Journal articles: 'Internationale Fusion Bank. Internationale Fusion. Bank' – Grafiati (2024)

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In the last decade a new financial product – bankinsurance – became very popular on international financial markets. The cooperation between banks and insurance companies is based on the goal to achieve financial synergic effects and to make complex supply of financial services „under one roof“. The aim of this article is to clarify possible positive and negative impacts of this form of cooperation. These impacts are shown on the fusion of Allianz and Dresdner Bank. Through this fusion arised the biggest company in the field of bankinsurance. Nowadays there are connected many problems with this fusion.

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The article examines macroeconomic policy options for advanced economies to respond to adverse shocks in the environment of very low interest rates and very high levels of public debt, when the scope for using conventional policy tools is limited. The standard transmission mechanism of monetary policy in the ELB conditions stops working normally, and the economy faces the “liquidity trap” effect. The deployment by central banks of unconventional monetary tools (forward guidance, quantitative easing, and negative interest rates) after global financial crisis was helpful in combatting the downturn, but carries risk of possible side effects. Large-scale purchases of financial assets lead to significant increase in central banks’ balance sheets, and this creates a threat to future financial stability and central bank independence. Negative interest rates can have detrimental effects on bank profitability and be contractionary through bank lending. There is a consensus that today fiscal policy has to play a major role in stabilizing the business cycle. But the effectiveness of conventional tools of discretional fiscal policy is uncertain because of long political lags and small spending multiplier. Existing automatic fiscal stabilizers are focused on social protection goals and not on macroeconomic stabilization. Thus, the newly proposed measures for rules-based fiscal stimulus (asymmetric semiautomatic stabilizers – tax or spending measures triggered by the crossing of some statistical threshold, e.g. a high unemployment rate) and unconventional fiscal policy (the use of consumption taxes to increase inflation expectations) have become the object of active discussion. Here lies the danger in the fusion of monetary and fiscal policy: central banks’ operations are becoming increasingly quasi-fiscal, aimed at financing budget deficit, and functions of monetary policy are proposed to assign to fiscal policy. Besides, the expansion of fiscal stimulus threatens financial stability in the future, as it leads to increase in public debt and narrows a country’s fiscal space.

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In the era when economy is acquiring more international character, the world market, so far a collection of national and international markets, is becoming a global market of particular products. Individual countries are becoming less important, whereas international companies are gaining more significance, being more difficult to control including the control of the national public authorities. Globalisation, understood as a progressing internalisation of economic activity or as a closer uniting of national economies, consists of various and complex processes and issues. The development of globalisation is influenced by various factors: the growing mobility of the capital, goods and services, technological progress, especially quick introduction of all the innovations, considerable reductions of the prices of transport and communication. Owing to the computer revolution, the borders between the countries stop to be an obstacle to the transfer of the goods and production factors, especially of the financial capital. The transfer can be done directly by the financial institutions or through their officers, this especially concerns banks. As a result of globalisation, banks have lost their leading position of financial agents, which has forced these institutions to engage themselves in investing. What is more, the non-banking institutions have become more active in gaining the savings available on the market. These institutions (mostly insurance companies and investment funds) are very inventive in offering various forms of lodging financial means, which constitute an alternative to the bank deposits. It is especially important for big international companies which search for considerable means to finance their current activity and investments. Their financial needs are connected to the dynamic development of the process of fusion and overtaking of the companies in individual countries and on an international scale.

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Purpose Organizations are consistently seeking innovative strategies and novel pathways to enhance business processes and create differentiation. The global business ecosystem is changing and there is growing demand for multi-modal digital technologies, big data consolidation and data analytics to harness a cost-competitive agile system. Technological convergence and integration of digital systems is one of the preferred methodologies that facilitates new and effective workflows and revives business processes. The progressive interlinking of digital technologies with business operations leads to the convergence and blending of management disciplines, devices and applications. The growing inconsistencies in managerial understanding regarding the benefits of convergence prompts a comprehensive examination of digital convergence pathways, identifying the impacts on converging entities and business objectives. The State bank of India (SBI) mega-merger case study was selected to investigate the pragmatic framework of digital convergence and to understand the impacts on interlinked entities such as: business operations, strategic management, project team that support value creation and competitive differentiation. The purpose of this paper is to focus on the phenomena of techno-fusion of emerging technologies creating new opportunities, business models and unique strategies for global banking and financial service organizations. Design/methodology/approach This study applies the qualitative, inductive research method using critical reflection of before and after the implementation of convergence and digital integration strategies. The SBI case study employs this research strategy based on the premise that banks must stay agile and highly responsive to the changing environment to enhance its value proposition and competitive differentiation objectives. The study methodology incorporates cooperative inquiry and multiple levels of analysis using data collection techniques of exhaustive review of archives, informal interviews, questionnaires and observations to identify the synergistic process improvement pathway. The study is grounded on the concept that the convergence of diverse business pathways involves innovative and interlinked project, strategic and information technology (IT) workflows that results in open innovative systems. Findings The studies identify that organizational innovation and creative solutions are a result of ecosystem turbulence, environmental force diversity, competitive pressure and the need for differentiation. Organizations that harness the power of digital fusion and convergence of management, systems and data generate a competitive advantage. The technological convergence strategy pulls multiple business and technology processes (project, strategic, IT, Cloud, AI and business process management) at the organizational, divisional or functional level generating new opportunities and threats, new business models and unique growth strategies for global banking and financial services organizations. Organizations that fully integrate techno-fusion of business and digital strategies produce synergistic effects and enhance adaptability, innovation and resiliency in the face of competitive challenges. Research limitations/implications Additional areas that can be explored further as an extension of this study are listed below: identifying factors to improve the speed of convergence; the current results are limited to large size organizations where formal management and technology functions are distinctive. Similar studies on smaller organizations are warranted. Originality/value This study focuses on the evolving field of technology innovation, which is increasingly being intertwined with business operations. Innovative digital technology is enabling the convergence of the disciplines of management, digital devices and applications. This facilitates the creation of a pragmatic framework that supports convergence of business operations, strategic management and digital fusion which leads to value creation and competitive differentiation. The techno-fusion of emerging technologies and digital strategies generates new opportunities and threats, new business models and unique growth strategies for organizations.

