hyatt ,Race, discourse, and the origin of the Americas: A new world view. Washington DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1995. xiii + 302 pp., Rex Nettleford (eds)-Neil L. Whitehead, Patricia Seed, Ceremonies of possession in Europe's conquest of the new world, 1492-1640. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. viii + 199 pp.-Livio Sansone, Michiel Baud ,Etnicidad como estrategia en America Latina y en el Caribe. Arij Ouweneel & Patricio Silva. Quito: Ediciones Abya-Yala, 1996. 214 pp., Kees Koonings, Gert Oostindie (eds)-D.C. Griffith, Linda Basch ,Nations unbound: Transnational projects, postcolonial predicaments, and deterritorialized nation-states. Langhorne PA: Gordon and Breach, 1994. vii + 344 pp., Nina Glick Schiller, Cristina Szanton Blanc (eds)-John Stiles, Richard D.E. Burton ,French and West Indian: Martinique, Guadeloupe and French Guiana today. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia; London: Macmillan Caribbean, 1995. xii + 202 pp., Fred Réno (eds)-Frank F. Taylor, Dennis J. Gayle ,Tourism marketing and management in the Caribbean. New York: Routledge, 1993. xxvi + 270 pp., Jonathan N. Goodrich (eds)-Ivelaw L. Griffith, John La Guerre, Structural adjustment: Public policy and administration in the Caribbean. St. Augustine: School of continuing studies, University of the West Indies, 1994. vii + 258 pp.-Luis Martínez-Fernández, Kelvin A. Santiago-Valles, 'Subject People' and colonial discourses: Economic transformation and social disorder in Puerto Rico, 1898-1947. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1994. xiii + 304 pp.-Alicia Pousada, Bonnie Urciuoli, Exposing prejudice: Puerto Rican experiences of language, race, and class. Boulder: Westview Press, 1996. xiv + 222 pp.-David A.B. Murray, Ian Lumsden, Machos, Maricones, and Gays: Cuba and hom*osexuality. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1996. xxvii + 263 pp.-Robert Fatton, Jr., Georges A. Fauriol, Haitian frustrations: Dilemmas for U.S. policy. Washington DC: Center for strategic & international studies, 1995. xii + 236 pp.-Leni Ashmore Sorensen, David Barry Gaspar ,More than Chattel: Black women and slavery in the Americas. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996. xi + 341 pp., Darlene Clark Hine (eds)-A. Lynn Bolles, Verene Shepherd ,Engendering history: Caribbean women in historical perspective. Kingston: Ian Randle; London: James Currey, 1995. xxii + 406 pp., Bridget Brereton, Barbara Bailey (eds)-Bridget Brereton, Mary Turner, From chattel slaves to wage slaves: The dynamics of labour bargaining in the Americas. Kingston: Ian Randle; Bloomington: Indiana University Press; London: James Currey, 1995. x + 310 pp.-Carl E. Swanson, Duncan Crewe, Yellow Jack and the worm: British Naval administration in the West Indies, 1739-1748. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1993. x + 321 pp.-Jerome Egger, Wim Hoogbergen, Het Kamp van Broos en Kaliko: De geschiedenis van een Afro-Surinaamse familie. Amsterdam: Prometheus, 1996. 213 pp.-Ellen Klinkers, Lila Gobardhan-Rambocus ,De erfenis van de slavernij. Paramaribo: Anton de Kom Universiteit, 1995. 297 pp., Maurits S. Hassankhan, Jerry L. Egger (eds)-Kevin K. Birth, Sylvia Moodie-Kublalsingh, The Cocoa Panyols of Trinidad: An oral record. London & New York: British Academic Press, 1994. xiii + 242 pp.-David R. Watters, C.N. Dubelaar, The Petroglyphs of the Lesser Antilles, the Virgin Islands and Trinidad. Amsterdam: Foundation for scientific research in the Caribbean region, 1995. vii + 492 pp.-Suzannah England, Mitchell W. Marken, Pottery from Spanish shipwrecks, 1500-1800. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1994. xvi + 264 pp.

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Background.Rosa, as the "Queen of Flowers" has always occupied a special place in the garden. The emergence of rose gardens is rooted in antiquity. Rose is a kind of “tuning fork” of eras. We can see how the symbolism of the flower was transformed, depending on the philosophy and cultural values of society. And this contributed to the various functions and aesthetic delivery of roses in gardens and parks of different eras. Despite the large number of works on roses, today there are no studies that can combine philosophy, cultural aspects of the era, the history of gardens and parks with symbols of the plant world (in particular roses) with the identification of a number of features and patterns.Objectives.The purpose of the article is to study the symbolism of rosesin landscape gardening art of different eras.Methods.The historical method helps to trace the stages of the transformation of the symbolism of roses in different historical periods. The inductive method allows you to move from the analysis of the symbolism of roses in each era to generalization, the identification of patterns, the connection of the cultural life of society with the participation of roses in it. Graph-analytical method reveals the features of creating various types of gardens with roses, taking into account trends in styles and time.Results.In the gardens of Ancient Greece, the theme of refined aesthetics, reflections on life and death dominated. It is no accident that in ancient times it was an attribute of the goddesses of love. In antiquity, she was a favorite flower of the goddess of beauty and love of Aphrodite (Venus). In connection with the legend of the goddess, there was a custom to draw or hang a white rose in the meeting rooms, as a reminder of the non-disclosure of the said information. It was also believed that roses weaken the effect of wine and therefore garlands of roses decorated feasts, festivities in honor of the god of winemaking Dionysus (Bacchus). The rose was called the gift of the gods. Wreaths of roses were decorated: statues of the gods during religious ceremonies, the bride during weddings. The custom of decorating the floor with rose petals, twisting columns of curly roses in the halls came to the ancient palace life from Ancient Egypt, from Queen Cleopatra, highlighted this flower more than others. In ancient Rome, rose gardens turned into huge plantations. Flowers from them were intended to decorate palace halls during feasts. In Rome, a religious theme was overshadowed by luxurious imperial greatness. It is interesting that in Rome, which constantly spreads its borders, a rose from a "female" flower turned into a "male" one. The soldiers, setting out on a campaign, put on pink wreaths instead of helmets, symbolizing morality and courage, and returning with victory, knocked out the image of a rose on shields. From roses weaved wreaths and garlands, received rose oil, incense and medicine. The banquet emperors needed so many roses, which were also delivered by ships from Egypt. Ironically, it is generally accepted that Nero's passion for roses contributed to the decline of Rome. After the fall of the Roman Empire, rose plantations were abandoned because Christianity first associated this flower with the licentiousness of Roman customs. In the Early Middle Ages, the main theme is the Christian religion and roses are located mainly in the monastery gardens, symbolizing divine love and mercy. Despite the huge number of civil wars, when the crops and gardens of neighbors were violently destroyed, the only place of peace and harmony remained the monastery gardens. They grew medicinal plants and flowers for religious ceremonies. During this period, the rose becomes an attribute of the Virgin Mary, Jesus Christ and various saints, symbolizing the church as a whole. More deeply, the symbolism of the rose was revealed in Catholic life, when the rosary and a special prayer behind them were called the "rose garden". Now the rose has become the personification of mercy, forgiveness, martyrdom and divine love. In the late Middle Ages, in the era of chivalry, roses became part of the "cult of the beautiful lady." Rose becomes a symbol of love of a nobleman to the wife of his heart. Courtesy was of a socially symbolic nature, described in the novel of the Rose. The lady, like a rose, symbolized mystery, magnificent beauty and temptation. Thus, in the Late Middle Ages, the secular principle manifests itself on a par with the religious vision of the world. And in the Renaissance, the religious and secular component are in balance. The theme of secular pleasures and entertainments was transferred further to the Renaissance gardens. In secular gardens at palaces, villas and castles, it symbolized love, beauty, grace and perfection. In this case, various secret societies appear that choose a rose as an emblem, as a symbol of eternity and mystery. And if the cross in the emblem of the Rosicrucians symbolized Christianity, then the rose symbolized a mystical secret hidden from prying eyes. In modern times, secular life comes to the fore, and with it new ways of communication, for example, in the language of flowers, in particular roses. In the XVII–XVIII centuries. gardening art is becoming secular; sesame, the language of flowers, comes from Europe to the East. White rose symbolized a sigh, pink –an oath of love, tea –a courtship, and bright red –admiration for beauty and passionate love [2]. In aristocratic circles, the creation of lush rose gardens is in fashion. Roses are actively planted in urban and suburban gardens. In modern times, rose gardens carry the idea of aesthetic relaxation and enjoyment. Many new varieties were obtained in the 19th century, during the period of numerous botanical breeding experiments. At this time, gardening ceased to be the property of the elite of society and became publicly available. In the XX–XXI centuries. rosaries, as before, are popular. Many of them are located on the territory of ancient villas, palaces and other structures, continuing the tradition.

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Kastre (sometimes called Uue-Kastre) Castle on the north shore of the Emajõgi River has been almost totally destroyed. At one time it belonged to the Tartu bishops, and a trade route connecting the Baltic Sea countries and Russia through Tartu and Pskov ran past the castle. In the Middle Ages, this also marked the actual boundary of the Tartu bishopric, since only unsettled wetlands covered the area between the castle and the lake. The Kastre Castle is mentioned in the written records for the first time in 1392 as a customs checkpoint, in connection with a treaty between the Hanseatic towns and Novgorod. There was a barrier near the castle that was stretched over the river with a rope or chain, which stopped the boats and ships from sailing through without stopping. When the Pskovians launched a military expedition on their lodʼya boats against the Tartu bishopric in 1342, there is no mention of the Kastre Castle. The place name is probably based on the Old Russian word kosterʼ (костеръ), which meant stronghold and has been used as a loan word in the eastern Finnic languages. The German name of Kastre is Warbek, and the current explanation is that this meant “river defence” (Middle German were des bekes). However, were has also meant fish barrier, i.e. a fishing structure built across the flow of the river.In 1993, the owner of the castle property had the moats around surrounding the castle and outer bailey dredged and widened, which changed their location and appearance notably. The first archaeological studies at the castle were conducted to verify the damage caused by this unauthorised excavation work. In 1994, the profile of the ground exposed by excavator rooting around in the moats was documented. In 2001, the first archaeological excavations took place at the site of the Kastre Castle. There were plans to build a new structure between the walls of the tavern that had been built on the site of the castle in the late 18th and 19th century, and the necessary trenches were dug in the course of the archaeological rescue excavations. Supervision of the construction work, as well as excavation work related the cleanup of the moats and surrounding property, continued for the next few years. Depending on the location, the excavations reached the cobblestone paving that was located 40–120 cm below the prior ground level in the courtyard and interiors of the castle.In 2001, wood samples were taken from the logs that were revealed on the western slope of the western moat of the Kastre outer bailey, and had been used to fortify the incline. The dendrochronological study shows that the logs were fell after the 1376 growth period (summer). Therefore, the moat of the Kastre outer bailey was probably fortified in 1377. The direct motivation for building the castle may have been the border war between Pskov and the Tartu bishopric that lasted from 1367 to 1371. The main battlefield of the war was Lake Peipsi, and a dispute about the fishing rights in Lake Lämmijärv has been given as the main explanation for the war.Kastre was a very important medieval fishery centre for the lower Emajõgi River and Lake Peipsi. Here the import of fish was taxed. In the vicinity, one could find the fishing grounds of the Tartu bishop, the Cathedral Chapter, the town of Tartu, monasteries and private manors, as well as of the Teutonic Order. The water and winter roads that ran through Kastre from Tartu toward Russia or Narva comprised an important traffic zone, which the castle controlled. Kastre was the centre of the relevant Tartu bishopric’s administrative division. The bishops are said to have visited the border castle personally on many occasions, so suitable rooms must have existed at the castle. An idea of the castle is provided by plans from 17th century.The castle was built in at least two stages. Its foundations were built on log floats. First an unusual rectangular building of fieldstones and bricks was built, the longest wall of which was 17,5 metres and the shortest 12 metres; the walls were 2,5 to 2,8 metres thick. The walls on the north and northwest side of the castle were built later against the originally planned walls; whereas the upper parts of the original northern and eastern walls were demolished. A subsequent addition was the cannon tower on the southeast corner of the castle, which is indicted on plans from the late 17th century, and the diameter of which, based on these plans, would have been about 9,5 metres. Considering the location of the walls that have been revealed, most of the tower’s foundation walls have been washed away by the Emajõgi River. Apparently a wooden building was located in the northern part of the castle’s courtyard. The castle was surrounding by a moat that was up to 15 metres wide. It is not possible to determine the exact time of the different stages of construction. From the dendrochronological studies we can conclude that the outer bailey, or at least the area surrounded by moats, is not a later construction but most probably one of the oldest parts of the castle. Bricks typical of the 14th and 15th centuries have been used in the walls of the first construction stage; the addition, based on the dimensions of the bricks, is a later construction. There have been no finds on the entire property that date back to the period before the 15th century.On the west side of the castle, there is an area that is about 60 metres long and wide, and surrounded by a 10-metre-wide moat. The cultural layer here is only a ten or so centimetres thick. There were probably no stone buildings here; but it’s possible that wooden outbuildings were already located here when it was a bishopric castle. A tavern and outbuildings are indicated on the 17th century plans. In the course of cleaning the moats, wooden shore fortifications came to light in the northeast corner of the outer bailey. There was a small settlement near the castle, which, in 1601, included 21 households – 20 of them fishers and one brewer. A Mary Magdalene chapel is mentioned in 1613 here. A cemetery is located on the western side of the castle, which could have surrounded a chapel.The Kastre Castle has been repeatedly associated with military events, such as border wars and internal conflicts. In the Livonian War, Kastre was one of the first castles that fell into the hands of the Russians in 1558. Based on the Truce of Yam-Zapolsky, the castle was transferred to Poland in 1582. During the Russo-Swedish War in 1656, the Swedes were able make repairs the castle and make it defensible, and they stationed garrison there. However, it still fell into Russian hands until the Treaty of Kärde was signed in 1661. In the late 17th century, the Swedes planned to completely rebuild the castle. But as of 1704, the castle was still in ruins. After the Great Northern War, being inside the borders of the Russian Empire, the Kastre Castle lost its potential military importance. By the second half of the 18th century, the castle had turned into “a pile of stones”, from which a tavern was built.

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AbstractThe present article, dedicated to Prof. J.Th. De Smidt on the occasion of his 80th birthday, discusses the case of Jacques du Gal, a French merchant, and the Netherlands privateers Claes de Doot and Meeus Pietersz from Flushing. The former departed from the harbour of Dieppe in France with one vessel, headed for Scotland. During this journey, on the open seas, Du Gal bought an English ship, denoted in the records as the Mary Dertenny. This ship had been taken by the Scottish privateers Jehan Edinestone and Jehan Gourlat. Near the Scottish coast, the ships of Du Gal were boarded by De Doot and Pietersz. After the latter had returned with their prizes to their harbour of origin, Flushing in the Low Countries, the Admiralty Court of Veere took jurisdiction of the case. It decided that Du Gal's own ship should be returned to him, but it declared that the Mary Dertenny was good prize. On appeal, however, the Great Council of Malines, the then supreme court of the Low Countries, ruled that De Doot and Pietersz should also return the Mary Dertenny to Du Gal. The case of Du Gal v. De Doot and Pietersz is of interest, not only because it contains detailed information on the costs and the procedural steps to be taken before the Admiralty Court in a prize case, but also because it proves that, apart from legal arguments, diplomatic considerations may have been of importance when deciding prize cases before courts of law.

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AbstractArchaeobotanical analyses together with historical records can provide unique information about the cargoes and histories of sunken ships, which are found as wrecks at the bottom of the seas all over the world. An interdisciplinary research project was undertaken on the Vrouw Maria (Lady Mary), a Dutch wooden two-masted merchant ship that sank on October 9th in 1771 in the Finnish Baltic Sea. She rested at a depth of 41 m and was in good condition when discovered. Based on written sources and archaeological research, the ship was carrying a valuable cargo including, for example, sugar, dyes, cloth, porcelain, wood and goods that the Russian nobility had ordered. Among them were paintings that the Russian Empress Catherine the Great (1729–1796) had bought at an auction in Amsterdam. Samples from four wooden barrels and from one wooden packing crate among the ship’s cargo were investigated. Botanical analysis revealed products such as stimulants, dyes and fruits originating from the Mediterranean, India, Africa and South America. One of the most intriguing finds from the cargo was Indigofera tinctoria L. (true indigo), a valuable dye plant. Our paper presents the botanical data analysed from the barrels and summarizes the plants mentioned in the historical records on the cargo of the Vrouw Maria.

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Abstract A crucial component of musical performance on bowed instruments is the bow, yet our knowledge of bows in early modern England is almost entirely derived from images that fail to represent bows in extensive or accurate detail. This article provides detailed descriptions of two musical instrument bows (mr81 a6975 and mr05 a0006) recovered from Henry VIII’s favourite ship the Mary Rose, which was wrecked in 1545 and salvaged in 1982. They probably belonged to the owners of the two fiddles recovered from the ship. Despite both bows being incomplete they provide unique evidence for the nature of such artefacts. One bow is a relatively crude object, made probably of oak, possibly by its owner for his own use. The other is a more sophisticated construction, apparently made of yew. Yew was the wood of choice for longbows but its use for musical instrument bows is previously unrecorded. This bow shows evidence of use, and some features indicate that either the bow was repaired or its design includes preparation for a known weakness. The bows are compared with continental European images and the potential forms of the missing parts are discussed. The possibility that two further finds from the Mary Rose (mr81 a1888 and mr82 a2036/2) are parts of musical instruments is dismissed.

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Doman, Mary Kate. Treasure. Costa Mesa: Saddleback, 2013. Print.Treasure, one installment from The Heights series, is the story of Todd Bardo Jr., a junior at Penn State and his adventure diving for treasure off the shore of Ecuador. As a thank you for his work with the poor in that country, Todd’s father, a prominent and respected doctor, was awarded salvage rights to five miles of the reef by the Ecuadorian government. Todd inherits the salvage rights at his father’s death, and needs to complete the dive before his rights expire. With the help of a diving team headed by his best friend’s father, he and his team attempt the impossible – to find and claim treasure from a sunken ship. With her audience in mind, Doman has woven an adventure story driven by plot, dialogue, and simple language. This high-interest low-vocabulary book introduces readers to the country of Ecuador and its colourful history. Through Todd’s eyes we experience the excitement of organizing a treasure dive and some of its challenges. Will Todd find enough money to fund the expedition? Will his ship be targeted by thieves? Will his team be attacked by sharks? Ultimately, will he succeed and find a treasure?Students who appreciate simpler text and an exciting plot will enjoy this read. The resolution of some conflicts seems a bit convenient, but certainly keeps the story moving. The interest level is grade 5 to 8; the reading level is grade 1 to 2. This book is available at Saddleback Educational Publishing.Recommended: 3 out of 4 starsReviewer: Anita HammondAnita Hammond taught English Language Arts and music with Regina Catholic Schools for eleven years. Currently, as a full-time mother, she has returned to Education studies at the University of Alberta in the Masters of Education program specializing in teacher-librarian studies. She has enjoyed the opportunity to read numerous high-interest low-vocabulary titles, and hopes to share these titles and others with colleagues and students to support literacy goals.