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Abstract In 2009, in Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, USA, National Ignition Facility (NIF) - the largest thermonuclear fusion device ever made was launched. Its main part is a multi-beam laser whose energy in nanosecond pulse exceeds 1MJ (106 J). Its task is to compress DT fuel to the density over a few thousand times higher than that of solid-state DT and heat it to 100 millions of K degrees. In this case, the process of fuel compression and heating is realized in an indirect way - laser radiation (in UV range) is converted in the so-called hohlraum (1 cm cylinder with a spherical DT pellet inside) into very intense soft X radiation symmetrically illuminating DT pellet. For the first time ever, the fusion device’s energetic parameters are sufficient for the achieving the ignition and self-sustained burn of thermonuclear fuel on a scale allowing for the generation of energy far bigger than that delivered to the fuel. The main purpose of the current experimental campaign on NIF is bringing about, within the next two-three years, a controlled thermonuclear ‘big bang’ in which the fusion energy will exceed the energy delivered by the laser at least ten times. The expected ‘big bang’ would be the culmination of fifty years of international efforts aiming at demonstrating both physical and technical feasibility of generating, in a controlled way, the energy from nuclear fusion in inertial confined plasma and would pave the way for practical realization of the laser-driven thermonuclear reactor. This paper briefly reviews the basic current concepts of laser fusion and main problems and challenges facing the research community dealing with this field. In particular, the conventional, central hot spot ignition approach to laser fusion is discussed together with the more recent ones - fast ignition, shock ignition and impact ignition fusion. The research projects directed towards building an experimental laser-driven thermonuclear reactor are presented as well

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- The paper analyzes the change in the size distribution of Italian banking groups over the period 1999 to 2007 following a wave of M&As among large banks. Had this process increased the degree of concentration we would have expected greater credit rationing for small firms, given the central role of Italian banks in financing small firms. We measure this change through widely used measures of concentration on branches. First, we observe a steady increase in concentration that can be captured only by looking at the overall size distribution. Other measures do not perceive this change until the year 2007, when the very large banks merged. Second, by focusing on the banking groups that have been active players in M&As we do see a decline in concentration, since smaller players have caught up with the larger ones in terms of rate of size increase. This contrasts with the role of the new entries and the disappearance of banks following mergers, that has increased the dispersion of market shares. The implications are that: i) there is a credit termination risk due to the rise in active players' size, but ii) credit rationing may not occur due to a substitution effect in credit supply from new entries. Keywords: bank market structure; size distribution of banks; measures of concentration; credit rationing of SME; mergers and acquisitions Parole chiave: struttura dell'industria bancaria; distribuzione per dimensione delle banche; misure della concentrazione; razionamento del credito alle PMI; fusioni e acquisizioni Jel Classification: G21 - L11

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Abstract BACKGROUND: Due to uncertain evidence, lumbar fusion for degenerative indications is associated with the greatest measured practice variation of any surgical procedure. OBJECTIVE: To summarize the current evidence on the comparative safety and efficacy of lumbar fusion, decompression-alone, or nonoperative care for degenerative indications. METHODS: A systematic review was conducted using PubMed, MEDLINE, EMBASE, and the Cochrane Central Register of Controlled Trials (up to June 30, 2016). Comparative studies reporting validated measures of safety or efficacy were included. Treatment effects were calculated through DerSimonian and Laird random effects models. RESULTS: The literature search yielded 65 studies (19 randomized controlled trials, 16 prospective cohort studies, 15 retrospective cohort studies, and 15 registries) enrolling a total of 302 620 patients. Disability, pain, and patient satisfaction following fusion, decompression-alone, or nonoperative care were dependent on surgical indications and study methodology. Relative to decompression-alone, the risk of reoperation following fusion was increased for spinal stenosis (relative risk [RR] 1.17, 95% confidence interval [CI] 1.06-1.28) and decreased for spondylolisthesis (RR 0.75, 95% CI 0.68-0.83). Among patients with spinal stenosis, complications were more frequent following fusion (RR 1.87, 95% CI 1.18-2.96). Mortality was not significantly associated with any treatment modality. CONCLUSION: Positive clinical change was greatest in patients undergoing fusion for spondylolisthesis while complications and the risk of reoperation limited the benefit of fusion for spinal stenosis. The relative safety and efficacy of fusion for chronic low back pain suggests careful patient selection is required (PROSPERO International Prospective Register of Systematic Reviews number, CRD42015020153).

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Since the end of the nineteenth century, black music has been prominent in the international arena—from ragtime to rumba and jazz, right up to today’s black and white fusions. Dance music and drama originally from Africa were adapted to the New World, creating an enormous impact there and feeding back into the mainstream of music in Africa itself. This double transformation, brought about by leaving and returning home, has created a truly international music-style in Africa, and yet one that is doubly African.

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The chemical elements are created in nuclear fusion processes in the hot and dense cores of stars. The energy generated through nucleosynthesis allows stars to shine for billions of years. When these stars explode as massive supernovae, the newly made elements are expelled, chemically enriching the surrounding regions. Subsequent generations of stars are formed from gas that is slightly more element-enriched than that from which previous stars formed. This chemical evolution can be traced back to its beginning soon after the Big Bang by studying the oldest and most metal-poor stars still observable in the Milky Way today. Through chemical analysis, they provide the only available tool for gaining information about the nature of the short-lived first stars and their supernova explosions more than thirteen billion years ago. These events set in motion the transformation of the pristine universe into a rich cosmos of chemically diverse planets, stars, and galaxies.

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Introduction: The sacroiliac joint (SIJ) may be a source of chronic low back pain in 15 -22% of patients. Over the past four years MIS is an emerging standard of care for SI joint fusion. The International Society for the Advancement of Spine Surgery (ISASS) and Society for Minimally Invasive Spine Surgery (SMISS) conducted a survey of their members to examine current preferences in surgeon practice of MIS SI fusion. Methods: To qualify for survey participation, the surgeon had to perform at least one open or MIS SIJ fusion procedure between 2009 and 2012. All surgeons were instructed to review their records. This included the number of surgical procedures performed annually from 2009-2012, site of service where each procedure was commonly performed, and average length of stay for each approach. Results: Twenty four percent (121/500) of the eligible members participated in this survey. This survey revealed that the percentage of MIS procedures increased from 39% in 2009 to over 87% in 2012. The survey showed a significant increase in average number of MIS surgeries and a significant difference between open and MIS surgeries in 2012 (p<0.0001). In addition, 80% of the survey respondents indicated a lack of preference toward open approach if that was the only available option. Conclusions: According to performed survey, MIS SIJ fusion is preferred over open technique. Incorporation of the MIS technique into the spine surgeon's specter of skills would allow an increased number of surgical options as well as possible increase in outcome quality.

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Study Design: Observational study of prospectively collected data. Objectives: Patients with chronic low back pain resistant to nonoperative treatment often face a poor prognosis for recovery. The aim of the current study was to compare the variation and outcome of surgical treatment of degenerative disc disease in the Scandinavian countries based on The International Consortium for Health Outcomes Measurement core spine data sets. Methods: Anonymized individual level data from 3 national registers were pooled into 1 database. At the time of surgery, the patient reports data on demographics, lifestyle topics, comorbidity, and data on health-related quality of life such as Oswestry Disability Index, Euro-Qol-5D, and back and leg pain scores. The surgeon records diagnosis, type of surgery performed, and complications. One-year follow-ups are obtained with questionnaires. Baseline and 1-year follow-up data were analyzed to expose any differences between the countries. Results: A total of 1893 patients were included. At 1-year follow-up, 1315 (72%) patients responded. There were statistically significant baseline differences in age, smoking, comorbidity, frequency of previous surgery and intensity of back and leg pain. Isolated fusion was the primary procedure in all the countries ranging from 84% in Denmark to 76% in Sweden. There was clinically relevant improvement in all outcome measures except leg pain. Conclusions: In hom*ogenous populations with similar health care systems the treatment traditions can vary considerably. Despite variations in preoperative variables, patient reported outcomes improve significantly and clinically relevant with surgical treatment.

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Objective: The aim of the study was to treat successfully the failed Lumbar Spinal Fusion Surgery (LSFS) with topical phytotherapy within twelve-week. Methods: A male patient, aged 45years, was cripple with acute pain due to slipped disc for 4years and subsequently undergone LSFS at L4-L5 3years back. Being failed in surgery, he was treated with topical application of phytoextracts of seven medicinal plants (Cissus quadrangularis, Calotropis gigantea, Zingiber officinalis, Rosemarinus officinalis, Boswellia serratia, Curcuma longa and Withania somnifera) mixed with sesame oil and beeswax with specialized technique for twelve-week. Results: The percentages of improvement in international-approved pain related abnormalities and overweight were observed after post-treatment: Visual Analogue Scale (VAS) (Right leg: 94.91, Left leg: 94.87 and Lower back: 93.62), WOMAC index (Pain: 88.23, Stiffness: 84.71 and Physical function: 74.07), Oswestry Disability index (ODI) (74.47), Lower Extremity Functional Scale (LEFS) (62.50), Karnofsky Performance Scale (KPS) (80.00) and Body Mass Index (BMI) (11.93) and substantial improvement in radiological images as assessed by KL grading scale (≥ 2). Conclusion: Results showed the failed LSFS at L4-L5 can be successfully treated with specialized topical phytotherapy within twelve-week, evidenced by normalization of international acclaimed pain parameters such as VAS, WOMAC index, ODI, LEFS, KPS and BMI and radiological feature as assessed by KL grading scale. Key word: Intervertebral disc degeneration; Failed spine surgery; Phytoextracts; Phytotherapy for failed LSFS; Medicinal plants

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This paper was presented at the 14th annual meeting of the International Omega Association, held at Long Beach, California in October 1989.The integration of Omega and GPS sensors into a single navigation system offers the advantages of good accuracy under almost all signal conditions, low capital investment, and certifiable worldwide navigation. The accuracy of the existing Omega network can be progressively improved as GPS satellite coverage is fully implemented. This is done by having the GPS system update the Omega navigator. Eventually, the same equipment can provide full GPS navigation accuracy but with Omega as a back-up.This paper proposes a method of further improving the overall accuracy and reliability of Omega-GPS navigation. The conceptsof Omega-GPS integration, interoperability, modes of operation, and Kalman filter data fusion are presented. Four interoperability modes of operation and their ability to improve navigation reliability are also discussed.

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Study Design: Retrospective cohort study.Purpose: To determine the effects of massive weight loss on perioperative complications after lumbar fusion surgery (LFS).Overview of Literature: Patients who are obese are more likely to experience low back pain, which would require LFS. Nonetheless, they have a higher risk of perioperative complication development compared with individuals who are not obese.Methods: Patients who underwent LFS at hospitals that participated in the National Surgical Quality Improvement Program database within the United States between 2005 and 2015. Outcomes included 30-day medical complications, surgical complications, and length of stay (LOS). We analyzed a total of 39,742 patients with the use of the International Classification of Disease, ninth revision codes. The patients were categorized in the following two groups: group 1, individuals with a history of massive weight loss within 6 months before LFS, and group 2, individuals without a history of massive weight loss before surgery. Massive weight loss was defined as loss of 10% of total body weight. Patients with a history of malignancy or chronic disease were excluded from the study. Patients in each group were randomly matched based on age, gender, sex, smoking status, and body mass index. Paired two-tailed Student t -tests were used to compare the outcomes.Results: Of the 39,742 patients identified, 129 (0.32%) met the criteria for inclusion in the weight loss group (WL group) and were successfully matched to individuals in the non-weight loss group (non-WL group). Compared with the non-WL group, the WL group had a significantly longer LOS (9.7 vs. 4.0 days, <i>p</i> <0.05), higher surgical site infections (SSIs) (8.0 vs. 3.0, <i>p</i> <0.05), increased number of blood transfusions (40.0 vs. 20.0, <i>p</i> <0.05), and greater deep vein thrombosis (DVTs) (5.0 and 0.00, <i>p</i> <0.05).Conclusions: On a nationwide scale, rapid weight loss before LFS is associated with a higher rate of postoperative complications, including SSI and DVTs, longer average LOS, and more frequent blood transfusions.