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Статья посвящена исследованию истории формирования и функционирования понятия морское и подводное культурное наследие , а также анализу эволюции ценностей, вкладываемых в объекты наследия, связанные с морской культурой. Цель работы определение этапов системного научного осмысления морского и подводного культурного наследия в Великобритании и процесса становления соответствующего понятия. Базой для научных изысканий автора явились исследования британских ученых, охватывающие период с середины XVII в. по настоящее время. В ходе исследования выделены три основных периода в истории формирования представлений о морском культурном наследии Великобритании, предложен вариант трактовки рассматриваемого понятия, которое определяется как совокупность объектов материального и нематериального культурного наследия, связанных со всеми аспектами мореплавания и освоения человеком водных пространств.The article is devoted to the study of the history of the formation and functioning of the concept maritime and underwater cultural heritage, as well as to the analysis of the evolution of values invested in heritage objects related to maritime culture. The study is based on materials reflecting the history of the study of maritime heritage in the UK. The aim of the work is to determine the stages in the formation of a systematic scientific understanding of the maritime and underwater cultural heritage in the UK and the process of establishing the corresponding scientific concept. The basis for the authors research was the study of British scientists, covering the period from the mid-17th century until now. The main attention is paid to underwater cultural heritage as one of the main components of maritime heritage. The author identifies three main periods in the history of the formation of ideas about the maritime cultural heritage of Great Britain. The middle of the 17th century was taken as a starting point, which was the heyday of the era of antiquarianism. Thanks to the active colonial policy and the wars accompanying it, many ships were wrecked, and subsequently a large number of sailors searched for sunken treasures. The reason for this search was by no means a desire to preserve history, but a commercial gain. The milestone that determined the emergence of historical interest in maritime heritage sites is 1836: the year the ship Mary Rose was discovered. The subsequent period (up to the second half of the 20th century) is characterized by the development of historical research in relation to the underwater cultural heritage, but without a sound scientific-methodological component. The third period begins in 1976 after a publication of Keith Muckelroy, a maritime archaeologist, about the formation of an underwater archaeological complex, and after further developments, including the creation of the term maritime archaeology. The development of the methodology, the conceptualization and updating of critical approaches to historical phenomena have led to the formation of a modern scientific view on the problems of interpretation of maritime cultural heritage. The revealed characteristics of the analyzed concept allowed the author to propose a version of its interpretation, characteristic of European countries. Maritime cultural heritage is defined as a combination of objects of tangible and intangible cultural heritage associated with all aspects of navigation and human development of water spaces.

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Korean resultatives are divided into two types depending on whether the subject of a resultative secondary predicate is assigned accusative case or nominative case. The former is comparable to selected object resultatives (e.g., Mary wipe the table clean), and the latter to unselected object resultatives (e.g., John screamed himself hoarse) in English. Korean resultatives have received a great deal of attention in the literature due to different case markings on the subject of a secondary predicate. However, there has been no agreement regarding whether Korean resultatives should be analyzed as small clause complements, similar to English, or adjunct phrases. Some argue that both resultative types are small clause complements (e.g., Kim 1999, Chang and Kim 2001), but some argue that only the selected object resultatives are true small clause type resultatives while the unselected object resultatives are VP adjuncts (e.g., Song 2005, Yeo 2006). A recent proposal by Shim and den Dikken (2007), however, suggests that both types should be analyzed as TP adjuncts. This paper defends the second position, a split analysis for the two types of resultatives: a complementation analysis for selected object resultatives, and an adjunction analysis for unselected object resultatives. Supporting evidence for the split analysis is provided by a few syntactic and semantic facts that lead to the conclusion that the two resultatives must be structurally distinguished from one another in terms of their complementhood/adjuncthood.

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Abstract The Society gratefully acknowledges the time and effort of the following individuals who served as reviewers of abstracts for this meeting: ASH ABSTRACTS COORDINATING REVIEWERS Blanche P. Alter Stephen M. Ansell Ralph B. Arlinghaus Scott Armstrong Asad Bashey Philip Bierman Neil Blumberg Chiara Bonini Dominique Bonnet Jacqueline Boultwood Rena Buckstein John C. Byrd Marc Carrier Lucio H. Castilla Selina Chen-Kiang Nicholas Chiorazzi Jorge Cortes-Franco Claire E. Dearden Mary C. Dinauer Harry Paul Erba Carolyn A. Felix Pierre Fenaux Debra L. Friedman Irene M. Ghobrial Jason R. Gotlib Brandon Hayes-Lattin Cheryl A. Hillery Achille Iolascon Jean-Pierre J. Issa Sundar Jagannath Diane F. Jelinek H. Phillip Koeffler John Koreth Robert J. Kreitman Robert B. Levy David Lillicrap Richard Lottenberg John D. McMannis Mark D. Minden Charles G. Mullighan Arnon Nagler Peter J. Newman Robert Z. Orlowski Antonio Palumbo Julie A. Panepinto Warren S. Pear Sibrand Poppema Barbara Pro Ching-Hon Pui A. Koneti Rao Aaron P. Rapoport Pieter H. Reitsma Douglas D. Ross J. Eric Russell Barbara Savoldo Kirk R. Schultz Radek C. Skoda Marilyn L. Slovak Susan Smyth Hugo ten Cate Herve Tilly John M. Timmerman Ivo Touw Amy J. Wagers Russell E. Ware Catherine J. Wu Virginia M. Zaleskas ASH ABSTRACTS REVIEWERS Camille Abboud Omar Abdel-Wahab Jeremy Abramson Suneet Agarwal Sikander Ailawadhi Onder Alpdogan Andrew Aprikyan Mary Armanios Aneel Ashrani Norio Asou Aglaia Athanassiadou Eyal Attar Mohammad Azam Maria Baer Jorg Baesecke Sarah Ball Karen Ballen Frederic Baron Shannon Bates Minoo Battiwalla Marie Bene Charles Bennett James Berenson Steven Bernstein Francesco Bertoni Monica Bessler Wolfgang Bethge Kapil Bhalla Deepa Bhojwani James Bieker Bruce R. Blazar Annemarie Block David Bodine Catherine Bollard Antonio Bonati Eric Bouhassira Benjamin Braun Christopher Bredeson Patrick Brown Ross Brown Jan Burger Dario Campana Jose Cancelas Paul Carpenter Andrew Carroll James Casella Rebecca Chan Roy Chemaly Benny Chen Jerry Cheng Linzhao Cheng Bruce Cheson Mark Chiang Athar Chishti Hearn Cho Magdalena Chrzanowska-Wodnicka Richard E. Clark Joseph Connors Kenneth Cooke Miguel Cruz Adam Cuker Sandeep Dave Janice Davis Sproul Lucia De Franceschi Philip De Groot Rodney DeKoter Richard Delarue Stephen Devereux Steven Devine Paola Jorge Di Don Diamond Meletios Dimopoulos John DiPersio Angela Dispenzieri Benjamin Djulbegovic Jing-fei Dong James Downing William Drobyski Rafael Duarte Charles Dumontet Kieron Dunleavy Brian Durie Dimitar Efremov Elizabeth Eklund Jonas Emsley Patricia Ernst Andrew Evens Chris Fegan Andrew Feldman Giuliana Ferrari Willem Fibbe Adele Fielding Thoas Fioretos Robert Flaumenhaft Rafael Fonseca James Foran Joseph Frank Janet Franklin Paul Frenette Alan Friedman Terry Fry Saghi Gaffari Naomi Galili Patrick Gallagher Anne Galy David Garcia Randy Gascoyne Cristina Gasparetto Norbert Gattermann Tobias Gedde-Dahl Alan Gewirtz Francis Giles Robert Godal Lucy Godley Ivana Gojo Norbert Gorin Andre Goy Eric Grabowski Steven Grant Timothy Graubert Elizabeth Griffiths H. Leighton Grimes Claudia Haferlach Corinne Haioun Parameswaran Hari Christine Harrison Robert Hasserjian Nyla Heerema Shelly Heimfeld Roland Herzog Elizabeth Hexner Teru Hideshima William H. Hildebrand Gerhard Hildebrandt Devendra Hiwase Karin Hoffmeister Donna Hogge Scott Howard Brian Huntly Hiroto Inaba Baba Inusa Shai Izraeli Suresh Jhanwar Amy Johnson Craig Jordan Joseph Jurcic Nina Kadan-Lottick Lawrence Kaplan Jonathan Kaufman Neil Kay Michelle Kelliher Craig Kessler H. Jean Khoury Allison King Joseph Kiss Issay Kitabayashi Robert Klaassen Christoph Klein Yoshihisa Kodera Alexander Kohlmann Barbara Konkle Michael Kovacs Robert Kralovics Amrita Krishnan Nicolaus Kroger Ashish Kumar Ralf Küppers Jeffery Kutok Ann LaCasce Raymond Lai David Lane Peter Lane Richard Larson Michelle Le Beau Gregoire Le Gal Ollivier Legrand Suzanne Lentzsch John Leonard John Levine Ross Levine Linheng Li Renhao Li Zhenyu Li Wendy Lim Charles Linker Jeffrey Lipton Per Ljungman John Lollar Philip Low David Lucas Selina Luger Leo Luznik Gary Lyman Jaroslaw Maciejewski Elizabeth MacIntyre Nigel Mackman Luca Malcovati Guido Marcucci Tomer Mark Susan Maroney Giovanni Martinelli Peter Maslak Alan Mast Grant McArthur Philip McCarthy Michael McDevitt Peter McLaughlin Bruno Medeiros Jules P.P. Meijerink Junia Melo Thomas Mercher Bradley Messmer Marco Mielcarek Ken Mills Shin Mineishi Arturo Molina Silvia Montoto Marie Joelle Mozziconacci Auayp*rn Nademanee Vesna Najfeld Eneida Nemecek Ellis Neufeld Peter Newburger Heyu Ni Charlotte Marie Niemeyer Yago Nieto Anne Novak Paul O\'Donnell Vivian Oehler Fritz Offner Johannes Oldenburg Rebecca Olin Richard J. O'Reilly Thomas Ortel Keiya Ozawa Rose Ann Padua Sung-Yun Pai James Palis Derwood Pamphilon Animesh Pardanani Farzana Pashankar Andrea Pellagatti Catherine Pellat-Deceunynck Louis Pelus Chris Pepper Melanie Percy Andrew Perkins Luke Peterson Andrew Pettitt Javier Pinilla-Ibarz Kimmo Porkka David Porter Amy Powers Claude Preudhomme Frederick Racke Margaret Ragni Thomas Raife Alessandro Rambaldi Mariusz Ratajczak Pavan Reddy Mary Relling Tannishtha Reya Lisa Rimsza Stefano Rivella Isabelle Riviere Pamela Robey Gail Roboz Aldo Roccaro Maria Alma Rodriguez Frank Rosenbauer Laura Rosinol Alan Rosmarin Giuseppe Saglio Jonathan Said Valeria Santini Ravindra Sarode Yogenthiran Saunthararajah Bipin Savani Alan Schechter Charles Schiffer Robert Schlossman Laurie Sehn Rita Selby Orhan Sezer Sadhna Shankar John Shaughnessy Jordan Shavit Kevin Sheehan Shalini Shenoy Colin Sieff Paul Simmons Seema Singhal Sonali Smith Gerard Socie Pieter Sonneveld Simona Soverini David Spaner Steven Spitalnik Kostas Stamatopoulos David Steensma Richard Stone Toshio Suda Perumal Thiagarajan Courtney Thornburg Rodger Tiedemann David Traver Guido Tricot Darrell Triulzi Suzanne Trudel Christel Van Geet Karin Vanderkerken David Varon Amit Verma Srdan Verstovsek Ravi Vij Dan Vogl Loren Walensky Edmund Waller George Weiner Daniel Weisdorf Karl Welte Peter Westervelt Adrian Wiestner P.W. Wijermans John Wingard Anne Woolfrey Mingjiang Xu Qing Yi Anas Younes Ryan Zarychanski Arthur Zelent Clive Zent Dong-Er Zhang Xianzheng Zhou James Zimring

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Cairns, Alan C. Citizens Plus: Aboriginal Peoples and the Canadian State. By Joyce Green 623Flanagan, Tom. First Nations? Second Thoughts. Par Jean-François Savard 625Manfredi, Christopher P. Judicial Power and the Charter: Canada and the Paradox of Liberal Constitutionalism. By Miriam Smith 627Corbo, Claude, sous la direction de. Repenser l'École : une anthologie des débats sur l'éducation au Québec de 1945 au rapport Parent. Par Annie Mercure 629Howe, R. Brian and David Johnson. Restraining Equality. By Paul Groarke 632Stewart, David K. and Keith Archer. Quasi-Democracy? Parties and Leadership Selection in Alberta. By Harold J. Jansen 634Adkin, Laurie E. Politics of Sustainable Development: Citizens, Unions and the Corporations. By Milton Fisk 635Gibson, Robert B., ed. Voluntary Initiatives. The New Politics of Corporate Greening. By Jean Mercier 637Vosko, Leah F. Temporary Work: The Gendered Rise of a Precarious Employment Relationship. By David Camfield 639Amar, Akhil Reed. The Bill of Rights: Creation and Reconstruction. By Matthew DeBell 640Kagan, Robert A. and Lee Axelrad, eds. Regulatory Encounters: Multinational Corporations and American Adversarial Legalism. By Susan Summers Raines 641Barbier, Maurice. La modernité politique. Par Jean-François Lessard 643Badie, Bertrand. The Imported State: The Westernization of the Political Order. By Geoff Martin 645Gill, Graeme. The Dynamics of Democratization: Elites, Civil Society and the Transition Process. By Daniel M. Brinks 646Gunther, Richard and Anthony Mughan, eds. Democracy and the Media: A Comparative Perspective. By Bartholomew Sparrow 648Klieman, Aharon. Compromising Palestine: A Guide to Final Status Negotiations. By Julie Trottier 650Huang, Jing. Factionalism in Chinese Communist Politics. By Chih-Yu Shih 652Kim, Samuel S., ed. Korea's Globalization. By Hoon Jaung Chung-Ang 654Powell, Jr., G. Bingham. Elections as Instruments of Democracy: Majoritarian and Proportional Visions. By Richard Johnston 655Tesh, Sylvia Noble. Uncertain Hazards: Environmental Activists and Scientific Proof. By William Chaloupka 657Watts, Ronald L. Comparing Federal Systems. By Michael Stein 658Eisenstadt, S. N. Paradoxes of Democracy; Fragility, Continuity, and Change. By Brian Donohue 660Castles, Stephen and Alastair Davidson. Citizenship and Migration: Globalization and the Politics of Belonging. By Triadafilos Triadafilopoulos 661Sidjanski, Dusan. The Federal Future of Europe: From European Community to the European Union. By Emmanuel Brunet-Jailly 663DeWiel, Boris. Democracy: A History of Ideas. By Florian Bail 664Newell, Waller R. Ruling Passion: The Erotics of Statecraft in Platonic Political Philosophy. By Andrew Hertzoff 666Hueglin, Thomas O. Early Modern Concepts for a Late Modern World: Althusius on Community and Federalism. By Phillip Hansen 668Slomp, Gabriella. Thomas Hobbes and the Political Philosophy of Glory. By Don Carmichael 670Thompson, Norma, ed. Instilling Ethics. By Gary K. Browning 671Boutwell, Jeffrey and Michael T. Klare, eds. Light Weapons and Civil Conflict: Controlling the Tools of Violence. By Kirsten E. Schulze 672Falk, Richard. Predatory Globalization: A Critique. By Stella Ladi 674Meyer, Mary K. and Elisabeth Prügl. Gender Politics in Global Governance. By Naomi Black 675