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The study is on the use of Throw Back Time (TBT), an interactive digital board game aimed at teaching grammar tenses and aspect. The game exclusively designed according to the Theory of Variation (Marton & Booth, 1997). Four patterns of variation including contrast, separation, generalization, and fusion were used. The study employed a qualitative content analysis in illuminating the principles of the Theory of Variation (ToV) in the design of the grammar exercises in the game. Hence, the study suggests that the elements in the (ToV) governing the tasks in the game delivers positive outcomes to help learners learning grammar.Keywords: Grammar; The Theory of Variation; Interactive; Digital learnerseISSN: 2398-4287 © 2019. The Authors. Published for AMER ABRA cE-Bs by e-International Publishing House, Ltd., UK. This is an open-access article under the CC BYNC-ND license (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/). Peer–review under responsibility of AMER (Association of Malaysian Environment-Behaviour Researchers), ABRA (Association of Behavioural Researchers on Asians) and cE-Bs (Centre for Environment-Behaviour Studies), Faculty of Architecture, Planning & Surveying, Universiti Teknologi MARA, Malaysia.DOI: https://doi.org/10.21834/e-bpj.v4i12.1829

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The study is on the use of Throw Back Time (TBT), an interactive digital board game aimed at teaching grammar tenses and aspect. The game exclusively designed according to the Theory of Variation (Marton & Booth, 1997). Four patterns of variation including contrast, separation, generalization, and fusion were used. The study employed a qualitative content analysis in illuminating the principles of the Theory of Variation (ToV) in the design of the grammar exercises in the game. Hence, the study suggests that the elements in the (ToV) governing the tasks in the game delivers positive outcomes to help learners learning grammar.Keywords: Grammar; The Theory of Variation; Interactive; Digital learnerseISSN: 2514-7528 © 2020 The Authors. Published for AMER ABRA cE-Bs by e-International Publishing House, Ltd., UK. This is an open access article under the CC BY-NC-ND license (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/). Peer–review under responsibility of AMER (Association of Malaysian Environment-Behaviour Researchers), ABRA (Association of Behavioural Researchers on Asians) and cE-Bs (Centre for Environment-Behaviour Studies), Faculty of Architecture, Planning & Surveying, Universiti Teknologi MARA, Malaysia.DOI: https://doi.org/10.21834/jabs.v5i15.342

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Chronic myeloid leukemia (CML) is a myeloproliferative disorder and genetically characterized by the presence of the Philadelphia (Ph) chromosome, resulting from a balanced reciprocal translocation between chromosome 9 and 22 at bands 9q34 and 22q11.2 [t(9;22)(q34;q11.2)]. In the formation of the Ph chromosome, the specific region of the ABL oncogene is transposed from 9q34 to the specific region of the BCR gene on chromosome 22 to form a fusion gene BCR‑ABL, which encodes a constitutively active protein, with tyrosine kinase activity. Vast majority of CML patients show classical Ph translocation, t(9;22) and 5–10% of cases are observed with variant Ph translocation. In variant Ph translocation, generally, the third chromosome involved with chromosome 9 and 22. The segment of the third chromosome usually translocates to the chromosome 9 at band 9q34. The formation of variant or complex Ph translocation is controversial topic. A wide array of additional chromosome involved in translocation with the t(9;22) has been described previously in CML patients. In this report, we present a unique and complex Ph translocation involving three chromosomes (6;9;22) in a 25-year-old female 66who was clinically diagnosed as CML. Chromosome analysis using 24 h and 48 h unstimulated culture with GTG-banding was performed according to standard protocol. A total of 20 metaphases analyzed from the bone marrow culture of the patient and karyotyping was performed on the basis of International System for Human Cytogenetic Nomenclature (2016). The FISH analysis was performed according to the standard protocol from sample for confirmation of BCR/ABL gene using dual color fusion FISH probe (Zytovision Probe). All cell’s images were captured using Olympus fluorescent microscope BX-61 equipped with a CCD camera and analyzed using Bioview FISH software.

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Object Low-back pain (LBP) is highly prevalent among older adults, and the cost to treat the US Medicare population is substantial. Recent US health care reform legislation focuses on improving quality of care and reducing costs. The sacroiliac (SI) joint is a recognized generator of LBP, but treatments traditionally have included either nonoperative medical management or open SI joint fusion, which has a high rate of complications. New minimally invasive technologies have been developed to treat SI joint disruption and degenerative sacroiliitis, so it is important to understand the current cost impact of nonoperative care to the Medicare program. The objective of this study was to evaluate the medical resource use and associated Medicare reimbursem*nt for patients managed with nonoperative care for degenerative sacroiliitis/SI joint disruption. Methods A retrospective study was conducted using claim-level data from the Medicare 5% Standard Analytical Files (SAFs) for the years 2005–2010. Included were patients with a primary ICD-9-CM (International Classification of Diseases, Ninth Revision, Clinical Modification) diagnosis code for degenerative sacroiliitis/SI joint disruption (ICD-9-CM diagnosis codes 720.2, 724.6, 739.4, 846.9, or 847.3) with continuous enrollment for at least 1 year before and 5 years after diagnosis. Claims attributable to degenerative sacroiliitis/SI joint disruption were identified using ICD-9-CM diagnosis codes (claims with a primary or secondary ICD-9-CM diagnosis code of 71x.xx, 72x.xx, 73x.xx, or 84x.xx), and the 5-year medical resource use and Medicare reimbursem*nt (in 2012 US dollars) were tabulated across practice settings. A subgroup analysis was performed among patients who underwent lumbar spinal fusion. Results Among all Medicare patients with degenerative sacroiliitis or SI joint disruption (n = 14,552), the mean cumulative 5-year direct medical costs attributable to degenerative sacroiliitis/SI joint disruption was $18,527 ± $28,285 (± SD) per patient. The cumulative 5-year cost was $63,913 ± $46,870 per patient among the subgroup of patients who underwent lumbar spinal fusion (n = 538 [3.7%]) and $16,769 ± $25,753 per patient among the subgroup of patients who had not undergone lumbar spinal fusion (n = 14,014 [96.3%]). For the total population, the largest proportion of cumulative 5-year costs was due to inpatient hospitalization (42.1%), outpatient physician office (20.6%), and hospital outpatient costs (14.9%). The estimated cumulative 5-year Medicare reimbursem*nt across practice settings attributable to SI joint disruption or degenerative sacroiliitis is approximately $270 million among these 14,552 Medicare beneficiaries ($18,527 per patient). Conclusions In patients who suffer from LBP due to SI joint disruption or degenerative sacroiliitis, this retrospective Medicare claims data analysis demonstrates that nonoperative care is associated with substantial costs and medical resource utilization. The economic burden of SI joint disruption and degenerative sacroiliitis among Medicare beneficiaries in the US is substantial and highlights the need for more cost-effective therapies to treat this condition and reduce health care expenditures.

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On the evening of 14 July 2013, while living in Istanbul, I walked down Kumbaracı Yokuşu away from the sounds of protest to the city's contemporary art museum. As part of the Istanbul Jazz Festival lineup, the Istanbul Modern screened director Batu Akyol's documentary Türkiye'de Caz (Jazz in Turkey), which gathers interviews with Turkish jazz musicians intimate with the country's jazz scene from the 1940s onward. The emergence of a jazz ecology of musician-composers, entrepreneurs, jazz promoters, and collectors runs in tandem with the history of the Turkish Republic, beginning in the years leading up to and including World War I and gaining momentum in the 1930s and 1940s. The documentary does not present a hermetically sealed nationalist understanding of Turkish jazz, but rather affirms a vibrant celebration of the music. To date, Istanbul's arts organizations host international jazz summer festivals and yearlong jazz programs. There are jazz clubs, radio programs, and magazines that highlight international and local events. Turkish university music departments offer jazz studies and formal performance opportunities for musicians. But there are also informal venues, such as the streets, cafes, and bookstores. While out late in Istanbul when I lived there, I would frequently listen to a lone street musician stationed outside of Narmanlı Han playing “My Funny Valentine” on his trumpet. On more recent trips, I have come across a jazz band playing Dixieland tunes along İstiklal Avenue. This is all to say that Istanbul is a city where one can listen to jazz standards, Dixieland, bebop, cool, and fusion as well as take lindy hop dance lessons from a local group. Although Akyol's documentary uncovers a jazz soundtrack dating to the 1930s that is composed of personal stories of local musicians becoming jazzers, the post-Armistice period (1918–23) remains mute, mired in what I consider to be a standard version of the city's origin story of jazz. I want to consider the case of jazz in post-Armistice Istanbul to think about how master narratives erase some sounds and privilege others.

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IntroductionRobotic guidance (RG) and computer-assisted navigation (NV) have seen increased adoption in instrumented spine surgery over the last decade. Although there exists some evidence that these techniques increase radiological pedicle screw accuracy compared with conventional freehand (FH) surgery, this may not directly translate to any tangible clinical benefits, especially considering the relatively high inherent costs. As a non-randomised, expertise-based study, the European Robotic Spinal Instrumentation Study aims to create prospective multicentre evidence on the potential comparative clinical benefits of RG, NV and FH in a real-world setting.Methods and analysisPatients are allocated in a non-randomised, non-blinded fashion to the RG, NV or FH arms. Adult patients that are to undergo thoracolumbar pedicle screw instrumentation for degenerative pathologies, infections, vertebral tumours or fractures are considered for inclusion. Deformity correction and surgery at more than five levels represent exclusion criteria. Follow-up takes place at 6 weeks, as well as 12 and 24 months. The primary endpoint is defined as the time to revision surgery for a malpositioned or loosened pedicle screw within the first postoperative year. Secondary endpoints include patient-reported back and leg pain, as well as Oswestry Disability Index and EuroQOL 5-dimension questionnaires. Use of analgesic medication and work status are recorded. The primary analysis, conducted on the 12-month data, is carried out according to the intention-to-treat principle. The primary endpoint is analysed using crude and adjusted Cox proportional hazards models. Patient-reported outcomes are analysed using baseline-adjusted linear mixed models. The study is monitored according to a prespecified monitoring plan.Ethics and disseminationThe study protocol is approved by the appropriate national and local authorities. Written informed consent is obtained from all participants. The final results will be published in an international peer-reviewed journal.Trial registration numberClinical Trials.gov registryNCT03398915; Pre-results, recruiting stage.