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My title comes from anthropologist Mary Douglas’ assertion that dirt, when understood as “matter out of place” simultaneously implies both the existence and the contravention of an established order or system and that this in turn establishes dirt as symbolic (35). Further, Phyllis Palmer has written that dirt is “a principal means to arrange culture” (139). This paper suggests both that dirt has a function in cultural constructions of gender and that action films featuring a female protagonist provide a fertile site for investigation. Normative white femininity traditionally eschews direct contact with dirt thus bringing into play interactions between work and gender. This article begins to question what it is that the appearance and disappearance of dirt signifies for the understanding of femininities in the particular cultural practice commonly recognised as action films. One need only observe advertisem*nts for cleaning products or compare shelf space taken up by personal hygiene items for men to that taken by similar items for women to understand the continuation of the gendered nature of cleanliness. Women are expected to keep not only the environment but themselves clean as a measure of their femininity. Indeed, obsessive cleanliness formed a part of Friedan’s feminine mystique. Not only must transgressive women such as the eponymous protagonists of Thelma and Louise die, but also they must die unwashed, driving a dirty car into a hole in the ground, being pursued by a dust cloud. Having trespassed on the masculine territory of self-defence and free movement this can be their only end. Linda Williams points out that all they are guilty of is of behaving “in the time-honoured tradition of most American heroes, violently and without reflection” (27). Further, the women who suicide into the Grand Canyon at the end of the film are distanced from the two in the bright, iconic, self portrait from the beginning and it is this shiny vision of femininity that was central to the film’s promotion. They have driven west, away from civilised society, ultimately facing e what “the western still tells us and what we still continue to buy…that reality is blood and dust and death and a cold wind blowing” (Tompkins 99). The signs of the exhausting exertion of sustained non-capitulation and the adherent grime of the road they have travelled are plain on their faces. Like Ripley, once they are truly fighting alone they begin to accumulate layers of dirt on their skin. Unlike Ripley they can neither return from their nightmare nor separate themselves from their actions. Relentlessly pursued, they cannot stop to wash off the dirt just as they cannot eschew responsibility for what they have done. They have become dressed in the dust of road, no longer on it but of it. Another discourse is in operation in conjunction with the gender skewing discourse of dirt. Whenever one addresses a change in the colour of skin one engages with the discourse of race. Audiences are conditioned by Hollywood cinema to view non-Anglos in film as a potential threat. The darkening of the hero’s skin by dirt renders him or her as a perpetrator of violent acts. When the necessity for violence is over the hero cleans up (whitens up) to return to society. I am thinking here of the heroes of Stallone’s Rambo and Willis’s Die Hard series who followed Ripley. As their actions became increasingly violent they become progressively filthier. Rambo in particular, it is suggested, becomes more ‘primal’. I am not suggesting that filth is an issue involving gender, race or class in a simple way. Rather, these three issues are, as in most cases, intricately intertwined here too. By the time Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley traversed her first revenge narrative, Alien (1979) through the frontier of space, I would suggest that dirt had become a marker of the gendered action hero. The character of Ellen Ripley was originally written as a man, writer and director Ridley Scott asserting in the DVD commentary that the script was left unchanged when Weaver was cast. In Alien, Ripley plays the part of film theorist Carol Clover’s Final Girl. Clover writes that in slasher/horror films the survivor begins as the pursued, feminised victim of a male oppressor but in her ultimate triumph occupies the position of the traditional masculine avenger (35-37, 158-59). That is, she saves herself. It was new, too, that this ground breaking female hero battled against the monstrous femininities of the alien and ‘Mother’, the ship’s computer, to survive. Marking Ripley’s transgression into the strictly gendered territory of the solitarily courageous, increasingly frequent close-ups of her grimy hands and sweat-drenched face fill the screen. Alien begins in the pristine white of the sleep chamber reflecting the mainstream science fiction convention that contrasts the absence of dirt in the artificial space environment of the space ship with planet-based presence of dirt. It is Ripley who refuses to let the scouting party back onto the ship citing contamination procedure, underlining cleanliness and purity as a cultural ideal with women as its gatekeepers. The film ends in the white escape pod where Ripley immediately strips to her underwear, discarding the soiled outer layer of clothing. After one last ‘unexpected’ confrontation Ripley is shown clean and further feminised by the silk robe she is wearing and the soothing motion of stroking the cat (the only other survivor) on her lap. As she records her report she reverts to the role of Chorus, setting her apart from the action. Finally she is seen once more inside a sleep chamber as she was in the beginning. Returning to the gendered confines of ‘civilisation’ she must wash off the (masculine) signs of her struggle and return to sleep as if it were all a nightmare. Through Rambo, Die Hard’s McClane and other male action heroes the begrimed body has arguably become a signifier not only of survival but also of persistence and courage in the face of tremendous odds. Persistence and courage are gendered values. Thus, I would argue, its signifier, the dirty body, is similarly gendered. In Alien, Ellen Ripley, having triumphed through survival, reinstates her femininity (signified by cleanliness) and returns home. Ripley’s actions have been unobserved, her battlefield contained and her enemy (she thinks) proven tangible and finite. Isolated in space and relieved of being the object of the male gaze within her narrative by the deaths of her colleagues Ripley is free to begin a new discourse (and to found a new, female action tradition). Instead she takes a shower. References Alien. Dir. Ridley Scott. Perf. Sigourney Weaver. 20th Century Fox, 1979. DVD. 20th Century Fox Home Video, 1999. Clover, Carol J. Men, Women, and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton UP, 1992. Douglas, Mary. Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. London: Ark Paperbacks, 1966. Palmer, Phyllis. Domesticity and Dirt: Housewives and Domestic Servants in the United States, 1920-1945. Philadelphia: Temple UP, 1989. Tompkins, Jane. “Language and Landscape: An Ontology for the Western.” Artforum 28.6 (1990): 94-9. Williams, Linda. “What Makes a Woman Wander.” Film Quarterly 45.2 (1991-2): 27-28. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Wical, Carol. "Matter Out of Place: Reading Dirty Women." M/C Journal 9.5 (2006). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0610/10-wical.php>. APA Style Wical, C. (Nov. 2006) "Matter Out of Place: Reading Dirty Women," M/C Journal, 9(5). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0610/10-wical.php>.

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This paper will discuss the way in which the creative component of my thesis Hannah’s Place uses a style of neo-historical fiction to find ‘good’ narratives in (once) ‘bad’ women, keeping with the theme, here paraphrased as: The work of any researcher in the humanities is to…challenge what is simply thought of as bad or good, to complicate essentialist categories and question passively accepted thinking. As a way of expanding this statement, I would like to begin by considering the following quote from Barthes on the nature of research. I believe he identifies the type of research that I have been involved with as a PhD candidate producing a ‘creative’ thesis in the field of Communications. What is a piece of research? To find out, we would need to have some idea of what a ‘result’ is. What is it that one finds? What is it one wants to find? What is missing? In what axiomatic field will the fact isolated, the meaning brought out, the statistical discovery be placed? No doubt it depends each time on the particular science approached, but from the moment a piece of research concerns the text (and the text extends very much further than the literary work) the research itself becomes text, production: to it, any ‘result’ is literally im-pertinent. Research is then the name which prudently, under the constraint of certain social conditions, we give to the activity of writing: research here moves on the side of writing, is an adventure of the signifier. (Barthes 198) My thesis sits within the theoretical framework of postmodern literature as a new form of the genre that has been termed ‘historical fiction’. Although the novel breaks away from and challenges the concept of the traditional ‘saga’ style of narrative, or ‘grand narrative’ within historical fiction, it is no less concerned with events of the past and the idea of past experience. It departs from traditional historical fiction in that it foregrounds not only an imagined fictional past world created when the novel is read, but also the actual archival documents, the pieces of text from the past from which traditional history is made, and which here have been used to create that world–‘sparking points’ for the fictional narrative. These archival documents are used within the work as intertextual elements that frame, and, in turn, are framed by the transworld characters’ hom*odiegetic narrations. The term ‘transworld character’ has been attributed to Umberto Eco and refers to any real world personages found within a fictional text. Eco defines it as the ‘identity of a given individual through worlds (transworld identity)…where the possible world is a possible state of affairs expressed by a set of relevant propositions [either true or untrue which] outlines a set of possible individuals along with their properties’ (219). Umberto Eco also considers that a problem of transworld identity is ‘to single out something as persistent through alternative states of affairs’ (230). In Postmodernist Fiction, Brian McHale also puts forward a number of definitions for ‘transworld identity’. For my purposes, I take it to mean both that defined by Eco but also the literary device, as defined by McHale, of ‘borrowing a character from another text’ (57). It is McHale who elaborates on the concept as it relates to historical fiction when he states: All historical novels, even the most traditional, typically involve some violation of ontological boundaries. For instance they often claim ‘transworld identity’ between characters in their projected worlds and real-world historical figures (16-17). Interestingly for the type of fiction that I am attempting to write, McHale also takes the idea into another area when he discusses the ontological levels of the historical dimension that transworld identities may undergo. Entities can change their ontological status in the course of history, in effect migrating from one ontological realm or level to another. For instance, real world entities and happenings can undergo ‘mythification’, moving from the profane realm to the realm of the sacred (36). For transworld identities, such as those within my novel, this may mean a change in status between the past, where they were stereotyped and categorised as ‘bad’ in contemporary newspapers (my intertext elements), to something in the present approaching ‘good’, or at least a more rounded female identity within a fictional world. The introduced textual elements which I foreground in my novel are those things most often hidden from view within the mimetic and hermeneutic worlds of traditional historical fiction. The sources re-textualised within my novel are both ‘real’ items from our past, and representations and interpretations of past events. The female transworld characters’ stories in this novel are imaginative re-interpretations. Therefore, both the fictional stories, as well as their sources, are textual interpretations of prior events. In this way, the novel plays with the idea of historical ‘fact’ and historical ‘fiction’. It blurs their boundaries. It gives textual equality to each in order to bring a form of textual agency to those marginalised groups defined by PF Bradley as the ‘host of jarring witnesses, [of history] a chaos of disjoined and discrepant narrations’ (Bradley in Holton 11): In the past in Australia these were lower class women, Aboriginals, the Irish, the illiterate, and poor agricultural immigrants whose labour was excess to Britain’s needs. Hannah’s Place – A Brief Synopsis Six individual women’s stories, embedded in or ‘framed’ by a fictional topographic artist’s journal, recount ‘real’ events from Australia’s colonial past. The journal is set in 1845; a few years after convict transportation to Australia’s eastern states ceased, and the year of the first art exhibition held in the colony. That same year, Leichhardt’s expedition arrived at Port Essington in Australia’s far north, after 12 months inland exploration, while in the far south the immigrant ship Cataraqui was wrecked one day short of arrival at Melbourne’s Port Phillip with the drowning of all but one of the 369 immigrants and 38 of the 46 sailors on board. Each chapter title takes the form of the title of a topographic sketch as a way of placing the text ‘visually’ within the artist’s journal narrative. The six women’s stories are: New South Wales at Last (Woman on a Boat): A woman arrives with a sick toddler to tent accommodation for poor immigrants in Sydney, after a three month sea voyage and the shipboard birth, death, and burial at sea of her baby daughter. Yarramundi Homestead, as Seen from the East: An ill-treated Irish servant girl on a squatter’s run awaits the arrival of her fiancée, travelling on board the immigrant ship Cataraqui. In the Vale of Hartley: In the Blue Mountains, an emancipist sawyer who previously murdered three people, violently beats to death his lover, Caroline Collitts, the seventeen-year-old sister of Maria, his fifteen-year-old wife. She Being Dead Yet Speaketh: In Goulburn, Annie Brownlow, a pretty 24-year-old mother of three is executed by a convict executioner for the accidental ‘murder’, while drunk, of her adulterous husband. The Eldest Daughter: The isolated wife of a small settler gives birth, assisted by Lottie, her eldest daughter, and Merrung, an Aboriginal midwife. On Wednesday Last, at Mr Ley’s Coach and Horses Hotel: In Bathurst, a vagrant alcoholic, Hannah Simpson, dies on the floor of a dodgy boarding house after a night and a day of falling into fits and ranting about her lifetime of 30 years migration. Historiographic Metafiction Has been defined by Linda Hutcheon as ‘Fiction which keeps distinct its formal auto-representation from its historical context and in so doing problematises the very possibility of historical knowledge… There is no reconciliation, no dialectic…just unresolved contradiction’ (106). Unresolved contradiction is one of the themes that surfaces in my novel because of the juxtaposition of archival documents (past text ‘facts’) alongside fictional narrative. Historiographic metafiction can usefully be employed as a means of challenging prior patriarchal narratives written about marginalised women. It allows the freedom to create a space for a new understanding of silenced women’s lives. My novel seeks to illuminate and problematise the previously ‘seamless’ genre of hical fiction by the use of (narrative) techniques such as: collage and juxtaposition, intertextuality, framing, embedded narrative, linked stories, and footnote intertext of archival material. Juxtaposition of the fiction against elements from prior non-fiction texts, clearly enunciated as being those same actual historical sources upon which the fiction is based, reinforces this novel as a work of fiction. Yet this strategy also reminds us that the historical narrative created is provisional, residing within the fictional text and in the gaps between the fictional text and the non-fictional intertext. At the same time, the clear narrativity, the suspenseful and sensationalised text of the archival non-fiction, brings them into question because of their place alongside the fiction. A reading of the novel questions the truthfulness or degree of reliability of past textual ‘facts’ as accurate records of real women’s life events. It does this by the use of a parallel narrative, which articulates characters whose moments of ‘breaking frame’ challenge those same past texts. Their ‘fiction’ as characters is reinforced by their existence as ‘objects’ of narration within the archival texts. Both the archival texts and the fiction can be seen as ‘unreliable’. The novel uses ex-centric transworld characters and embedded intertextual ‘fragments’ to create a covert self-reflexivity. It also confuses and disrupts narrative temporality and linearity of plot in two ways. It juxtaposes ‘real’ (intertextual element) dates alongside conflicting or unknown periods of time from the fictional narrative; and, within the artist’s journal, it has a minimal use of expected temporal ‘signposts’. These ‘signposts’ of year dates, months, or days of the week are those things that would be most expected in an authentic travel narrative. In this way, the women’s stories subvert the idea, inherent in previous forms of ‘historical’ fiction, of a single point of view or ‘take’ on history that one or two main characters may hold. The use of intertext results in a continued restating of multiple, conflicting (gender, race, and class) points of view. Ultimately no one ‘correct’ reading of the past gains in supremacy over any other. This narrative construct rearticulates the idea that the past, as does the present, comprises different points of view, not all of which conform to the ‘correct’ view created by the political, social and economic ‘factors’ dominant at the time those events happen. For colonial Australia, this single point of view gave us the myth of heroic (white male) pioneers and positioned women such as some of those within my fiction as ‘bad’. The fictional text challenges that of the male ‘gaze’, which constructed these women as ‘objects’. Examples of this from the newspaper articles are: A younger sister of Caroline Collit, married John Walsh, the convict at present under sentence of death in Bathurst gaol, and, it appears, continued to live with him up till the time of her sister’s murder; but she, as well as her sister Caroline, since the trial, have been ascertained to have borne very loose characters, which is fully established by the fact, that both before and after Walsh had married the younger sister, Caroline cohabited with him and had in fact been for a considerable time living with him, under the same roof with her sister, and in a state of separation from her own husband (Collit). Sydney Morning Herald, April 27, 1842, The Mount Victoria Murder. About twelve months after her marriage, her mother who was a notorious drunkard hanged herself in her own house… Sydney Morning Herald, April 27, 1842, The Mount Victoria Murder. And when we further reflect that the perpetrator of that deed of blood was a woman our horror is, if possible, much augmented. Yes! A woman and one who ought to have been in as much as the means were assuredly in the power of her family-an ornament to her sex and station. She has been cut off in the midst of her days by the hands of the common executioner. And to add to our distress at this sad event she to whose tragic end I am referring was a wife and a mother. It was her hand which struck the blow that rendered her children orphans and brought her to an ignominious end… The Goulburn Herald, October 20, 1855, Funeral sermon on Mary Ann Brownlow. His wife had been drinking and created an altercation on account of his having sold [her] lease; she asked him to drink, but he refused, when she replied “You can go and drink with your fancywoman”. She came after him as he was going away and stabbed him…..she did it from jealousy, although he had never given her any cause for jealousy. The Goulburn Herald, Saturday, September 15, 1855, Tuesday, September 11, Wilful Murder. She was always most obedient and quiet in her conduct, and her melancholy winning manners soon procured her the sympathy of all who came in contact with her. She became deeply impressed with the sinfulness of her previous life… The Goulburn Herald, October 13, 1855, Execution of Mary Ann Brownlow. [Police] had known the deceased who was a confirmed drunkard and an abandoned woman without any home or place of abode; did not believe she had any proper means of support…The Bathurst Times, November 1871. It is the oppositional and strong narrative ‘voice’ that elicits sympathies for and with the women’s situations. The fictional narratives were written to challenge unsympathetic pre-existing narratives found within the archival intertexts. This male ‘voice’ was one that narrated and positioned women such that they adhered to pre-existing notions of morality; what it meant to be a ‘good’ woman (like Mary Ann Brownlow, reformed in gaol but still sentenced to death) or a ‘bad’ woman (Mary Ann again as the murdering drunken vengeful wife, stabbing her husband in a jealous rage). ‘Reading between the lines’ of history in this way, creating fictional stories and juxtaposing them against the non-fiction prior articulations of those same events, is an opportunity to make use of narrative structure in order to destabilise established constructs of our colonial past. For example, the trope of Australia’s colonial settler women as exampled in the notion of Anne Summers of colonial women as either God’s police or damned whor*s. ‘A Particularly rigid dualistic notion of women’s function in colonial society was embodied in two stereotypes….that women are either good [God’s police] or evil [Damned whor*s]’ (67). With this dualism in mind, it is also useful here to consider the assumption made by Veeser in laying the ground work for New Historicism, that ‘no discourse imaginative or archival, gives access to unchanging truths or expresses unalterable human nature’ (2). In a discussion of the ideas of Brian McHale, Middleton and Woods acknowledge McHale’s point of view that readers do recognise the degree to which all knowledge of the past is a construction. They make the claim that ‘the postmodern novelist answers that sense of dislocation and loss…by wrapping ruins of earlier textualities around the narrative’ (66). This to my mind is a call for the type of intertextuality that I have attempted in my thesis. The senses of dislocation and loss found when we attempt to narrativise history are embodied in the structure of the creative component of my thesis. Yet it could also be argued that the cultural complexity of colonial Australia, with women as the subjugated ‘other’ of a disempowered voice has only been constructed by and from within the present. The ‘real’ women from whose lives these stories are imagined could not have perceived their lives within the frames (class, gender, post coloniality) that we now understand in the same way that we as educated westerners cannot totally perceive a tribal culture’s view of the cosmos as a real ‘fact’. However, a fictional re-articulation of historical ‘facts’, using a framework of postmodern neo-historical fiction, allows archival documents to be understood as the traces of women to whom those documented facts once referred. The archival record becomes once again a thing that describes a world of women. It is within these archival micro-histories of illiterate lower-class women that we find shards of our hidden past. By fictionally imagining a possible narrative of their lives we, as the author/reader nexus which creates the image of who these transworld characters were, allow for things that existed in the past as possibility. The fictionalised stories, based on fragments of ‘facts’ from the past, are a way of invoking what could have once existed. In this way the stories partake of the Bernstein and Morson concept of ‘sideshadowing’. Sideshadowing admits, in addition to actualities and impossibilities, a middle realm of real possibilities that could have happened even if they did not. Things could have been different from the way they were, there are real alternatives to the present we know, and the future admits of various possibilities… sideshadowing deepens our sense of the openness of time. It has profound implications for our understanding of history and of our own lives (Morson 6). The possibilities that sideshadowing their lives invokes in these stories ‘alters the way that we think about earlier events and the narrative models used to describe them’ (Morson 7). We alter our view of the women, as initially described in the archival record, because we now perceive the narrative through which these events and therefore ‘lives’ of the women were written, as merely ‘one possibility’ of many that may have occurred. Sideshadowing alternate possibilities gives us a way out of that patriarchal hegemony into a more multi-dimensional and non-linear view of female lives in 19th Century Australia. Sideshadowing allows for the ‘non-closure’ within female narratives that these fragments of women’s lives represent. It is this which is at the core of the novel—an historiographic metafictional challenging by the fictional ‘voices’ of female transworld characters. In this work, they narrate from a female perspective the might-have-been alternative of that previously considered as an historical, legitimate account of the past. Barthes and Bakhtin Readers of this type of historiographic metafiction have the freedom to recreate an historical fictional world. By virtue of the use of self-reflexivity and intertext they participate in a fictional world constructed by themselves from the author(s) of the text(s) and the intertext, and the original women’s voices used as quotations by the intertext’s (male) author. This world is based upon their construction of a past created from the author’s research, the author’s subjectivity (from within and by disciplinary discourse), by the author(s) choice of ‘signifiers’ and the meanings that these choices create within the reader’s subjectivity (itself formed out of their individual cultural and social milieu). This idea echoes Barthes concept of the ‘death of the author’, such that: As soon as a fact is narrated no longer with a view to acting directly on reality but intransitively, that is to say, finally outside of any function other than that of the very practice of the symbol itself; this disconnection occurs, the voice loses its origin, the author enters into his own death, writing begins. (142) When entering into the world created by this style of historical fiction the reader also enters into a world of previous ‘texts’ (or intertexts) and the multitude of voices inherent in them. This is the Bakhtinian concept of heteroglossia, that ‘every utterance contains within it the trace of other utterances, both in the past and in the future’ (263). The narrative formed thus becomes one of multiple ‘truths’ and therefore multiple histories. Once written as ‘bad’, the women are now perceived as ‘good’ characters and the ‘bad’ events that occurred around them and to them make up ‘good’ elements of plot, structure, characterisation and voice for a fictionalised version of a past possibility. Bad women make good reading. Conclusion This type of narrative structure allows for the limits of the silenced ‘voice’ of the past, and therefore an understanding of marginalised groups within hegemonic grand narratives, to be approached. It seems to me no surprise that neo-historical fiction is used more when the subjects written about are members of marginalised groups. Silenced voices need to be heard. Because these women left no written account of their experiences, and because we can never experience the society within which their identities were formed, we will never know their ‘identity’ as they experienced it. Fictional self-narrated stories of transworld characters allows for a transformation of the women away from an identity created by the moralising, stereotyped descriptions in the newspapers towards a more fully developed sense of female identity. Third-hand male accounts written for the (then) newspaper readers consumption (and for us as occupiers of the ‘future’) are a construct of one possible identity only. They do not reflect the women’s reality. Adding another fictional ‘identity’ through an imagined self-narrated account deconstructs that limited ‘identity’ formed through the male ‘gaze’. It does so because of the ability of fiction to allow the reader to create a fictional world which can be experienced imaginatively and from within their own subjectivity. Rather than something passively recorded, literature offers history as a permanent reactivation of the past in a critique of the present, and at the level of content offers a textual anamnesis for the hitherto ignored, unacknowledged or repressed pasts marginalised by the dominant histories. (Middleton and Woods 77) References Bakhtin, Mikhail. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays. Trans. Michael Holquist. Ed. Caryl Emerson. Austin: U of Texas P, 1981. Barthes, Roland, and Stephen Heath, eds. Image, Music, Text. New York: Hill and Wang, 1977. Eco, Umberto. The Role of the Reader: Explorations in the Semiotics of Texts. Bloomington and London: Indiana UP, 1979. Holton, Robert. Jarring Witnesses: Modern Fiction and the Representation of History. New York: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1994. Hutcheon, Linda. A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction. New York: Routledge, 1988. McHale, Brian. Postmodernist Fiction. New York and London: Methuen, 1987. Middleton, Peter, and Tim Woods. Literatures of Memory: History, Time and Space in Postwar Writing. Manchester and New York: Manchester UP, 2000. Morson, Gary Saul. Narrative and Freedom: The Shadows of Time. New Haven: Yale UP, 1994. Summers, Anne. Damned whor*s and God’s Police. Ringwood Vic: Penguin Books, 1994. Veeser, H. Aram. The New Historicism. London: Routledge, 1989. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Lowes, Elanna Herbert. "Transgressive Women, Transworld Women: The Once ‘Bad’ Can Make ‘Good’ Narratives." M/C Journal 8.1 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0502/04-herbertlowes.php>. APA Style Lowes, E. (Feb. 2005) "Transgressive Women, Transworld Women: The Once ‘Bad’ Can Make ‘Good’ Narratives," M/C Journal, 8(1). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0502/04-herbertlowes.php>.