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Abstract Approximately 2‐3% of CML patients (pts) have variant BCR‐ABL fusions transcripts that cannot be monitored by RQ‐PCR using standard methodologies. Most rare variants are accounted for by seven variant fusions (e1a2/3, b2/3a3, e6a2, e8a2, e19a2). Within the European Treatment and Outcome Study (EUTOS) we sought to establish and validate robust RQ-PCR methods for each of these abnormalities. RNA was extracted from leukocytes obtained from 20 mL peripheral blood. Samples were received either locally or by mail and spent between 1 to 3 days in transit. Multiplex reverse transcription polymerase chain reaction (RT-PCR) experiments were performed to identify BCR-ABL1 transcripts (Cross et al., Leukemia 1994). In all cases, gel electrophoresis showed an unusual band. PCR products were then sequenced to characterize BCR-ABL1 rearrangements. Monitoring of residual disease was carried out by RQ-PCR with specific forward and/or reverse primers and probes using a serial dilution of individual BCR-ABL1 or GUSB plasmid DNA calibrators. GUSB transcripts were quantified as internal control and results were expressed as the BCR-ABL1/GUSB ratio with no conversion according to the international scale (IS) as it is recommended for only typical major (M) BCR-ABL1 and cannot be applied to other transcripts in CML. 43 pts from 8 prospective studies and pts outside of studies were investigated. A total of 435 samples (1-72 per patient, median 8) were analyzed. Pts expressed 6 different atypical BCR-ABL1 transcripts (e19a2, n=18; e1a2, n=10; b2a3, n=5; b3a3, n=5; b2a3&b3a3, n=2, e8a2, n=3). At the start of the observation period, ratios BCR-ABL1/GUSB ranged between 0.01% and 179.1% (median 13.75%). Follow-up results were determined in comparison to the starting level and expressed as relative log reduction. 9 pts were in deep molecular remission considering a minimum GUSB transcript level of 20,000/reaction. During the observation period, six pts relapsed with a significant increase of BCR-ABL1/GUSB ratios. We conclude that very few pts are diagnosed with unusual BCR-ABL1 transcripts, but their characterization is important for proper assessment of treatment response in affected patients, and to avoid false negative assessment of residual disease status. Based on the individual PCR strategies, results cannot be expressed with precision on the International Scale and thus the common molecular milestones and triggers for treatment discontinuation are difficult to apply. We suggest that residual disease in these cases should be assessed primarily by considering trends in BCR-ABL/reference gene ratios over time. Disclosures Saussele: NOVARTIS PHARMA: Consultancy, Honoraria; BMS: Honoraria. Cross:Novartis: Consultancy, Honoraria, Research Funding, Speakers Bureau.

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The measuring of coastal in the certain short period of time is almost impossible, but applying the remote sensing with the satellite imagery bring mankind to track down and analyze the approximately length of the coastal changes at the Nano technology speed. An attempt has been made to study the length of shoreline changes along three provinces in the upper gulf of Thailand. The significant purpose is to investigate coastline length changes and to evaluate those different coastal changes at different times. Two specialties of chosen areas are the outstanding location at mouth of river in curve pattern and ecological important mangrove forest, as nominated and designated area listed in Ramsar convention, international wetlands treaty. In employing the remote sensing will help to investigate the shoreline erosion, stable or construction shoreline. Rapid and drastic shoreline changes have been compared and measured base on satellite image Landsat 5 TM on 1994, 2002 and 2007 at path129 row 051. There were geometrically co-registered and, in the process were resampled to 25 m. By composing RGB band, fusion, supervised classification. By apply different theories will give different results but the similarly pattern. Training sites were selected by signature editor, area of interest, evaluate by seperabilitly and contingency. Principle component analysis (PCA) was employed as a method of change detection. This is to conclude that these shoreline areas were in erosion from natural processes and manmade activities, for example, aquaculture and agriculture expansion, such as shrimp farm. These coastal line lost were not just losing the land; it's losing the soul of the cycle of marine life, economically, and environmentally. Moreover, this project, in the future, could benefit to set the recovery buffer zone for mangrove restoration also.

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Abstract Introduction: Hemophilia A results from a clotting protein factor VIII (FVIII) deficiency, which leads to the need for the use of exogenous FVIII. Such therapy is effective unless alloantibodies (inhibitors) develop and render FVIII replacement ineffective. Patients with high-titer inhibitors may try to eradicate the presence of these inhibitors by undergoing ITI, an often costly process that requires the prolonged use of frequent doses of FVIII to induce FVIII antigen-specific tolerance. There is no consensus on the best approach to achieve tolerance and no product has been approved by any regulatory agency for ITI treatment in hemophilia A patients with inhibitors. The Fc portion of rFVIIIFc has shown immunomodulatory properties in mice, and chart reviews and case reports suggest that tolerization with rFVIIIFc in first-attempt ITI patients can potentially be achieved rapidly (i.e., ≤18 months) and therefore may possibly offer cost savings compared to conventional rFVIII. This analysis assessed the economic consequences and budget impact of using rFVIIIFc vs. conventional rFVIII for first-attempt immune tolerance induction (ITI) in hemophilia A patients with inhibitors. Methods: A literature-based model was developed to estimate the effect of rFVIIIFc vs conventional rFVIII on drug cost of first-attempt ITI, based on modelled ITI duration and outcome (rates and time to ITI success or failure) for US patients with varying clinical profiles (e.g., historical peak titer, FVIII dose) over a 3-year period. In the model, at any given time after ITI initiation (on either rFVIIIFc or rFVIII), a patient was categorized as ongoing ITI, post-ITI as success, or post-ITI as failure. The duration and outcomes for patients treated with rFVIIIFc ITI were based on observed data for first-attempt ITI patients with varied clinical profiles and ITI regimens from in chart reviews and case reports (n = 9). In the absence of direct head-to-head observations, the duration and outcome of ITI for the exact same patients in a scenario in which they received rFVIII (instead of rFVIIIFc) at the same doses were estimated indirectly using a previously published regression model (Bojke et al. 2009, Value in Health, 12(7), A378-A379) based on data for 113 patients from international and national registries that adjusts for historical and pre-ITI titer levels, time from inhibitor diagnosis to ITI start, and ITI factor dose. To place the cost comparison results in the perspective of a third-party US payer, a budget impact analysis was undertaken on a population of typical hemophilia A patients (after adjusting for patient characteristics) who are embarking on first-attempt ITI in a plan of 10 million insured members. In this analysis, the number of patients starting ITI each year was assumed constant, and patients who successfully eradicated inhibitors with ITI would transition back to FVIII prophylaxis. Results: The model predicted that, compared to rFVIII, rFVIIIFc would result in a reduction in estimated time to ITI success (rFVIIIFc: 9.43 months, rFVIII: 16.80 months), increased success probability at 20 months (rFVIIIFc: 67%, rFVIII: 25%), and lower 3-year per-patient costs (rFVIIIFc: $1,709,000, rFVIII: $3,630,000), respectively. In the budget impact analysis for a US health plan of 10 million insured members, 11.2 patients were expected to be newly diagnosed hemophilia A patients, among whom 1.17 patients were expected to develop inhibitors to FVIII and initiate ITI each year. By year 3, the predicted number of successful ITI patients increased by 23% and the budget savings for the plan were $103,738 per patient per year (for the ~1 patient who started ITI each year) after the inclusion of rFVIIIFc for ITI and subsequent prophylaxis when patients successfully eradicated inhibitors. Conclusions: Based on this mathematical economic model of first-attempt ITI patients, the modeled faster time to tolerization with rFVIIIFc vs. rFVIII, resulted in estimated per-patient and overall budget savings in ITI from a US payer perspective. Current prospective studies (e.g. verITI-8) will provide additional evidence on the efficacy of rFVIIIFc for ITI in Hemophilia A patients with inhibitors. Disclosures Li: Bioverativ: Employment. Wilson:SOBI: Employment. Botteman:Daiichi Sankyo Incorporated: Research Funding; BMS: Research Funding; Pharmerit International: Employment, Equity Ownership, Research Funding; Celgene: Research Funding; Bioverativ: Consultancy, Other: Provided consulting to Bioverativ, Research Funding. Nicoloso:Bioverativ: Other: an employee of Pharmerit, which provided consulting to Bioverativ. Krishnan:Bioverativ: Employment. Su:Bioverativ: Employment.