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Since its return in 2005 the science fiction series Doctor Who (BBC1) has featured many alien creatures which bear a striking similarity to non-human Earth species: the Judoon in “Smith and Jones” (2007) have heads like rhinoceroses; the nurses in “New Earth” (2006) are cats in wimples; the Tritovores in “Planet of the Dead” (2009) are giant flies in boilersuits. Yet only one non-human animal has appeared twice in the series, in unrelated stories: the pig. Furthermore, alien races such as the Judoon and the Tritovores simply happen to look like human species, and the series offers no narrative explanation as to why such similarities exist. When the pig has appeared, however, it has instead been as the consequence of experimentation and mutation, and in both cases the appearance of such porcine hybrids is signalled as horrific, unsettling and, in the end, to be pitied. The fact that the pig has appeared in this way twice suggests there is something about the human understanding of this animal which means it can fulfil a role in fiction unavailable to other Earth species. The pig’s appearance has been in two stories, both two-parters. In “Aliens of London”/“World War Three” (2005) a spaceship crashes into London’s Thames river, and the pilot inside, thought to be dead, is sent to be scientifically examined. Alone in the laboratory, the pathologist Doctor Sato is startled to find the creature is alive and, during its attempt to escape, it is shot by the military. When the creature is examined The Doctor reveals it is “an ordinary pig, from Earth.” He goes on to explain that, “someone’s taken a pig, opened up its brain, stuck bits on, then they’ve strapped it in that ship and made it dive-bomb. It must have been terrified. They’ve taken this animal and turned it into a joke.” The Doctor’s concern over the treatment of the pig mirrors his earlier reprimand of the military for shooting it; as he cradles the dying creature he shouts at the soldier responsible, “What did you do that for? It was scared! It was scared.” On the commentary track for the DVD release of this episode Julie Gardner (executive producer) and Will Cohen (visual effects producer) note how so many people told them they had a significant emotional reaction to this scene, with Gardner adding, “Bless the pig.” In that sense, what begins as a moment of horror in the series becomes one of empathy with a non-human being, and the pig moves from being a creature of terror to one whose death is seen to be an immoral act. This movement from horror to empathy can be seen in the pig’s other appearance, in “Daleks in Manhattan”/“Evolution of the Daleks” (2007). Here the alien Daleks experiment on humans in order to develop the ability to meld themselves with Earthlings, in order to repopulate their own dwindling numbers. Humans are captured and then tested; as Laszlo, one of the outcomes of the experimentation, explains, “They’re divided into two groups: high intelligence and low intelligence. The low intelligence are taken to becomes Pig Slaves, like me.” These Pig Slaves look and move like humans except for their faces, which have prolonged ears and the pig signifier of a snout. At no point in the story is it made clear why experimentations on low intelligence humans should result in them looking like pigs, and a non-hybrid pig is not seen throughout the story. The appearance of the experiments’ results is therefore not narratively explained, and it does not draw on the fact that “in digestive apparatus and nutrient requirements pigs resemble humans in more ways than any mammal except monkeys and apes, which is why pigs are much in demand for [human] medical research” (Harris 70); indeed, considering the story is set in the 1930s such a justification would be anachronistic. The use of the pig, therefore, draws solely on its cultural, not its scientific, associations. These associations are complex, and the pig has been used to connote many things in Western culture. Children’s books such as The Sheep-Pig (King-Smith) and Charlotte’s Web (White) suggest the close proximity of humans and pigs can result in an affinity capable of communication. The use of pigs to represent Poles in Maus: A Survivor’s Tale (Spiegelman), on the other hand, has been read as offensive, drawing on the animal’s association with dirt and greed (Weschler). These depictions are informed by debates about pigs in the real world, whereby an animal which, as mentioned above, is similar enough to humans to be useful in medical research can also, for the food industry, go through a slaughtering process described by Bob Torres as “horribly cruel” (47). Such cruelty can only be justified if the boundaries between the pig and the human are maintained, and this is why pig-human representations are capable of being shocking and horrific. The hybrid nature of the human-pig creature draws on the horror trope that Noël Carroll refers to as “fusion” which works because it “unites attributes held to be categorically distinct” such as “inside/outside, living/dead, insect/human, flesh/machine” (43). He explains that this is why characters in horror narratives do not find such creatures simply fearful, but also “repellent, loathsome, disgusting, repulsive and impure” (54); their failure to conform to accepted cultural categories destabilises assumed norms and, perhaps most horrifically, undermines ‘the human’ as a stable, natural and superior category. As Donna Haraway notes, “‘The species’ often means the human race, unless one is attuned to science fiction, where species abound” (18). Science fiction therefore commonly plays with ideas of species because it is often interested in “the image of the scientist ‘playing god’” (Jones 51) and the horrific outcomes of “the total severing of scientific concerns from ethical concerns” (53). That the result of human/non-human experimentation should be regarded as horrific is evidence of the need to maintain the distinctions between humans and other creatures; after all, a pig/human can only be thought of as horrific if it as assumed that there is something unnatural about the destabilisation of the human category. And it is precisely the human which matters in this equation; it is not really as if anyone cares about the pig’s categorical stability in all of this. In both these stories, the appearance of the pig-creature is narratively structured to be surprising and shocking, and is withheld from the audience for as long as possible. The first appearance of a Pig Slave in “Daleks in Manhattan” constitutes that episode’s pre-credits cliff-hanger, with the creature appearing out of the shadows and bearing down upon the camera, directly towards the audience viewing at home. At this point, the audience has no idea why such a creature exists; the meaning of the pig-human hybrid is contained purely in its visual appearance, with the horrific fact of its contradictory appearance perhaps drawing on the pig’s historical association with evil and the Devil (Sillar and Meyler 82). Similarly, in “Aliens of London” we see Sato’s shocked reaction to the pig far earlier than we actually see the creature ourselves, and Sato’s scream is clearly intended to construct what we have yet to encounter as horrific. The Doctor’s search for the creature is similarly signalled, as he roams dimly-lit corridors trying to find it, following the trail of the grunts and noises that it makes. That the pig might constitute a horrific—or at least unsettling—site for humans is unsurprising considering the cultural roles it has often played. There is, after all, an “opposition between civilization and piggishness” (Ashley, Hollows, Jones and Taylor 2) in which (incorrect) assumptions about pigs’ filthy behaviour helps mark out humanity’s cleaner and more civilised way of living. While this is true of all human/non-human interactions, it is argued that the pig occupies a particular role within this system as it is a “familiar beast” (4) because for centuries it has been a domesticated animal which has often lived alongside humans, usually in quite close proximity. In that sense, humans and pigs are very similar. Demarcating the human as a stable and natural “conceptual category ... in which we place all members of our own species and from which we exclude all non-members” (Milton 265-66) has therefore required the denigration of non-humans, at least partly to justify the dominion humans have decided they have the right to hold over other creatures such as pigs. The difficulties in maintaining this demarcation can be seen in the documentary The Private Life of Pigs (BBC2 2010) in which the farmer Jimmy Docherty carries out a number of tests on animals in order to better understand the ‘inner life’ of the pig. Docherty acknowledges the pig’s similarity to humans in his introductory piece to camera; “When you look in their piggy little eyes with their piggy little eyelashes you see something that reflects back to you—I don’t know—it makes you feel there’s a person looking back.” However, this is quickly followed by a statement which works to reassert the human/non-human boundary; “I know we have this close relationship [with pigs], but I’m often reminded that just beneath the surface of their skin, they’re a wild animal.” Perhaps the most telling revelation in the programme is that pigs have been found to make certain grunting noises only when humans are around, which suggests they have developed a language for ‘interacting’ with humans. That Docherty is uncomfortably startled by this piece of information shows how the idea of communication troubles ideas of human superiority, and places pigs within a sphere hitherto maintained as strictly human. Of course, humans often willingly share domestic spaces with other species, but these are usually categorised as pets. The pet exists “somewhere between the wild animal and the human” (Fudge 8), and we often invest them with a range of human characteristics and develop relationships with such animals which are similar, but not identical, to those we have with other humans. The pig, however, like other food animals, cannot occupy the role afforded to the pet because it is culturally unacceptable to eat pets. In order to legitimise the treatment of the pig as a “strictly utilitarian object; a thing for producing meat and bacon” (Serpell 7) it must be distinguished from the human realm as clearly as possible. It is worth noting, though, that this is a culturally-specific process; Dwyer and Minnegal, for example, show how in New Guinea “pigs commonly play a crucial role in ceremonial and spiritual life” (37-8), and the pig is therefore simultaneously a wild animal, a source of food, and a species with which humans have an “attachment” (45-54) akin to the idea of a pet. Western societies commonly (though not completely) have difficulty uniting this range of animal categories, and analogous ideas of “civilization” often rest on assumptions about animals which require them to play specific, non-human roles. That hom*o sapiens define their humanity in terms of civilization is demonstrated by the ways in which ideas of brutality, violence and savagery are displaced onto other species, often quite at odds with the truth of such species’ behaviour. The assumption that non-human species are violent, and constitute a threat, is shown in Doctor Who; the pig is shot in “Aliens of London” for assumed security reasons (despite it having done nothing to suggest it is a threat), while humans run in fear from the Pig Slaves in “Evolution of the Daleks” purely because of their non-human appearance. Mary Midgley refers to this as “the Beast Myth” (38) by which humans not only reduce other species to nothing other than “incarnations of wickedness, … sets of basic needs, … crude mechanical toys, … [and] idiot children” (38), but also lump all non-human species together thereby ignoring the specificity of any particular species. Midgley also argues that “man shows more savagery to his own kind than most other mammal species” (27, emphasis in original), citing the need for “law or morality to restrain violence” (26) as evidence of the social structures required to uphold a myth of human civilization. In that sense, the use of pigs in Doctor Who can be seen as conforming to centuries-old depictions of non-human species, by which the loss of humanity symbolised by other species can be seen as the ultimate punishment. After all, when the Daleks’ human helper, Mr Diagoras, fears that the aliens are going to experiment on him, he fearfully exclaims, “What do you mean? Like those pig-men things? You’re not going to turn me into one of those? Oh, God, please don’t!” In the next episode, when all the Pig Slaves are killed by the actions of the Doctor’s companion Martha, she regrets her actions, only to be told, “No. The Daleks killed them. Long ago”, for their mutation into a ‘pig-man thing’ is seen to be a more significant loss of humanity than death itself. The scene highlights how societies are often “confused about the status of such interspecies beings” (Savulescu 25). Such confusion is likely to recur considering we are moving into a “posthumanist” age defined by the “decentering of the human” (Wolfe xv), whereby critiques of traditional cultural categories, alongside scientific developments that question the biological certainty of the human, result in difficulties in defining precisely what it is that is supposedly so special about hom*o sapiens. This means that it is far too easy to write off these depictions in Doctor Who as merely drawing on, and upholding, those simplistic and naturalised human/non-human distinctions which have been criticised, in a manner similar to sexism and racism, as “speciesist” (Singer 148-62). There is, after all, consistent sympathy for the pig in these episodes. The shooting of the pig in “Aliens of London” is outrageous not merely because it gives evidence of the propensity of human violence: the death of the pig itself is presented as worth mourning, in a manner similar to the death of any living being. Throughout the series the Doctor is concerned over the loss of life for any species, always aiming to find a non-violent method for solving conflicts and repeatedly berating other characters who resort to bloodshed for solutions. Indeed, the story’s narrative can be read as one in which the audience is invited to reassess its own response to the pig’s initial appearance, shifting from fear at its alien-ness to sympathy for its demise. This complication of the cultural meanings of pigs is taken even further in the two-part Dalek story. One of the key plots of the story is the relationship between Laszlo, who has been transmuted into a Pig Slave, and his former lover Tallulah. Tallulah spends much of the story thinking Laszlo has disappeared, when he has, in fact, gone into hiding, certain that she will reject him because of his post-experimentation porcine features. When they finally reunite, Laszlo apologises for what has happened to him, while Tallulah asks, “Laszlo? My Laszlo? What have they done to you?” At the end of the story they decide to try re-establishing their relationship, despite Laszlo’s now-complicated genetic make-up. In response to this Martha asks the Doctor, “Do you reckon it’s going to work, those two?” The Doctor responds that while such an odd pairing might be problematic pretty much anywhere else, as they were in New York they might just get away with it. He reflects, “That’s what this city’s good at. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, and maybe the odd Pig Slave Dalek mutant hybrid too.” While there is an obvious playfulness to this scene, with the programme foregrounding the kinds of narrative available to the science fiction genre, it is also clear that we are invited to find this a good narrative conclusion, a suitable resolution to all that has preceded it. In that sense, the pig and the human come together, dissolving the human/non-human divide at a stroke, and this is offered to the audience as something to be pleased about. In both narratives, then, the pig moves from being understood as alien and threatening to something if not quite identical to human, then certainly akin to it. Certainly, the narratives suggest that the lives, loves and concerns of pigs—even if they have been experimented upon—matter, and can constitute significant emotional moments in primetime mainstream family television. This development is a result of the text’s movement from an interest in the appearance of the pig to its status as a living being. As noted above, the initial appearances of the pigs in both stories is intended to be frightening, but such terror is dependent on understanding non-human species by their appearance alone. What both of these stories manage to do is suggest that the pig—like all non-human living things, whether of Earth or not—is more than its physical appearance, and via acknowledgment of its own consciousness, and its own sense of identity, can become something with which humans are capable of having sympathy; perhaps more than that, that the pig is something with which humans should have sympathy, for to deny the interior life of such a species is to engage in an inhuman act in itself. This could be seen as an interesting—if admittedly marginal—corrective to the centuries of cultural and physical abuse the pig, like all animals, has suffered. Such representations can be seen as evoking “the dreaded comparison” (Spiegel) which aligns maltreatment of animals with slavery, a comparison that is dreaded by societies because to acknowledge such parallels makes justifying humans’ abusive treatment of other species very difficult. These two Doctor Who stories repeatedly make such comparisons, and assume that to morally and emotionally distinguish between living beings based on categories of species is nonsensical, immoral, and fails to acknowledge the significance and majesty of all forms of life. That we might, as Gardner suggests, “Bless the pig”—whether it has had its brain stuffed full of wires or been merged with a human—points towards complex notions of human/non-human interaction which might helpfully destabilise simplistic ideas of the superiority of the human race. References Ashley, Bob, Joanne Hollows, Steve Jones and Ben Taylor. Food and Cultural Studies. London and New York: Routledge, 2004. Carroll, Noël. The Philosophy of Horror, or, Paradoxes of the Heart. New York and London: Routledge, 1990. Dwyer, Peter D. and Monica Minnegal. “Person, Place or Pig: Animal Attachments and Human Transactions in New Guinea.” Animals in Person: Cultural Perspectives on Human-Animal Intimacies. Ed. John Knight. Oxford and New York: Berg, 2005. 37-60. Fudge, Erica. Pets. Stocksfield: Acumen, 2008. Haraway, Donna J. When Species Meet. Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2008. Harris, Marvin. “The Abominable Pig.” Food and Culture: A Reader. Ed. Carole Counihan and Penny Van Esterik. New York and London: Routledge, 1997. 67-79. Jones, Darryl. Horror: A Thematic History in Fiction and Film. London: Arnold, 2002. King-Smith, Dick. The Sheep-Pig. London: Puffin, 1983. Midgley, Mary. Beast and Man. London and New York: Routledge, 1979/2002. Milton, Kay. “Anthropomorphism or Egomorphism? The Perception of Non-Human Persons by Human Ones.” Animals in Person: Cultural Perspectives on Human-Animal Intimacies. Ed. John Knight. Oxford and New York: Berg, 2005. 255-71. Savulescu, Julian. “Human-Animal Transgenesis and Chimeras Might be an Expression of our Humanity.” The American Journal of Bioethics 3.3 (2003): 22-5. Serpell, James. In the Company of Animals: A Study of Human-Animal Relationships. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Sillar, Frederick Cameron and Ruth Mary Meyler. The Symbolic Pig: An Anthology of Pigs in Literature and Art. Edinburgh and London: Oliver and Boyd, 1961. Singer, Peter. “All Animals are Equal.” Animal Rights and Human Obligations. Ed. Tom Regan and Peter Singer. New Jersey: Prentice-Hall, 1989. 148-62. Spiegel, Marjorie. The Dreaded Comparison: Human and Animal Slavery. London and Philadelphia: Heretic Books, 1988. Speigelman, Art. Maus: A Survivor’s Tale. New York: Pantheon Books, 1986/1991. Torres, Bob. Making a Killing: The Political Economy of Animal Rights. Edinburgh, Oakland and West Virginia: AK Press, 2007. Weschler, Lawrence. “Pig Perplex.” Lingua France: The Review of Academic Life 11.5 (2001): 6-8. White, E.B. Charlotte’s Web. London: Harper Collins, 1952. Wolfe, Cary. What is Posthumanism? Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2010.

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1. Make a list of things to do2. Copy list of things left undone from previous list3. Add items to list of new things needing to be done4. Add some of the things already done from previous list and immediately cross off so as to put off the feeling of an interminable list of never accomplishable tasks5. Finish writing list and sit back feeling an overwhelming sense of listlessnessIt started so well. Get up: make list: get on. But lists can breed listlessness. It can’t always be helped. The word “list” referring to a sequence of items comes from the Italian and French words for “strip”—as in a strip of material. The word “list” that you find in the compound “listlessness” comes from the old English word for pleasing (to list is to please and to desire). To be listless is to be without desire, without the desire to please. The etymologies of list and listless don’t correspond but they might seem to conspire in other ways. Oh, and by the way, ships can list when their balance is off.I list, like a ship, itemising my obligations to job, to work, to colleagues, to parenting, to family: write a reference for such and such; buy birthday present for eighty-year-old dad; finish article about lists – and so on. I forget to add to the list my necessary requirements for achieving any of this: keep breathing; eat and drink regularly; visit toilet when required. Lists make visible. Lists hide. I forget to add to my list all my worries that underscore my sense that these lists (or any list) might require an optimism that is always something of a leap of faith: I hope that electricity continues to exist; I hope my computer will still work; I hope that my sore toe isn’t the first sign of bodily paralysis; I hope that this heart will still keep beating.I was brought up on lists: the hit parade (the top one hundred “hit” singles); football leagues (not that I ever really got the hang of them); lists of kings and queens; lists of dates; lists of states; lists of elements (the periodic table). There are lists and there are lists. Some lists are really rankings. These are clearly the important lists. Where do you stand on the list? How near the bottom are you? Where is your university in the list of top universities? Have you gone down or up? To list, then, for some at least is to rank, to prioritise, to value. Is it this that produces listlessness? The sense that while you might want to rank your ten favourite films in a list, listing is something that is constantly happening to you, happening around you; you are always in amongst lists, never on top of them. To hang around the middle of lists might be all that you can hope for: no possibility of sudden lurching from the top spot; no urgent worries that you might be heading for demotion too quickly.But ranking is only one aspect of listing. Sometimes listing has a more flattening effect. I once worked as a cash-in-hand auditor (in this case a posh name for someone who counts things). A group of us (many of whom were seriously stoned) were bussed to factories and warehouses where we had to count the stock. We had to make lists of items and simply count what there was: for large items this was relatively easy, but for the myriad of miniscule parts this seemed a task for Sisyphus. In a power-tool factory in some unprepossessing town on the outskirts of London (was it Slough or Croydon or somewhere else?) we had to count bolts, nuts, washers, flex, rivets, and so on. Of course after a while we just made it up—guesstimates—as they say. A box of thousands of 6mm metal washers is a hom*ogenous set in a list of heterogeneous parts that itself starts looking hom*ogenous as it takes its part in the list. Listing dedifferentiates in the act of differentiating.The task of making lists, of filling-in lists, of having a list of tasks to complete encourages listlessness because to list lists towards exhaustiveness and exhaustion. Archives are lists and lists are often archives and archived. Those that work on lists and on archives constantly battle the fatigue of too many lists, of too much exhaustiveness. But could exhaustion be embraced as a necessary mood with which to deal with lists and archives? Might listlessness be something of a methodological orientation that has its own productivity in the face of so many lists?At my university there resides an archive that can appear to be a list of lists. It is the Mass-Observation archive, begun at the end of 1936 and, with a sizeable hiatus in the 1960s and 1970s, is still going today. (For a full account of Mass-Observation, see Highmore, Everyday Life chapter 6, and Hubble; for examples of Mass-Observation material, see Calder and Sheridan, and Highmore, Ordinary chapter 4; for analysis of Mass-Observation from the point of view of the observer, see Sheridan, Street, and Bloome. The flavour of the project as it emerges in the late 1930s is best conveyed by consulting Mass-Observation, Mass-Observation, First Year’s Work, and Britain.) It was begun by three men: the filmmaker Humphrey Jennings, the poet and sociologist Charles Madge, and the ornithologist and anthropologist-of-the-near Tom Harrisson. Both Jennings and Madge were heavily involved in promoting a form of social surrealism that might see buried forces in the coincidences of daily life as well as in the machinations and contingency of large political and social events (the abdication crisis, the burning of the Crystal Palace—both in late 1936). Harrisson brought a form of amateur anthropology with him that would scour football crowds, pub clientele, and cinema queues for ritualistic and symbolic forms. Mass-Observation quickly recruited a large group of voluntary observers (about a thousand) who would be “the meteorological stations from whose reports a weather-map of popular feeling can be compiled” (Mass-Observation, Mass-Observation 30). Mass-Observation combined the social survey with a relentless interest in the irrational and in what the world felt like to those who lived in it. As a consequence the file reports often seem banal and bizarre in equal measure (accounts of nightmares, housework routines, betting activities). When Mass-Observation restarted in the 1980s the surrealistic impetus became less pronounced, but it was still there, implicit in the methodology. Today, both as an on-going project and as an archive of previous observational reports, Mass-Observation lives in archival boxes. You can find a list of what topics are addressed in each box; you can also find lists of the contributors, the voluntary Mass-Observers whose observations are recorded in the boxes. What better way to give you a flavour of these boxes than to offer you a sample of their listing activities. Here are observers, observing in 1983 the objects that reside on their mantelpieces. Here’s one:champagne cork, rubber band, drawing pin, two hearing aid batteries, appointment card for chiropodist, piece of dog biscuit.Does this conjure up a world? Do we have a set of clues, of material evidence, a small cosmology of relics, a reduced Wunderkammer, out of which we can construct not the exotic but something else, something more ordinary? Do you smell camphor and imagine antimacassars? Do you hear conversations with lots of mishearing? Are the hearing aid batteries shared? Is this a single person living with a dog, or do we imagine an assembly of chiropodist-goers, dog-owners, hearing aid-users, rubber band-pingers, champagne-drinkers?But don’t get caught imagining a life out of these fragments. Don’t get stuck on this list: there are hundreds to get through. After all, what sort of an archive would it be if it included a single list? We need more lists.Here’s another mantelpiece: three penknives, a tube of cement [which I assume is the sort of rubber cement that you get in bicycle puncture repair kits], a pocket microscope, a clinical thermometer.Who is this? A hypochondriacal explorer? Or a grown-up boy-scout, botanising on the asphalt? Why so many penknives? But on, on... And another:1 letter awaiting postage stamp1 diet book1 pair of spare spectacles1 recipe for daughter’s home economics1 notepad1 pen1 bottle of indigestion tablets1 envelope containing 13 pence which is owed a friend1 pair of stick-on heels for home shoe repairing session3 letters in day’s post1 envelope containing money for week’s milk bill1 recipe cut from magazine2 out of date letters from schoolWhat is the connection between the daughter’s home economics recipe and the indigestion tablets? Is the homework gastronomy not quite going to plan? Or is the diet book causing side-effects? And what sort of financial stickler remembers that they owe 13p; even in 1983 this was hardly much money? Or is it the friend who is the stickler? Perhaps this is just prying...?But you need more. Here’s yet another:an ashtray, a pipe, pipe tamper and tobacco pouch, one decorated stone and one plain stone, a painted clay model of an alien, an enamelled metal egg from Hong Kong, a copper bracelet, a polished shell, a snowstorm of Father Christmas in his sleigh...Ah, a pipe smoker, this much is clear. But apart from this the display sounds ritualistic – one stone decorated the other not. What sort of religion is this? What sort of magic? An alien and Santa. An egg, a shell, a bracelet. A riddle.And another:Two 12 gauge shotgun cartridges live 0 spread Rubber plantBrass carriage clockInternational press clock1950s cigarette dispenser Model of Panzer MKIV tankWWI shell fuseWWI shell case ash tray containing an acorn, twelve .22 rounds of ammunition, a .455 Eley round and a drawing pinPhoto of Eric Liddell (Chariots of Fire)Souvenir of Algerian ash tray containing marbles and beach stonesThree 1930s plastic duck clothes brushesLetter holder containing postcards and invitations. Holder in shape of a cow1970s Whizzwheels toy carWooden box of jeweller’s rottenstone (Victorian)Incense holderWorld war one German fuse (used)Jim Beam bottle with candle thereinSol beer bottle with candle therein I’m getting worried now. Who are these people who write for Mass-Observation? Why so much military paraphernalia? Why such detail as to the calibrations? Should I concern myself that small militias are holding out behind the net curtains and aspidistra plants of suburban England?And another:1930s AA BadgeAvocado PlantWooden cat from Mexico*kahlua bottle with candle there in1950s matchbook with “merry widow” co*cktail printed thereonTwo Britain’s model cannonOne brass “Carronade” from the Carron Iron Works factory shopPhotography pass from Parkhead 12/11/88Grouse foot kilt pinBrass incense holderPheasant featherNovitake cupBlack ash tray with beach pebbles there inFull packet of Mary Long cigarettes from HollandPewter co*cktail shaker made in ShanghaiI’m feeling distance. Who says “there in” and “there on?” What is a Novitake cup? Perhaps I wrote it down incorrectly? An avocado plant stirs memories of trying to grow one from an avocado stone skewered in a cup with one “point” dunked in a bit of water. Did it ever grow, or just rot? I’m getting distracted now, drifting off, feeling sleepy...Some more then – let’s feed the listlessness of the list:Wood sculpture (Tenerife)A Rubber bandBirdJunior aspirinToy dinosaur Small photo of daughterSmall paint brushAh yes the banal bizarreness of ordinary life: dinosaurs and aspirins, paint brushes and rubber bands.But then a list comes along and pierces you:Six inch piece of grey eyeliner1 pair of nail clippers1 large box of matches1 Rubber band2 large hair gripsHalf a piece of cough candy1 screwed up tissue1 small bottle with tranquillizers in1 dead (but still in good condition) butterfly (which I intended to draw but placed it now to rest in the garden) it was already dead when I found it.The dead butterfly, the tranquillizers, the insistence that the mantelpiece user didn’t actually kill the butterfly, the half piece of cough candy, the screwed up tissue. In amongst the rubber bands and matches, signs of something desperate. Or maybe not: a holding on (the truly desperate haven’t found their way to the giant tranquillizer cupboard), a keeping a lid on it, a desire (to draw, to place a dead butterfly at rest in the garden)...And here is the methodology emerging: the lists works on the reader, listing them, and making them listless. After a while the lists (and there are hundreds of these lists of mantle-shelf items) begin to merge. One giant mantle shelf filled with small stacks of foreign coins, rubber bands and dead insects. They invite you to be both magical ethnographer and deadpan sociologist at one and the same time (for example, see Hurdley). The “Martian” ethnographer imagines the mantelpiece as a shrine where this culture worships the lone rubber band and itinerant button. Clearly a place of reliquary—on this planet the residents set up altars where they place their sacred objects: clocks and clippers; ammunition and amulets; coins and pills; candles and cosmetics. Or else something more sober, more sombre: late twentieth century petite-bourgeois taste required the mantelpiece to hold the signs of aspirant propriety in the form of emblems of tradition (forget the coins and the dead insects and weaponry: focus on the carriage clocks). And yet, either way, it is the final shelf that gets me every time. But it only got me, I think, because the archive had worked its magic: ransacked my will, my need to please, my desire. It had, for a while at least, made me listless, and listless enough to be touched by something that was really a minor catalogue of remainders. This sense of listlessness is the way that the archive productively defeats the “desire for the archive.” It is hard to visit an archive without an expectation, without an “image repertoire,” already in mind. This could be thought of as the apperception-schema of archival searching: the desire to see patterns already imagined; the desire to find the evidence for the thought whose shape has already formed. Such apperception is hard to avoid (probably impossible), but the boredom of the archive, its ceaselessness, has a way of undoing it, of emptying it. It corresponds to two aesthetic positions and propositions. One is well-known: it is Barthes’s distinction between “studium” and “punctum.” For Barthes, studium refers to a sort of social interest that is always, to some degree, satisfied by a document (his concern, of course, is with photographs). The punctum, on the other hand, spills out from the photograph as a sort of metonymical excess, quite distinct from social interest (but for all that, not asocial). While Barthes is clearly offering a phenomenology of viewing photographs, he isn’t overly interested (here at any rate) with the sort of perceptional-state the viewer might need to be in to be pierced by the puntum of an image. My sense, though, is that boredom, listlessness, tiredness, a sort of aching indifference, a mood of inattentiveness, a sense of satiated interest (but not the sort of disinterest of Kantian aesthetics), could all be beneficial to a punctum-like experience. The second aesthetic position is not so well-known. The Austrian dye-technician, lawyer and art-educationalist Anton Ehrenzweig wrote, during the 1950s and 1960s, about a form of inattentive-attention, and a form of afocal-rendering (eye-repelling rather than eye-catching), that encouraged eye-wandering, scanning, and the “‘full’ emptiness of attention” (Ehrenzweig, The Hidden Order 39). His was an aesthetics attuned to the kind of art produced by Paul Klee, but it was also an aesthetic propensity useful for making wallpaper and for productively connecting to unconscious processes. Like Barthes, Ehrenzweig doesn’t pursue the sort of affective state of being that might enhance such inattentive-attention, but it is not hard to imagine that the sort of library-tiredness of the archive would be a fitting preparation for “full emptiness.” Ehrenzweig and Barthes can be useful for exploring this archival mood, this orientation and attunement, which is also a disorientation and mis-attunement. Trawling through lists encourages scanning: your sensibilities are prepared; your attention is being trained. After a while, though, the lists blur, concentration starts to loosen its grip. The lists are not innocent recipients here. Shrapnel shards pull at you. You start to notice the patterns but also the spaces in-between that don’t seem to fit sociological categorisations. The strangeness of the patterns hypnotises you and while the effect can generate a sense of sociological-anthropological hom*ogeneity-with-difference, sometimes the singularity of an item leaps out catching you unawares. An archive is an orchestration of order and disorder: however contained and constrained it appears it is always spilling out beyond its organisational structures (amongst the many accounts of archives in terms of their orderings, see Sekula, and Stoler, Race and Along). Like “Probate Inventories,” the mantelpiece archive presents material objects that connect us (however indirectly) to embodied practices and living spaces (Evans). The Mass-Observation archive, especially in its mantelpiece collection, is an accretion of temporalities and spaces. More crucially, it is an accumulation of temporalities materialised in a mass of spaces. A thousand mantelpieces in a thousand rooms scattered across the United Kingdom. Each shelf is syncopated to the rhythms of diverse durations, while being synchronised to the perpetual now of the shelf: a carriage clock, for instance, inherited from a deceased parent, its brass detailing relating to a different age, its mechanism perpetually telling you that the time of this space is now. The archive carries you away to a thousand living rooms filled with the momentary (dead insects) and the eternal (pebbles) and everything in-between. Its centrifugal force propels you out to a vast accrual of things: ashtrays, rubber bands, military paraphernalia, toy dinosaurs; a thousand living museums of the incidental and the memorial. This vertiginous archive threatens to undo you; each shelf a montage of times held materially together in space. It is too much. It pushes me towards the mantelshelves I know, the ones I’ve had a hand in. Each one an archive in itself: my grandfather’s green glass paperweight holding a fragile silver foil flower in its eternal grasp; the potions and lotions that feed my hypochondria; used train tickets. Each item pushes outwards to other times, other spaces, other people, other things. It is hard to focus, hard to cling onto anything. Was it the dead butterfly, or the tranquillizers, or both, that finally nailed me? Or was it the half a cough-candy? I know what she means by leaving the remnants of this sweet. You remember the taste, you think you loved them as a child, they have such a distinctive candy twist and colour, but actually their taste is harsh, challenging, bitter. There is nothing as ephemeral and as “useless” as a sweet; and yet few things are similarly evocative of times past, of times lost. Yes, I think I’d leave half a cough-candy on a shelf, gathering dust.[All these lists of mantelpiece items are taken from the Mass-Observation archive at the University of Sussex. Mass-Observation is a registered charity. For more information about Mass-Observation go to http://www.massobs.org.uk/]ReferencesBarthes, Roland. Camera Lucida. Translated by Richard Howard. London: Fontana, 1984.Calder, Angus, and Dorothy Sheridan, eds. Speak for Yourself: A Mass-Observation Anthology 1937–1949. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1985.Ehrenzweig, Anton. The Psychoanalysis of Artistic Vision and Hearing: An Introduction to a Theory of Unconscious Perception. Third edition. London: Sheldon Press, 1965. [Originally published in 1953.]---. The Hidden Order of Art. London: Paladin, 1970.Evans, Adrian. “Enlivening the Archive: Glimpsing Embodied Consumption Practices in Probate Inventories of Household Possessions.” Historical Geography 36 (2008): 40-72.Highmore, Ben. Everyday Life and Cultural Theory. London: Routledge, 2002.---. Ordinary Lives: Studies in the Everyday. Abingdon: Routledge, 2011.Hubble, Nick. Mass-Observation and Everyday Life: Culture, History, Theory, Houndmills and New York: Palgrave, 2006.Hurdley, Rachel. “Dismantling Mantelpieces: Narrating Identities and Materializing Culture in the Home.” Sociology 40, 4 (2006): 717-733Mass-Observation. Mass-Observation. London: Fredrick Muller, 1937.---. First Year’s Work 1937-38. London: Lindsay Drummond, 1938.---. Britain. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1939.Sekula, Allan. “The Body and the Archive.” October 39 (1986): 3-64.Sheridan, Dorothy, Brian Street, and David Bloome. Writing Ourselves: Mass-Observation and Literary Practices. Cresskill, New Jersey: Hampton Press, 2000.Stoler, Ann Laura. Race and the Education of Desire: Foucault’s History of Sexuality and the Colonial Order of Things. Durham and London: Duke UP, 1995. Stoler, Ann Laura. Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense. Princeton: Princeton UP, 2009.