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OBJECTIVEIn the past decade, a gradual transition of health policy to value-based healthcare has brought increased attention to measuring the quality of care delivered. In spine surgery, adolescents with scoliosis are a population particularly at risk for depression, anxious feelings, and impaired quality of life related to back pain and cosmetic appearance of the deformity. With the rising prevalence of mental health ailments, it is necessary to evaluate the impact of concurrent affective disorders on patient care after spinal surgery in adolescents. The aim of this study was to investigate the impact that affective disorders have on perioperative complication rates, length of stay (LOS), and total costs in adolescents undergoing elective posterior spinal fusion (PSF) (≥ 4 levels) for idiopathic scoliosis.METHODSA retrospective study of the Kids’ Inpatient Database for the year 2012 was performed. Adolescent patients (age range 10–17 years old) with AIS undergoing elective PSF (≥ 4 levels) were selected using the International Classification of Diseases, Ninth Revision, Clinical Modification coding system. Patients were categorized into 2 groups at discharge: affective disorder or no affective disorder. Patient demographics, comorbidities, complications, LOS, discharge disposition, and total cost were assessed. The primary outcomes were perioperative complication rates, LOS, total cost, and discharge dispositions.RESULTSThere were 3759 adolescents included in this study, of whom 164 (4.4%) were identified with an affective disorder (no affective disorder: n = 3595). Adolescents with affective disorders were significantly older than adolescents with no affective disorders (affective disorder: 14.4 ± 1.9 years vs no affective disorder: 13.9 ± 1.8 years, p = 0.001), and had significantly different proportions of race (p = 0.005). Aside from hospital region (p = 0.016), no other patient- or hospital-level factors differed between the cohorts. Patient comorbidities did not differ significantly between cohorts. The number of vertebral levels involved was similar between the cohorts, with the majority of patients having 9 or more levels involved (affective disorder: 76.8% vs no affective disorder: 79.5%, p = 0.403). Postoperative complications were similar between the cohorts, with no significant difference in the proportion of patients experiencing a postoperative complication (p = 0.079) or number of complications (p = 0.124). The mean length of stay and mean total cost were similar between the cohorts. Moreover, the routine and nonroutine discharge dispositions were also similar between the cohorts, with the majority of patients having routine discharges (affective disorder: 93.9% vs no affective disorder: 94.9%, p = 0.591).CONCLUSIONSThis study suggests that affective disorders may not have a significant impact on surgical outcomes in adolescent patients undergoing surgery for scoliosis in comparison with adults. Further studies are necessary to elucidate how affective disorders affect adolescent patients with idiopathic scoliosis, which may improve provider approach in managing these patients perioperatively and at follow-up in hopes to better the overall patient satisfaction and quality of care delivered.

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Abstract Abstract 4831 Introduction Previous studies showed that chromosomal and genomic aberrations leading to activation of oncogenes or haploisufficiency of tumor suppressor genes are well-known pathogenic mechanisms in cancer. Additional copies of chromosme 21 are frequently found in Myelodisplastic Syndrome (MDS) and in Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML); the presence of these chromosomal abnormalities and the high incidence of acute leukemias in subjects with constitutional trisomy 21, suggest that genes on chromosome 21, including RUNX1/AML1, play a particular role in leukemogenesis and hematopoiesis. We describe a patient with syndromic trombocytopenia ( average platelet count= 70000/mm3), psychom*othor delay, microcephaly and low stature, that developed a progressive anemia and became transfusion-dependent at seventeen years of age. Materials and methods Cytogenetic analysis was performed on bone marrow cells and on peripheral blood lymphocytes, with standard techniques and evaluated with Giemsa-trypsin-Giemsa banding according to International System for Human Cytogenetic Nomenclature (ISCN 2005). Fluorescent In Situ Hybridization (FISH) experiments was performed on bone marrow samples with LSI AML1/ETO Dual Color, Dual Fusion Translocation and, at the same time, the High-resolution oligo array-CGH (Agilent Human Genome CGH Microarray 44B) was performed on the DNA of the patient. Results The bone marrow cells showed marked dysplastic morphology and the following abnormal karyotype: 46,XX[14]/47,XX,+21[6]; the peripheral blood karyotype was normal. The High-resolution oligo array-CGH demonstrated a constitutional de novo microdeletion of one chromosome 21. The interstitial deletion was found to be approximately 4,4Mb (Megabases), extending from 32,29 Mb to 36,51 Mb on band 21q22.11-12, involving MRAP, IFNAR2, IFNGRR2, KCNE2, KCNE1 and RUNX1 genes. The FISH performed on bone marrow cells, revealed two orange signals representing normal copies of ETO and one green signal for AML1 in 60% interphase cells and two orange signals and two green signals in the remaining 40% cells. The first pattern of signals, for AML1, is related to cells with karyotype 46,XX, while the second pattern of signals is related to cells with karyotype 47,XX,+21. These results indicate that in the myelodisplastic clone the third chromosome 21 are not deleted on band 21q22. Conclusion Three cases were recently published of syndromic thrombocytopenia with 21q22 constitutional deletion, including RUNX1, and variable degree of dysmorphic features and mental delay. One of the three patients developed LMA at the age of six years. Our results further support the fundamental role, in the pathogenetic mechanism of syndromic trombocytopenia and MDS/AML, of the numerical abnormalities of chromosome 21 associated with submicroscopic rearrangement of RUNX1 and other dosage-sensitive unknown genes on chromosome 21. Disclosures No relevant conflicts of interest to declare.