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I hate being misunderstood. I guess we all do, but it goes with the territory. I use the word coloured, and he seems offended: 'We Brits don't say 'coloured'. It's regarded as patronising. We say black, if we say anything. And if we do it's for reasons of simple practicality. It doesn't matter. ' Of course, what he seems to be missing, is that the word coloured in South Africa now refers less to skin colour, and more to a distinct cultural group, with it's own language (a dialect of Afrikaans), food (of Malay origin), and music. To say black in this context would be inaccurate, and cause confusion. Danya and Kyla attend the Yeoville Community School, situated in a vibrant and culturally diverse suburb of Johannesburg. On returning from school one day Danya announces: 'We have to do something at school about our culture. What is our culture Daddy?'To which her father replies, 'Go and ask your mother.' 'Well…we're sort of New Age, sort of holistic…', Toni fumbles. A few days later… 'So what did you do in the end?' Soli asks. 'Oh, us and all the other coloured kids sang, Daar Kom die Alabama'1 says Kyla. It would seem that children want to know where they come from. 'I want you to divide yourself up into your different race groups', the facilitator says. We are in a Managing Diversity workshop, and he means the old South African race classification system, but of course he wants to see what we do with it. We end up with a group of Blacks (including three 'Asians'); an African group (including two 'Whites'); a White group (two); and the Human Race (two).'Why didn't you join the white group?' Thloki asks the Human Race.'I don't define myself by my race', I reply.'Ha! Wait till there's a war over resources' he laughs, 'then you'll quickly pick a side!' The postmodernist argument ensues: 'There is no such thing as race…all these arbitrary classifications…it's nothing but a social construct!''Well you never lived as a black person under apartheid. It was very real to me!'The facilitator aims to mediate/translate for the rest of us: 'Well yes, it is just a social construct. But one which had very real consequences for people.' 'Nobody goes into town anymore' a woman says. To which Har Bhajan replies, 'When I was last in town, there were lots of people there.' Of course, what she means is, hardly any white people go into town anymore. (And she's right about that.) But what is that, the way certain people become invisible, depending on who's looking? My friend Karima and I attend an Al Jarreau concert. Fairly expensive tickets, and almost the entire audience is black. I'm not sure why I'm quite so surprised. But this is Sandton, the richest formerly white suburb of Johannesburg. Perhaps working in the NGO sector I've missed how much things are actually changing… I wonder how many people in the audience have been into town lately. With the shift in power, and the -- albeit slow -- levelling of the playing field, now it is possible for white South Africans to be at the receiving end of racial discrimination too… I am visiting my cousin. He is 60, and a musician. But times are tough for him now. His brother was shot dead in his driveway while someone stole his car. And it's hard for him to find work. 'I am too white, now', he says. He is not bitter, just saddened. In his day he had probably the most famous jazz club in Johannesburg. Rumours it was called. 'The best little bootlegger in Bellevue' he called himself. He was known for breaking the law then. His club was racially integrated long before it was allowed. Controversial South African artist, Beezy Bailey, has an alter ego: 'The creation of Joyce was born of the frustration of 'increasingly prevalent affirmative action'. Bailey submitted two artworks for a triennial exhibition. One was with the traditional 'Beezy Bailey' signature (rejected) the other signed 'Joyce Ntobe'! The latter now enjoys an honoured place in the SA National Gallery as part of its permanent collection. When the curator of the SA National Gallery wanted to work on a paper about three black women artists, Joyce Ntobe being one, Bailey let the cat out the bag which caused a huge media 'scandale'.' (Carmel Art) I spent three months in London, and I realised how easy it is to be white there. Or rather, how easy it is to not be white. Of course, it 'doesn't matter' there, because it doesn't matter. It's easy to donate a monthly cheque to Worldvision, and read about the latest chaos in Zimbabwe in the free rag on the tube, and never have to look overwhelming poverty and disease in the face. But when you live on the African continent, you are very aware of being white. At the diversity workshop, I realise how white South Africans seem to get to take the rap here for the actions of white people on the planet. It's not just the effects of apartheid that black South Africans are angry about it seems, it's also the effects of the global economy, that cause the rich to become richer, and the poor to become poorer. Oh sure, that's not just an issue of race, but the poorest on our planet remain 'people of colour', and wealth remains concentrated in the West/North. I realise also that the Black and African groups at the workshop have one thing that they agree on quite strongly - the importance of making the African continent one's focus. Though the two of us in the Human Race group have both read Naomi Klein's No Logo -- and care about the effects on the poor of economic globalisation -- our sense of 'internationalism' is not viewed in a positive light, but seen rather as 'elitist'. * * * 'The thing about the Dutch' says Gary, 'is that they're pragmatic. They're not politically correct -- call the prostitutes prostitutes, not sex workers, but tax them, and give them health care. They have a strong human rights culture.' The Afrikaners are descendents of these transparent, curtainless Dutch. Sometimes I can see it. 'It is not words that make for bigotry, but attitudes', says columnist Ira Pilgrim. 'Some of the most bigoted people I have known always used the 'correct' words.'2 I am not politically correct. There are certain words I'd never use, and couldn't bring myself to, not out of political correctness, but because they're invested with hate. But words like 'whitey', darkie' and 'honky', where I sit, are terms of endearment. I'd never use them on strangers, but amongst friends, they're terms of affection and irony, because we're laughing at ourselves, and each other. 'It's hard to explain to anyone' Gary continues, 'what it's like living in a place where -- from the time you wake up in the morning, till you close your eyes at night -- every breath that you take is politicised.' Gary left the country because he didn't want to be conscripted to fight a war he didn't believe in. He's done well for himself in Europe. But he had to give up his homeland. I catch a 'Zola', the mini-bus taxi named after South Africa's barefoot runner Zola Budd, probably most famous for inadvertently tripping Mary Decker at the 1984 Olympics (Finnegan). Zola was little and fast, like the taxi's that 'zip, zip, zip' -- often to the infuriation of other motorists -- hence the affectionate nickname. They're the peril of the road, but the saviour of the immobile masses, with their unique language and hand signals. I overhear bits of Zulu conversation, including 'Brooke…Ridge…Thorne.' Our soaps, too, are politicised. It would seem that even black South Africans watch The Bold and the Beautiful for light relief. Usually I am the only whitey here, but accepted as just another carless commuter moving from A to B. Despite the safety risks of bad driving, I enjoy it. I did a Zulu course a few years ago. I didn't learn much Zulu -- discovered I don't have the tongue or an ear for African languages -- but I learnt a lot from the course nevertheless. 'Tell us about an experience that you've had, that was a result of cultural misunderstandings' says the facilitator. 'I spent much of my first year at University hungry' says Nhlanhla. 'My white friends would offer me food when I was visiting, but I would refuse, because in our culture, if you ask you don't really want to give. We just hand you a plate.' Nombulelo tells of the time she went on a yoga retreat. She was confused when she started to undress openly in the dormitory, and got disapproving looks from the other women. 'Why?' she wondered, 'we are all women together?' But these were Hindu women, whose sense of modesty was different from the openness of African women. For the whiteys, the major confusion seems to come from the issue of timekeeping. 'African time' is often referred to. Though in London, I did hear talk of 'Caribbean time'. Perhaps the concept of being on time is a particularly Western one (Makhale-Mahlangu). We are visiting friends of friends. There's an unlikely combination at the dinner table. She is tall and dark. I am short and fair. 'So where do you two know each other from?' Cairo asks. 'I'm Andie's sister', Kim replies. She reads the dumbfoundedness in Cairo's face. 'What can I say…my line got a bit deviated!' she laughs. She has my father's sense of humour. So have I. I ask my father, when he first became aware of racial prejudice. 'I was about six years old', he says. 'I threw my ball out of the school grounds, and called to the black man outside: 'Boy, please would you throw my ball back to me?' And the man replied: 'I am not a boy. I am old enough to be your grandfather.'' I am thinking about the time in our lives before we become aware of race… A friend tells me a story about how her six-year-old daughter came home from school and asked, 'Mommy, what's a [racist-term-not-to-be-repeated]?' She'd been called that. The late Lenny Bruce, controversial American comedian and social critic in the sixties, argued that it is 'the word that gives it the power of violence'3, and if we used 'the words' colloquially often enough, and began to invest them with new meanings, they would lose their power to hurt us. I am about to board a bus…'Woza (come) Mama', says the driver. 'Uyaphi?' (Where are you going?) '…green green, I'm going away to where the grass is greener still', come the Reggae sounds from his radio. We are discussing whether we should be focusing on our sameness or our differences. 'Of course we all want the same things…a home, a job, an education for our children', says Karima, but it's our differences that make us interesting.' I agree. Notes 1 Daar Kom die Alabama (Here Comes the Alabama) is a traditional 'Cape Coloured' song, originally sung in tribute to the Alabama, a confederate ship that docked in Cape Town in 1863. On board were Al Jolson-esque (Burlesque) performers, whom the slaves admired, and they imitated their style of performance. This tradition continues still today with the 'Coon Carnival' held on New Years Day and 'Tweede Nuwe Jaar' (Second New Year). It is said that the custom of Tweede Nuwe Jaar originated as a holiday for the slaves, who were too busy attending to their masters' needs on the first. For more information on the Coon Carnival, see http://www.iias.nl/host/ccrss/cp/cp3/cp3-__171___.html. 2 While the author makes some important general points about the drawbacks of political correctness, his reference to South Africa (including the correction) are in fact incorrect. The apartheid government had four major 'population groups' in it's classification system: African (black), Coloured, Asian and White. (The term black was used then only informally.) These were then sub-divided into other categories. See http://www.csvr.org.za/race.htm for further details. 3 The relevant extract from Julian Barry's 1971 play Lenny, can be found at http://www.abc.net.au/rn/talks/8.30/relrpt/stories/s271585.htm. References Barry, Julian. Lenny. Random House, 1971. http://www.freenetpages.co.uk/hp/lennybruce/ Downloaded 14 April 2002. Carmel Art Galleries. Beezy Bailey Curriculum Vitae, at http://www.carmelart.co.za/site/cvbb.htm Downloaded 14 April 2002. Finnegan, Mark. 'The 10 worst mishaps in the history of sport.' Observer Sport Monthly 5 November (2000). http://www.observer.co.uk/osm/story/0,69... Downloaded 14 April 2002. Klein, Naomi. No Logo: Taking Aim at the Brand Bullies. USA: Picador, 2000. http://www.nologo.org/ Downloaded 14 April 2002. Makhale-Mahlangu, Palesa. 'Reflections on Trauma Counselling Methods.' Seminar presented at the Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation, Johannesburg, 31 July 1996. http://www.csvr.org.za/articles/artpales.htm Downloaded 14 April 2002. Martin, Denis-Constant. 'The Famous Invincible Darkies Cape Town's Coon Carnival: Aesthetic Transformation, Collective Representations and Social Meanings', 1998. http://www.iias.nl/host/ccrss/cp/cp3/cp3-__171___.html Downloaded 14 April 2002. Pilgrim, Ira. 'Kikes, nigg*rs, Queers, Scotchmen and Chinamen', Mendocino County Observer, 22 March (1990). http://www.mcn.org/c/irapilgrim/race02.html Downloaded 14 April 2002. Transfer of African Language Knowledge (TALK). http://www.icon.co.za/~sadiverse/about.htm Downloaded 14 April 2002. Andie Miller was born, and spent the first 23 years of her life at the Southern-most tip of the African continent, in Cape Town. She currently works as webmaster for the Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation, and the National Development Agency in Johannesburg, South Africa. Links http://www.observer.co.uk/osm/story/0 http://www.iias.nl/host/ccrss/cp/cp3/cp3-__171___.html http://www.carmelart.co.za/site/cvbb.htm http://www.csvr.org.za/ http://www.abc.net.au/rn/talks/8.30/relrpt/stories/s271585.htm http://www.csvr.org.za/articles/artpales.htm http://www.nologo.org/ http://www.mcn.org/c/irapilgrim/race02.html http://www.freenetpages.co.uk/hp/lennybruce/ http://www.icon.co.za/~sadiverse/about.htm http://www.csvr.org.za/race.htm http://www.nda.org.za/ Citation reference for this article MLA Style Miller, Andie. "Multiculturalism and Shades of Meaning in the New South Africa" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.3 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0207/shadesofmeaning.php>. Chicago Style Miller, Andie, "Multiculturalism and Shades of Meaning in the New South Africa" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 3 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0207/shadesofmeaning.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Miller, Andie. (2002) Multiculturalism and Shades of Meaning in the New South Africa. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(3). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0207/shadesofmeaning.php> ([your date of access]).

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Abstract:

"The Krell forgot one thing: monsters from the id." -- Warren Stevens (as Doc Ostrow), Forbidden Planet "What a mistake to have ever said the id. Everywhere it is machines -- real ones, not figurative ones: machines driving other machines, machines being driven by other machines, with all the necessary couplings and connections." -- Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, Anti-Oedipus (1) In conversation with Michel Foucault in 1972, Gilles Deleuze agreed with the principle of collapsing the distinction between "theory" and "practice," by stating the following: A theory is exactly like a box of tools. It has nothing to do with the signifier. It must be useful. It must function. And not for itself. If no one uses it, beginning with the theoretician himself [sic] ... then the theory is worthless or the moment is inappropriate. We don't revise a theory, but construct new ones; we have no choice but to make others. (Language, Counter-Memory, Practice 208) Reading this, I wonder if Deleuze had in mind his recent collaborative work with Félix Guattari, which was to be published as L'Anti-Oedipe in the same year. In particular, I wonder whether he was using the language of the pragmatist to reflect upon the utility of his own recent theoretical activity -- that is, reflecting upon the theory of the machine (the cornerstone upon which Anti-Oedipus bases its argument) as a "tool". In this sense, using Deleuze's own words, the theory of the machine as it is mapped out in Anti-Oedipus has proven to be "worthless", or at least not of an appropriate moment. Certainly, Deleuze and Guattari have subsequently constructed other theories (such as those of the "assemblage", the "rhizome", or "nomadology") that the critical community has been more eager to discuss. Yet Guattari recently revisited the deleuzo-guattarian theory of the machine in Chaosmosis, as if he had never wanted to let go of this idea: to discern various levels of ontological intensity and envisage machinism in its totality, in its technological, social, semiotic and axiological avatars. And this will involve a reconstruction of the concept of machine that goes far beyond the technical machine. (34) The difficulty remains, of course, in trying to gain access to a concept of machine that is beyond the realm of the technical. How can we use a concept of machine that claims to go beyond the concept of utility (or techné, the function of technical machines)? Part of the problem, as I see it, is that this concept insists that "everything is a machine" (Anti-Oedipus 2) not figuratively or metaphorically, but literally, although this is a claim that cannot be demonstrated without in the first instance having the technical machines as a key frame of reference. It is thus difficult to demonstrate what a deleuzo-guattarian machine "looks like" unless we refer to mechanical apparatuses. What I hope to do here is provide another frame of reference, which might enable some of this difficulty to be removed. My suggestion is that a "useful" text for demonstrating the deleuzo-guattarian machine is the 1956 MGM film Forbidden Planet. Utility will be measured here by the degree in which we use the concept of machine to read this film, and by the degree to which this reading allows us to provide greater clarity to the concept of machine. For those unfamiliar with Forbidden Planet, a brief synopsis: Doctor Morbius (Walter Pidgeon) and his daughter Altaira (Anne Francis) are the only survivors of the human colony on Altair IV; a rescue mission, led by Commander John Adams (Leslie Nielsen), is warned by Morbius to stay away, to avoid the terrible fate that befell the colonists; as romance develops between Adams and Altaira, a monstrous creature menaces the crew, leading to the discovery that this monster is the fantastic creation of the unsuspecting Morbius (a result of experiments with the advanced technology of the Krell, the former inhabitants of Altair IV, who had also succumbed to similar monsters of their own). The plot is of course inspired by Shakespeare's Tempest, yet it differs from its source in some very telling ways -- in addition to the obvious differences that arise from a science fictional updating of a Renaissance text, such that spacecraft replace ships, and so on -- upon which I shall focus my reading of the film. The first difference is in the "staging", by which I mean that Forbidden Planet is spectacular and melodramatic. Stephen Orgel observes in his introduction to the Oxford edition of The Tempest that for more than two centuries the most popular productions of Shakespeare's play were those which relied on elaborate stage machinery to create spectacular effects, and which took liberties with the script to produce an operatic extravaganza. Yet he points out that these productions bore little resemblance to Shakespeare's text, which actually contains few direct staging instructions (64-77). In this sense, Forbidden Planet belongs to that tradition of texts which diverge from the original in their reliance on spectacular stage machinery, an example of what Orgel calls the "machine-play par excellence" (72). If it is reliant on machinery, however, the film also provides a harsh reflection upon the status of machinic technologies by drawing on familiar moralising science fiction narratives. As Charles Tashiro has noted, in his brief essay on the Unofficial Forbidden Planet Web Page, the story of Morbius owes as much to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein as it does to Shakespeare's Prospero. To this claim, I will add that the monster from Morbius's own "subconscious mind" also seems to owe something to Robert Louis Stevenson's Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde, at least insofar as the monster represents the destructiveness that inheres in being human. The story of Morbius thus introduces a second way in which Forbidden Planet differs from The Tempest: whereas Prospero grants his prisoners their freedom, and returns in moral triumph to his homeland (for the magic with which they are imprisoned is within his powers), Morbius refuses to recognise that the destructive force which threatens the crew is that part of himself which he cannot control, and he will ultimately die for this sin of misrecognition. The most telling difference (at least for my purposes here) relates to the question of why it is that Morbius refuses to recognise that the monster is himself. Missing from the text of Shakespeare's play is any direct parallel to the story of the Krell -- that is, the mystery of the sudden disappearance of the former inhabitants of Altair IV. As Doc Ostrow tells us in his death throes in Forbidden Planet (after taking the "brain booster" to double his intelligence), Morbius is "too close to the problem" to solve the riddle of the Krell and is therefore unable to recognise that he is repeating their mistakes by trying to revive the technology that led to their downfall. These mistakes: after demonstrating the vast technological advances that the Krell had achieved, Morbius states that he suspects they were in the process of developing a way to live in a "civilisation without instrumentalities" (to which Ostrow replies, "but that's impossible!"). This process involved harnessing the power at the core of the planet to enable its inhabitants to produce and project matter in any form, anywhere on the planet, with nothing more than a sheer act of will. Ostrow learns, of course, that the Krell successfully achieved this civilisation without instrumentalities. Instead of realising a utopian vision, however, they were destroyed by "monsters from the id" which had been instantaneously projected from the minds of the Krell onto the surface of the planet. Having been the only human to use the Krell technology, Morbius is the only current inhabitant whose monster has been unleashed to actualise his unconscious impulses (and we may suspect that his unconscious longing to be the sole benefactor of his discovery had been the catalyst for the deaths of the other humans that had arrived with him). This brings me to the question of the deleuzo-guattarian concept of the machine. Mark Jancovich suggests that Morbius's mistake is that, like the Krell, he valorises rationality and has "lost touch with the emotional world of the unconscious" (Rational Fears 264). Jancovich's reading is a suitably Freudian one, with the Oedipal god-father (Morbius) standing as the agent of repression against primitive emotional states (represented here by the romance between Adams and Altaira) in order to maintain his little kingdom. I suggest that this reading is well suited to Shakespeare's Prospero but is only useful as an explanation of Morbius's motivations to the extent that Morbius parallels Prospero. As I have suggested here, however, the story of the Krell complicates the situation. In Anti-Oedipus, Deleuze and Guattari map out the development of civilisations, not as the rise of the machine in place of primitive states of subsistence, but as the emergence of the "civilised capitalist machine" out from (and in place of) the "primitive territorial machine" (passim). If we think of the rise (and fall) of the Krell along these lines, we can see that the development of a "civilisation without instrumentalities" is only going to be "impossible" in the degree to which civilisation is understood as the total sum of all technological advances (where techné or instrumentality and utility represent a logic of understanding) -- which is of course the mechanistic view represented by Ostrow. What the film demonstrates instead is that stripping a civilisation of its instrumentalities produces something other than just a return of the primitive repressed. Yes, we do learn that the stripping away of instrumentalities lays bare the most destructive of forces: the id. Yet this is the id ex machina, as it were, unleashed upon the stage upon which these characters must otherwise play out their little Oedipal drama. Shakespeare's tempest is replaced here by the "id monster", a force that is everywhere and nowhere at once, as it exists by "continually constituting and reconstituting its molecules from one second to the next" (Ostrow again, explaining why the monster is unaffected by their sophisticated weapons, such as ray guns). What the film demonstrates instead is that stripping a civilisation of its instrumentalities produces something other than just a return of the primitive repressed. Yes, we do learn that the stripping away of instrumentalities lays bare the most destructive of forces: the id. Yet this is the id ex machina, as it were, unleashed upon the stage upon which these characters must otherwise play out their little Oedipal drama. Shakespeare's tempest is replaced here by the "id monster", a force that is everywhere and nowhere at once, as it exists by "continually constituting and reconstituting its molecules from one second to the next" (Ostrow again, explaining why the monster is unaffected by their sophisticated weapons, such as ray guns). In this world -- or, these worlds: the world of Altair IV and the world of the film and its relation to its sources -- in which instrumentality seems ubiquitous, then, the id monster provides a terrifying glimpse of what it means to think beyond instrumentalities. The id monster may thus allow us to glimpse the actualisation of a deleuzo-guattarian machine, which was established conceptually (at least in the opening passage to Anti-Oedipus) as a way of reconfiguring Freud's concept of the id (see the second epigraph with which I have framed this essay). Freud's singular term it/the id is reconfigured, "everywhere", as machines, but not as machinic apparatuses or technical machines. Here, I have tried to demonstrate that the way to understand this manoeuvre away from the technical machine -- to understand what a machine that exceeds techné might "look like" -- is to provide an example of the way in which, in a world where instrumentality (the rule of techné) asserts itself everywhere, the id manifests itself (fleetingly, almost invisibly) as excess, that is, as the product of the absence of instrumentalities. Whether this example should prove to be "useful" elsewhere is, of course, out of my hands. As I indicated before embarking on this brief reading of Forbidden Planet and its relation to its sources, the utility of this exercise could only be measured by the degree to which it allowed us to read the film through the filter of the deleuzo-guattarian machine and vice versa. Is this, then, a tool -- a model for the application and re-application of a concept of the machine? I think not. Yet I do hope that it provides a template (the instrument, shall we say) for measuring the utility of such exercises. Take it or leave it. References Deleuze, Gilles, and Félix Guattari. Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Robert Hurley, Mark Seem and Helen R. Lane. Minneapolis: Minnesota UP, 1992. (Originally published as L'Anti-Oedipe. Les Editions de Minuit, 1972). Foucault, Michel, and Gilles Deleuze. "Intellectuals and Power." Language, Counter-Memory, Practice. Michel Foucault. Trans. D.F. Bouchard and S. Simon. Ithaca: Cornell, 1977. Guattari, Félix. Chaosmosis: An Ethical-Aesthetic Paradigm. Trans. Paul Bains and Julian Pefanis. Sydney: Power Publications, 1995. (Originally published as Chaosmose. Éditions Galilée, 1992.) Jancovich, Mark. Rational Fears: American Horror in the 1950s. Manchester: Manchester UP, 1996. Orgel, Stephen, ed. The Tempest. The Oxford Shakespeare series. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1987. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Laurie Johnson. "Félix and Gilles's Tempestuous, Monstrous Machines." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.6 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9909/monster.php>. Chicago style: Laurie Johnson, "Félix and Gilles's Tempestuous, Monstrous Machines," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 6 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9909/monster.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Laurie Johnson. (1999) Félix and Gilles's tempestuous, monstrous machines. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(6). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9909/monster.php> ([your date of access]).

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Abstract:

Introduction Ever-enduring advancements in science and technology promise to offer solutions to problems or simply to make life a bit easier. However, not every advancement has only positive effects, but can also have undesired, negative ramifications. This article will take a closer look at Deus Ex: Human Revolution (DXHR), a dystopian video game which promises to put players in the position of deciding whether the science of human enhancement is a way to try to play God, or whether it enables us “to become the Gods we’ve always been striving to be” (Eidos Montreal, “Deus Ex: Human Revolution”). In this article I will argue that DXHR creates a space in which players can virtually witness future technologies for human performance enhancement without the need to alter their own bodies. DXHR is special particularly in two respects: first, the developers have achieved a high credibility and scientific realism of the enhancement technologies depicted in the game which can be described as being “diegetic prototypes” (Kirby, “The Future Is Now ” 43); second, the game directly invites players to reflect upon the impact and morality of human enhancement. It does so through a story in line with the cyberpunk genre, which envisions not only the potential benefits of an emergent technology, but has an even stronger focus on the negative contingencies. The game and its developers foresee a near-future society that is split into two fractions due to human enhancement technologies which come in the form of neuro-implants and mechanical prosthetics; and they foresee a near-future setting in which people are socially and economically forced to undergo enhancement surgery in order to keep up with the augmented competition. DXHR is set in the year 2027 and the player takes control of Adam Jensen, an ex-SWAT police officer who is now the chief of security of Sarif Industries, one of the world's leading biotechnology companies that produce enhancement technologies. Augmented terrorists attack Sarif Industries, abduct the head scientists, and nearly kill Jensen. Jensen merely survives because his boss puts him through enhancement surgery, which replaces many parts of his body with mechanical augmentations. In the course of the game it becomes clear that Jensen has been augmented beyond any life-saving necessity that grants him superhuman abilities and allows him to find and defeat the terrorists, but the augmentations also challenge his humanity. Is Jensen a human, a cyborg, or has he become more machine than man? DXHR grants players the illusion of immersion into a virtual world in which augmentations exist as a matter of fact and in which a certain level of control can be practiced. Players take up the role of a character distinctly more powerful and capable than the person in control, exceeding the limits of human abilities. The superior abilities are a result of scientific and technological advancements implying that every man or woman is able to attain the same abilities by simply acquiring augmentations. Thus, with the help of the playable character, Adam Jensen, the game lets players experience augmentations without any irreparable damages done to their bodies, but the experience will leave a lasting impression on players regarding the science of human enhancement. The experience with augmentations happens through and benefits from the effect of “virtual witnessing”: The technology of virtual witnessing involves the production in a reader’s mind of such an image of an experimental scene as obviates the necessity for either direct witness or replication. Through virtual witnessing the multiplication of witnesses could be, in principle, unlimited. (Shapin and Schaffer 60) In other words, simply by reading about and/or seeing scientific advancements, audiences can witness them without having to be present at the site of creation. The video game, hereby, is itself the medium of virtual witnessing whereby audiences can experience scientific advancements. Nevertheless, the video game is not just about reading or seeing potential future enhancement technologies, but permits players to virtually test-drive augmentations—to actually try out three-dimensionally rendered prototypes on a virtual body. In order to justify this thesis, a couple of things need to be clarified that explain in which ways the virtual witnessing of fictional enhancements in DXHR is a valid claim. Getting into the Game First I want to briefly describe how I investigated the stated issue. I have undertaken an auto-ethnography (Ellis, Adams, and Bochner) of DXHR, which concretely means that I have analytically played DXHR in an explorative fashion (Aarseth) trying to discover as many elements on human enhancement that the game has to offer. This method requires not only close observation of the virtual environment and documentation through field notes and screenshots, but also self-reflection of the actions that I chose to take and that were offered to me in the course of the game. An essential part of analytically playing a game is to be aware that the material requires “the activity of an actual player in order to be accessible for scrutiny” (Iversen), and that the player’s input fundamentally shapes the gaming experience (Juul 42). The meaning of the game is contingent upon the contribution of the player, especially in times in which digital games grant players more and more freedom in terms of narrative construction. In contrast to traditional narrative, the game poses an active challenge to the player which entails the need to become better in relation to the game’s mechanics and hence “studying games … implies interacting with the game rules and exploring the possibilities created by these rules, in addition to studying the graphical codes or the narration that unfolds” (Malliet). It is important to highlight that, although the visual representation of human enhancement technologies has an enormous potential impact on the player’s experience, it is not the only crucial element. Next to the representational shell, the core of the game, i.e. “how game rules and interactions with game objects and other players are structured” (Mäyrä 165), shapes the virtual witnessing of the augmentations in just an important way. Finally, the empirical material that was collected was analyzed and interpreted with the help of close-reading (Bizzocchi and Tanenbaum 395). In addition to the game itself, I have enriched my empirical material with interviews of developers of the game that are partly freely available on the Internet, and with the promotional material such as the trailers and a website (Eidos Montreal, “Sarif Industries”) that was released prior to the game. Sociotechnical Imaginaries In this case study of DXHR I have not only investigated how augmented bodies and enhancement technologies are represented in this specific video game, but also attempted to uncover which “sociotechnical imaginaries” (Jasanoff and Kim) underlie the game and support the virtual witnessing experience. Sociotechnical imaginaries are defined as “collectively imagined forms of social life and social order reflected in the design and fulfillment of nation-specific scientific and/or technological projects” (Jasanoff and Kim 120). The concept appeared to be suitable for this study as it covers and includes “promises, visions and expectations of future possibilities” (Jasanoff and Kim 122) of a technology as well as “implicit understandings of what is good or desirable in the social world writ large” (Jasanoff and Kim 122–23). The game draws upon several imaginaries of human enhancement. For example, the most basic imaginary in the game is that advanced engineered prosthetics and implants will be able to not only remedy dysfunctional parts of the human body, but will be able to upgrade these. Apart from this idea, the two prevailing sociotechnical imaginaries that forward the narrative can be subsumed as the transhumanist and the purist imaginary. The latter views human enhancement, with the help of science and technology, as unnatural and as a threat to humanity particularly through the power that it grants to individuals, while the former transports the opposing view. Transhumanism is: the intellectual and cultural movement that affirms the possibility and desirability of fundamentally improving the human condition through applied reason, especially by developing and making widely available technologies to eliminate aging and to greatly enhance human intellectual, physical, and psychological capacities. (Chrislenko et al.) The transhumanist imaginary in the game views technological development of the body as another step in the human evolution, not as something abhorrent to nature, but a fundamental human quality. Similar ideas can be found in the writings of Sigmund Freud and Arnold Gehlen, who both view the human being’s need to improve as part of its culture. Gehlen described the human as a “Mängelwesen”—a ‘deficient’ creature—who is, in contrast to other species, not specialized to a specific environment, but has the ability to adapt to nearly every situation because of this deficiency (Menne, Trutwin, and Türk). Freud even denoted the human as a “Prothesengott”—a god of prostheses: By means of all his tools, man makes his own organs more perfect—both the motor and the sensory—or else removes the obstacles in the way of their activity. Machinery places gigantic power at his disposal which, like his muscles, he can employ in any direction; ships and aircraft have the effect that neither air nor water can prevent his traversing them. With spectacles he corrects the defects of the lens in his own eyes; with telescopes he looks at far distances; with the microscope he overcomes the limitations in visibility due to the structure of his retina. (Freud 15) Returning to DXHR, how do the sociotechnical imaginaries matter for the player? Primarily, the imaginaries cannot be avoided as they pervade nearly every element in the game, from the main story that hinges upon human enhancement over the many optional side missions, to contextual elements such as a conference on “the next steps in human evolution” (Eidos Montreal, “Deus Ex: Human Revolution”). Most importantly, it impacts the player’s view in a crucial way. Human enhancement technologies are presented as controversial, neither exclusively good nor bad, which require reflection and perhaps even legal regulation. In this way, DXHR can be seen as offering the player a restricted building set of sociotechnical imaginaries of human enhancement, whereby the protagonist, Adam Jensen, becomes the player’s vessel to construct one’s own individual imaginary. In the end the player is forced to choose one of four outcomes to complete the game, and this choice can be quite difficult to make. Anticipation of the Future It is not unusual for video games to feature futuristic technologies that do not exist in the real world, but what makes DXHR distinct from others is that the developers have included an extent of information that goes beyond any game playing necessity (see Figures 1 & 2). Moreover, the information is not fictional but the developers have taken strategic steps to make it credible. Mary DeMarle, the narrative designer, explained at the San Diego Comic-Con in 2011, that a timeline of augmentation was created during the production phase in which the present state of technology was extrapolated into the future. In small incremental steps the developers have anticipated which enhancement technologies might be potentially feasible by the year 2027. Their efforts were supported by the science consultant, Will Rosellini, who voluntarily approached the development team to help. Being a neuroscientist, he could not have been a more fitting candidate for the job as he is actively working and researching in the biotechnology sector. He has co-founded two companies, MicroTransponder Inc., which produces tiny implantable wireless devices to interface with the nervous system to remedy diseases (see Rosellini’s presentation at the 2011 Comic-Con) and Rosellini Scientific, which funds, researches and develops advanced technological healthcare solutions (Rosellini; Rosellini Scientific). Due to the timeline which has been embedded explicitly and implicitly, no augmentation appears as a disembodied technology without history in the game. For example, although the protagonist wears top-notch military arm prostheses that appear very human-like, this prosthesis is depicted as one of the latest iterations and many non-playable characters possess arm prostheses that appear a lot older, cruder and more industrial than those of Jensen. Furthermore, an extensive description employing scientific jargon for each of the augmentations can be read on the augmentation overview screen, which includes details about the material composition and bodily locations of the augmentations. Figure 1: More Info Section of the Cybernetic Arm Prosthesis as it appears in-game (all screenshots taken with permission from Deus Ex: Human Revolution (2011), courtesy of Eidos Montreal) More details are provided through eBooks, which are presented in the form of scientific articles or conference proceedings, for which the explorative gamer is also rewarded with valuable experience points upon finding which are used to activate and upgrade augmentations. The eBooks also reflect the timeline as each eBook is equipped with a year of publication between 2001 and 2022. Despite the fact that these articles have been supposedly written by a fictional character, the information is authentic and taken from actual scientific research papers, whereby some of these articles even include a proper scientific citation. Figure 2: Example of a Darrow eBook The fact that a scientist was involved in the production of the game allows classifying the augmentations as “diegetic prototypes” which are “cinematic depictions of future technologies … that demonstrate to large public audiences a technology’s need, benevolence and viability” (“The Future Is Now” 43). Diegetic prototypes are fictional, on-screen depictions of technologies that do not exist in that form in real life and have been created with the help of a science consultant. They have been placed in movies to allay anxieties and doubts and perhaps to even provoke a longing in audiences to see depicted technologies become reality (Kirby, “The Future Is Now” 43). Of course the aesthetic appearance of the prototypes has an impact on audiences’s desire, and particularly the artificial arms of Jensen that have been designed in an alluring fashion as can be seen in the following figure: Figure 3: Adam Jensen and arm prosthesis An important fact about diegetic prototypes—and about prototypes (see Suchman, Trigg, and Blomberg) in general—is that they are put to specific use and are embedded and presented in an identifiable social context. Technological objects in cinema are at once both completely artificial—all aspects of their depiction are controlled—and normalized as practical objects. Characters treat these technologies as a ‘natural’ part of their landscape and interact with these prototypes as if they are everyday parts of their world. … fictional characters are ‘socializing’ technological artifacts by creating meanings for the audience, ‘which is tantamount to making the artifacts socially relevant’. (Kirby, “Lab Coats” 196) The power of DXHR is that the diegetic prototypes—the augmentations—are not only based on real world scientific developments and contextualized in a virtual social space, but that the player has the opportunity to handle the augmentations. Virtual Testing Virtual witnessing of the not-yet-existent augmentations is supported by scientific descriptions, articles, and the appearance of the technologies in DXHR, but the moral and ethical engagement is established by the player’s ability to actively use the augmentations and by the provision of choice how to use them. As mentioned, most of the augmentations are inactive and must first be activated by accumulating and spending experience points on them. This requires the player to make reflections on the potential usage and how a particular augmentation will lead to the successful completion of a mission. This means that the player has to constantly decide how s/he wants to play the game. Do I want to be able to hack terminals and computers or do I rather prefer getting mission-critical information by confronting people in conversation? Do I want to search for routes where I can avoid enemy detection or do I rather prefer taking the direct route through the enemy lines with heavy guns in hands? This recurring reflection of which augmentation to choose and their continuous usage throughout the game causes the selected augmentations to become valuable and precious to the player because they transform from augmentations into frequently used tools that facilitate challenge and reduce difficulty of certain situations. In addition, the developers have ensured that no matter which approach is taken, it will always lead to success. This way the role-playing elements of the game are accentuated and each player will construct their own version of Jensen. However, it may be argued that DXHR goes beyond mere character building. There is a breadth of information and opinions on human enhancement offered, but also choices that are made invite players to reflect upon the topic of human enhancement. Among the most conspicuous instances in the game, that involve the player’s choice, are the conversations with other non-playable characters. These are events in the game which require the player to choose one out of three responses for Jensen, and hence, these determine to some extent Jensen’s attitude towards human enhancement. Thus, in the course of the game players might discover their own conviction and might compose their own imaginary of human enhancement. Conclusion This article has explored that DXHR enables players to experience augmentations without being modified themselves. The game is filled with various sociotechnical imaginaries of prosthetic and neurological human enhancement technologies. The relevance of these imaginaries is increased by a high degree of credibility as a science consultant has ensured that the fictional augmentations are founded upon real world scientific advancements. The main story, and much of the virtual world, hinge upon the existence and controversy of these sorts of technologies. Finally, the medium ‘videogame’ allows taking control of an individual, who is heavily augmented with diegetic prototypes of future enhancement technologies, and it also allows using and testing the increased abilities in various situations and challenges. All these elements combined enable players to virtually witness not-yet-existent, future augmentations safely in the present without the need to undertake any alterations of their own bodies. This, in addition to the fact that the technologies are depicted in an appealing fashion, may create a desire in players to see these augmentations become reality. Nevertheless, DXHR sparks an important incentive to critically think about the future of human enhancement technologies.References Aarseth, Espen. “Playing Research: Methodological Approaches to Game Analysis.” DAC Conference, Melbourne, 2003. 14 Apr. 2013 ‹http://hypertext.rmit.edu.au/dac/papers/Aarseth.pdf›. Bizzocchi, J., and J. Tanenbaum. “Mass Effect 2: A Case Study in the Design of Game Narrative.” Bulletin of Science, Technology & Society 32.5 (2012): 393-404. Chrislenko, Alexander, et al. “Transhumanist FAQ.” humanity+. 2001. 18 July 2013 ‹http://humanityplus.org/philosophy/transhumanist-faq/#top›. Eidos Montreal. “Deus Ex: Human Revolution.” Square Enix. 2011. PC. ———. “Welcome to Sarif Industries: Envisioning a New Future.” 2011. 14 Apr. 2013 ‹http://www.sarifindustries.com›. Ellis, Carolyn, Tony E. Adams, and Arthur P. Bochner. “Autoethnography: An Overview.” Forum Qualitative Sozialforschung 12.1 (2010): n. pag. 9 July 2013 ‹http://www.qualitative-research.net/index.php/fqs/article/view/1589/3095›. Freud, Sigmund. Civilization and Its Discontents. Aylesbury, England: Chrysoma Associates Limited, 1929. Iversen, Sara Mosberg. “In the Double Grip of the Game: Challenge and Fallout 3.” Game Studies 12.2 (2012): n. pag. 5 Feb. 2013 ‹http://gamestudies.org/1202/articles/in_the_double_grip_of_the_game›. Jasanoff, Sheila, and Sang-Hyun Kim. “Containing the Atom: Sociotechnical Imaginaries and Nuclear Power in the United States and South Korea.” Minerva 47.2 (2009): 119–146. Juul, Jesper. “A Clash between Game and Narrative.” MA thesis. U of Copenhagen, 1999. 29 May 2013 ‹http://www.jesperjuul.net/thesis/›. Kirby, David A. Lab Coats in Hollywood. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 2011. ———. “The Future Is Now : Diegetic Prototypes and the Role of Popular Films in Generating Real-World Technological Development.” Social Studies of Science 40.1 (2010): 41-70. Malliet, Steven. “Adapting the Principles of Ludology to the Method of Video Game Content Analysis Content.” Game Studies 7.1 (2007): n. pag. 28 May 2013 ‹http://gamestudies.org/0701/articles/malliet›. Mäyrä, F. An Introduction to Game Studies. London: Sage, 2008. Menne, Erwin, Werner Trutwin, and Hans J. Türk. Philosophisches Kolleg Band 4 Anthropologie. Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1986. Rosellini, Will, and Mary DeMarle. “Deus Ex: Human Revolution.” Comic Con. San Diego, 2011. Panel. Rosellini Scientific. “Prevent. Restore. Enhance.” 2013. 25 May 2013 ‹http://www.roselliniscientific.com›. Shapin, Steven, and Simon Schaffer. Leviathan and the Air Pump: Hobbes, Boyle and the Experimental Life. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985. Suchman, Lucy, Randall Trigg, and Jeanette Blomberg. “Working Artefacts: Ethnomethods of the Prototype.” The British Journal of Sociology 53.2 (2002): 163-79. Image Credits All screenshots taken with permission from Deus Ex: Human Revolution (2011), courtesy of Eidos Montreal.

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Abstract:

Introduction Discourses of queer youth suicide regularly represent non-heterosexual young men as vulnerable and as victims who are inherently without strategies for coping with adversity (qv. Rasmussen; Marshall; Driver 3). Alternatively, queer youth are sometimes marked as fundamentally resilient, as avid users of tools of resilience and community such as the internet (Smith & Gray 74; Wexler et al. 566; Hillier & Harrison; Bryson & McIntosh). In the latter approach, protective factors are typically presented as specific to queer youth (e.g., Russell 10), therefore also minoritising and essentialising resilience. Both approaches ignore the diversity of queer young lives and the capacity for a subject to be both vulnerable and resilient—concepts which need to be unpacked if we are to further our understanding of minority lives. Significantly, both approaches also ignore the fact that growing up occurs in a series of transitions, cultural encounters and circ*mstantial changes. Queer (LGBT) youth are neither all victims and vulnerable, nor are they all self-reliant and resilient. Recent research has indicated that non-heterosexual youth continue to have a higher rate of suicide and self-harm (Cover, Queer Youth Suicide), although this is by no means indicative that vast numbers of LGBTI require support, intervention or preventative measures throughout all aspects of the transition into adult life. This article has two objectives, both of which are best addressed together in order to come at an understanding as how best to frame approaches to queer youth suicide as an ongoing social concern. Firstly, to ask what human, psychological and subjective ‘resilience’ might be said to mean in the context of public discourses of queer youth suicidality, and secondly to ask what a concept of ‘resilience’ does for queer youth identity in terms of relationality. Neither objective, of course, can be met alone in a short article—the purpose here is to open thinking on the topic in ways that question normative assumptions about the conditions of queer youth in the context of liveable lives and the positioning of resilience as reliant on normative accounts of identity. The article begins with a brief overview of the different uses of resilience in the context of broad social representations of queer youth. It goes on to discuss the It Gets Better video site which aimed to produce resilience among predominantly bullied queer youth by ‘imparting hope’. Some remarks on the relationship between identity, sexuality, sociality and resilience will conclude. Resilience and the Queer Youth Subject Developed by Crawford Holling in the 1970s, the concept of resilience was used to describe the capacity of a system to “absorb change and disturbance and still maintain the same relationships between populations or state variables” (Holling 14). In terms of ecology and the physical sciences, the notion of resilience operates within an assumption that future events will not be known but will be unexpected, thereby requiring a capacity to accommodate those events whatever form they take (21). When later used in the psychological sciences, the term resilience likewise assumes disruption and uncertainty in lived experience, requiring a resilient subject to be capable in both learning and adaptation. In the context of queer youth, resilience, then, can be applied to mean an adaptation to new situations which exacerbate vulnerability to suicidality for those who are positioned to seek escape from intolerable emotional pain or the perception of life as unliveable (Cover, Queer Youth Suicide 10, 148). Resilience in this use presumes that, for example, bullying has a detrimental causal relationship with suicidality when it newly occurs if the subject does not have the capacity to adapt and incorporate it into everyday life. Bullying, however, is generally related to suicide only by virtue of its ongoingness rather than it being a sudden shift in social relations. Striking about much of the discourse of resilience in the psychological sciences is that the concept of resilience presumes a unitary subject who is a subject prior to relationality and sociality (e.g. Leipold & Greve; Singh et al.; Smith & Gray). Resilience is thus seen as a capacity to cope with adversity as if adversity arises prior to the subject rather than being a form of relationality that conditions the subject. In that context, the queer youth subject is understood in essentialist terms, whereby sexual subjectivity is represented simultaneously as both a norm and abnormal, and is a factor of subjectivity that is understood to pre-exist sociality. That is, the queer youth subject is queer before relationality with others, thereby before the kinds of relationalities that might demand resilience. An alternative is to understand queer youth not as vulnerable because they are queer, but as subjects constituted in the (inequitably distributed) precarity of corporeal life in sociality, and thereby already formed in (inequitably distributed) resilience to the sorts of shifts, changes and adversities that shift one from an experience of vulnerability to an experience of a life that is unliveable (Butler, Precarious Life; Frames of War). Approaching queer youth suicide from a perspective not of risk but through the simultaneous fostering and critique of resilience opens the possibility of providing solutions that aid younger persons to resist suicidality as a flight from intolerable pain without articulating the self as inviolable and thereby losing the ethical value of the recognition of vulnerability. The question, then, is whether such critique can be found in sites of resilience discourse in relation to queer youth. Queer Youth and It Gets Better The video blogging site It Gets Better (http://www.itgetsbetter.org) was begun by columnist Dan Savage in response to a spate of reported queer student suicides in September/October 2010 in the United States. The site hosts more than a thousand video contributions, many from queer adults who seek to provide hope for younger persons by showing that queer adulthood is markedly different from the experiences of harassment, bullying, loneliness or surveillance experienced by queer youth in school and family environments. This is among the first widely-available communicative media form to address directly queer youth on issues related to suicide, and the first to draw on lived experiences as a means by which to provide resources for queer youth resilience. The fact that these experiences are related through video-logs (vlogs) provides the texts with a greater sense of authenticity and a framework which often addresses youth directly on the topic of suicidality (Cover, Queer Youth Suicide). Savage’s intention was to produce resilience in queer youth by imparting ‘hope for young people facing harassment’ and to create ‘a personal way for supporters everywhere to tell LGBT youth that … it does indeed get better’ (http://www.itgetsbetter.org/pages/about-it-gets-better-project/). Hope, in this context, is represented as the core attribute of queer youth resilience. The tag-line of the site is: Many LGBT youth can’t picture what their lives might be like as openly gay adults. They can’t imagine a future for themselves. So let’s show them what our lives are like, let’s show them what the future may hold in store for them (http://www.itgetsbetter.org/). Hope for the future is frequently presented as hope for an end to school days. In the primary video of the site, Dan Savage’s partner Terry describes his school experiences: My school was pretty miserable … I was picked on mercilessly in school. People were really cruel to me. I was bullied a lot. Beat up, thrown against walls and lockers and windows; stuffed into bathroom stalls. . . . Honestly, things got better the day I left highschool. I didn’t see the bullies every day, I didn’t see the people who harassed me every day, I didn’t have to see the school administrators who would do nothing about it every day. Life instantly got better (http://www.itgetsbetter.org/pages/about-it-gets-better-project/) Such comments present a picture of school life in which the institutional norms of secondary schools that depend so heavily on surveillance, discriminative norms, economies of secrecy and disclosure permit bullying and ostracisation to flourish and become, then, the site of hopelessness in what to many appears at the time as a period of never-ending permanency. Indeed, teen-aged life has often been figured in geographic terms as a kind of hopeless banishment from the realities that are yet to come: Eve Sedgwick referred to that period as ‘that long Babylonian exile known as queer childhood’ (4). The emphatic focus on the institutional environment of highschool rather than family, rural towns, closetedness, religious discourse or feelings of isolation is remarkably important in changing the contemporary way in which the social situation of queer youth suicide has been depicted. The discourse of the It Gets Better project and contributions makes ‘school’ its object—a site that demands resilience of its queer students as the remedy to the detrimental effects of bullying. Here, however, resilience is not depicted as adaptability but the strength to tolerate and, effectively, ‘wait out’, a bullying environment. The focus on bullying that frames the dialogue on queer youth suicide and youth resilience in the It Gets Better videos is the product of a mid-2000s shift in focus to the effects of bullying on LGBT youth in place of critiques of heterosexism, sexual identity, coming out and physical violence (Fodero), regularly depicting bullying as directly causal of suicide (Kim & Leventhal 151; Espelage & Swearer 157; Hegna & Wichstrøm 35). Bullying, in these representations, is articulated as that which is, on the one hand, preventable through punitive institutional policies and, on the other, as an ineradicable fact of living through school years. It is, in the latter depiction, that experience for which younger LGBT persons must manage their own resistance. In depicting school as the site of anti-queer bullying, the It Gets Better project represents queer youth as losing hope of escape from the intolerable pain of bullying in its persistence and repetition. However, the site’s purpose is to show that escape from the school environment to what is regularly depicted as a neoliberal, white and affluent representation of queer adulthood, founded on conservative coupledom (Cover, “Object(ives) of Desire”), careers, urban living, and relative wealth—depictions somewhat different from the reality of diverse queer lives. The shift from the school-bullying in queer youth to the liberal stability of queer adulthood is figured in the It Gets Better discourse as not only possible but as that which should be anticipated. It is in that anticipation that resilience is articulated in a way which calls upon queer youth to manage their own resiliency by having or performing hopefulness. Representing hope as the performative element in queer youth resilience has precedence as a suicide prevention strategy. Hopelessness is a key factor in much of the contemporary academic discussion of suicide risk in general and is often used as a predictor for recognising suicidal behaviour (Battin 13), although it is also particularly associated with suicidality and queer teenagers. Hopelessness is usually understood as despair or desperateness, the lack of expectation of a situation or goal one desires or feels one should desire. For Holden and colleagues, hopelessness is counter to social desirability, which is understood as the capacity to describe oneself in terms by which society judges a person as legitimate or desirable (Holden, Mendonca & Serin 500). Psychological and psychiatric measurement techniques frequently rely on Aaron T. Beck’s Hopelessness Scale, which utilises a twenty-question true/false survey designed to measure feelings about the future, expectation and self-motivation in adults over the age of seventeen years as a predictor of suicidal behaviour. Beck and colleagues attempted to provide an objective measurement for hopelessness rather than leave it treated as a diffuse and vague state of feeling in patients with depression. The tool asks a series of questions, most about the future, presenting a score on whether or not the answers given were true or false. Questions include: ‘I might as well give up because I can’t make things better for myself’; ‘I can’t imagine what my life would be like in ten years’; ‘My future seems dark to me’; and ‘All I can see ahead of me is unpleasantness rather than pleasantness’. Responding true to these indicates hopelessness. Responding false to some of the following also indicates hopelessness: ‘I can look forward to more good times than bad times’; and ‘When things are going badly, I am helped by knowing they can’t stay that way forever’ (Beck). While these questions and the scale are not used uncritically, the relationship between the discursive construction through the questions of what constitutes hopelessness and the aims of the It Gets Better videos are notably comparable. The objective, then, of the videos is to provide evidence and, perhaps, instil hope that would allow such questions to be answered differently, particularly to be able to give a true response to the last question above. Hallway Allies liaison support group, which operates across university campuses and high schools to prevent bullying, stated in this representative way in the introduction to their video contribution: ‘Remember to keep your head up, highschool doesn’t last forever’ (http://www.itgetsbetter.org/video /entry/5wwozgwyruy/). Or, as Rebecca in the introductory statement of another video contribution put it: You may be feeling like this pain will last forever, like you have no control, it’s dark, oppressive and feels like there is no end. I know – I get it. but I promise … hang in there and you’ll find it … Wait – you’ll see – it gets better! (http://www.itgetsbetter.org/video/entry/wxymqzw3oqy/). As can be seen, such video examples respond to a discourse of hopelessness aligned with the framework exemplified by Beck’s scale, prompting queer youth audiences of these videos to imagine a future for themselves, to understand hope in temporal terms of future wellbeing, and to know that the future does not necessarily hold the same kinds of unpleasantness as experienced in the everyday high school environment. Sexual Identity, Resilience and the Normative Lifecycle In the It Gets Better framework, resilience is produced in the knowledge of a queer life that is linear and patterned through stages in relation to institutional forms of belonging (and non-belonging). That is, a queer life is represented as one which undergoes the hardship of being bullied in school, of leaving that institutional environment for a queer adulthood that is built on a myth of safety, pleasure, success and a distinctive break from the environment of the past (as if the psyche or the self is re-produced anew in a phase of a queer lifecycle). Working within a queer theoretical and cultural understanding of identity, sexual subjectivity can be understood as constituted in social and cultural formations. Overturning the previously-held liberal notion of power as the power which represses sex and sexualities, Foucault’s History of Sexuality provided queer theory with an argument in which power, as deployed through discourse and discursive formations, produces the coherent sexual subject. This occurs historically and only in specific periods. In Foucault’s analysis, hom*osexual identities become conceivable in the Nineteenth Century as a result of specific juridical, medical and criminal discourses (85). From a Foucauldian perspective, there is no subject driven by an inner psyche or a pre-determined desire (as in psychoanalysis). Instead, such subjectivity occurs in and through the power/knowledge network of discourse as it writes or scripts the subject into subjectivity. Canonical queer theorist Judith Butler has been central in extending Foucault’s analysis in ways which are pragmatic for understanding queer youth in the context of growing up and transitioning into adulthood. Her theory of performativity has usefully complexified the ways in which we can understand sexual identity and allowed us to overcome the core assumption in much queer youth research that heterosexual and hom*osexual identities are natural, mutually-exclusive and innate; instead, allowing us to focus on how the process of subject formation for youth is implicated in the tensions and pressures of a range of cultural, social, organisational and communicative encounters and engagements. Butler projects the most useful post-structuralist discussion of subjectivity by suggesting that the subject is constituted by repetitive performances in terms of the structure of signification that produces retroactively the illusion of an inner subjective core (Butler, Gender Trouble 143). Queer identity becomes a normative ideal rather than a descriptive feature of experience, and is the resultant effect of regimentary discursive practices (16, 18). The non-heterosexual subject, then, is performatively constituted by the very ‘expressions’ that are formed as recognisable identity performances in the context, here, of a set of lifecycle expectations built through a vulnerable queer childhood, being bullied, attaining hope, leaving school and fruition in queer adulthood. Resilience, in the It Gets Better discourse, then, is seen to be produced in understanding the stages of a normative queer life. An issue emerges for how queer youth suicide is understood within this particular formation that posits non-heterosexuality as the problematic source of suicidality emerges in the assumption that the vulnerability to suicidal behaviours for queer youth is the result singularly of sexuality, rather than looking to the fact that sexuality is one facet of identity – an important and sometimes fraught one for adolescents in general – located within a complex of other formations of identity and selfhood. This is part of what Diana Fuss has identified as the “synecdochical tendency to see only one part of a subject’s identity (usually the most visible part) and to make that part stand for the whole” (116). This ignores the opportunity to think through the conditions of queer youth in terms of the interaction between different facets of identity (such as gender and ethnicity, but also personal experience), different contexts in which identity is performed and different institutional settings that vary in response and valuation of non-normative aspects of subjectivity, thereby allowing a vulnerability not to be an attribute of being a queer youth, but to be understood as produced across a nuanced and complex array of factors. While the very concept of resilience invokes both an individualisation of the subject and a disciplinary regime of pastoral care (Foucault, Abnormal), queer youth in the It Gets Better discourse of hope are depicted multiply as: Inherently vulnerable and lacking resilience as a result of an essentialist notion of sexual orientation.Constituted in a relationality within a schooling environment that is conditioned by bullying as the primary expression of diverse socialityFinding resilience only through a self-managed and self-articulated expression of ‘hope’ that is to be produced in the knowledge that there is an ‘escape’ from a school environment. What the discourse of that which we might refer to as “resilient hopefulness” does is represent queer youth reductively as inherently non-resilient. It ignores the multiple expressions of sexual identity, the capacity to respond to suicidality through a critique of normative sexual subjectivity, and the capabilities of queer youth to develop meaningful relationships across all sexual possibilities that are, themselves, forms of resilience or at least mitigations of vulnerability. At the same time, “resilient hopefulness” is produced within a context in which a normative sociality of bullying culture is expressed as timeless and unchangeable (rather than historical and institutional), thereby requiring queer younger persons to undertake the task of managing vulnerability, risk, resilience and identity as an individualised responsibility outside of communities of care. 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