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Abstract. In countries globally there is intense political interest in fostering effective university–business collaborations, but there has been scant attention devoted to exactly how an individual scientist's workload (i.e. specified tasks) and incentive structures (i.e. assessment criteria) may act as a key barrier to this. To investigate this an original, empirical dataset is derived from UK job specifications and promotion criteria, which distil universities' varied drivers into requirements upon academics. This work reveals the nature of the severe challenge posed by a heavily time-constrained culture; specifically, tension exists between opportunities presented by working with business and non-optional duties (e.g. administration and teaching). Thus, to justify the time to work with business, such work must inspire curiosity and facilitate future novel science in order to mitigate its conflict with the overriding imperative for academics to publish. It must also provide evidence of real-world changes (i.e. impact), and ideally other reportable outcomes (e.g. official status as a business' advisor), to feed back into the scientist's performance appraisals. Indicatively, amid 20–50 key duties, typical full-time scientists may be able to free up to 0.5 day per week for work with business. Thus specific, pragmatic actions, including short-term and time-efficient steps, are proposed in a “user guide” to help initiate and nurture a long-term collaboration between an early- to mid-career environmental scientist and a practitioner in the insurance sector. These actions are mapped back to a tailored typology of impact and a newly created representative set of appraisal criteria to explain how they may be effective, mutually beneficial and overcome barriers. Throughout, the focus is on environmental science, with illustrative detail provided through the example of natural hazard risk modelling in the insurance sector. However, a new conceptual model of academics' behaviour is developed, fusing perspectives from literature on academics' motivations and performance assessment, which we propose is internationally applicable and transferable between sectors. Sector-specific details (e.g. list of relevant impacts and user guide) may serve as templates for how people may act differently to work more effectively together.

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Background. Outbreaks of mosquito-borne arboviral diseases including dengue virus (DENV), Zika virus (ZIKV), yellow fever virus (YFV) and chikungunya virus (CHIKV) have recently occurred in the Caribbean. The geographical range of the principle vectors responsible for transmission, Aedes (Ae.) aegypti and Ae. albopictus is increasing and greater mosquito surveillance is needed in the Caribbean given international tourism is so prominent. The island of Saint Lucia has seen outbreaks of DENV and CHIKV in the past five years but vector surveillance has been limited with the last studies dating back to the late 1970s. Natural disasters have changed the landscape of Saint Lucia and the island has gone through significant urbanisation. Methods. In this study, we conducted an entomological survey of Ae. aegypti and Ae. albopictus distribution across the island and analysed environmental parameters associated with the presence of these species in addition to screening for medically important arboviruses and other flaviviruses. Results. Although we collected Ae. aegypti across a range of sites across the island, no Ae. albopictus were collected despite traps being placed in diverse ecological settings. The number of Ae. aegypti collected was significantly associated with higher elevation, and semi-urban settings yielded female mosquito counts per trap-day that were five-fold lower than urban settings. Screening for arboviruses revealed a high prevalence of a novel insect-specific flavivirus closely related to cell fusing agent virus (CFAV). Conclusions. Outbreaks of arboviruses transmitted by Ae. aegypti and Ae. albopictus have a history of occurring in small tropical islands and Saint Lucia is particularly vulnerable given the limited resources available to undertake vector control and manage outbreaks. Surveillance strategies can identify risk areas for predicting future outbreaks and further research is needed to determine the diversity of current mosquito species and this should be extended to the neighbouring smaller Caribbean islands.

Abstract:

Background. Outbreaks of mosquito-borne arboviral diseases including dengue virus (DENV), Zika virus (ZIKV), yellow fever virus (YFV) and chikungunya virus (CHIKV) have recently occurred in the Caribbean. The geographical range of the principal vectors responsible for transmission, Aedes (Ae.) aegypti and Ae. albopictus are increasing and greater mosquito surveillance is needed in the Caribbean given international tourism is so prominent. The island of Saint Lucia has seen outbreaks of DENV and CHIKV in the past five years but vector surveillance has been limited with the last studies dating back to the late 1970s. Natural disasters have changed the landscape of Saint Lucia and the island has gone through significant urbanisation. Methods. In this study, we conducted an entomological survey of Ae. aegypti and Ae. albopictus distribution across the island and analysed environmental parameters associated with the presence of these species in addition to screening for medically important arboviruses and other flaviviruses. Results. Although we collected Ae. aegypti across a range of sites across the island, no Ae. albopictus were collected despite traps being placed in diverse ecological settings. The number of Ae. aegypti collected was significantly associated with higher elevation, and semi-urban settings yielded female mosquito counts per trap-day that were five-fold lower than urban settings. Screening for arboviruses revealed a high prevalence of cell-fusing agent virus (CFAV). Conclusions. Outbreaks of arboviruses transmitted by Ae. aegypti and Ae. albopictus have a history of occurring in small tropical islands and Saint Lucia is particularly vulnerable given the limited resources available to undertake vector control and manage outbreaks. Surveillance strategies can identify risk areas for predicting future outbreaks. Further research is needed to determine the diversity of current mosquito species, investigate insect-specific viruses, as well as pathogenic arboviruses, and this should also be extended to the neighbouring smaller Caribbean islands.

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Abstract Introduction Almost all neoplasms have their prognosis determined by cytogenetic and molecular factors, which determines a tailored approach for each case. According to the World Health Organization, every case of Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL) must be classified not only immunophenotypically but also from a genetic point of view. Over the last few years, it has been recognized the differences in incidence and genetic profile of ALL from Latin America (LA). In Brazil, a large country with a distinctive ethnical background when compared to the rest of LA, few reports on ALL have been published and there is a limited availability of genetic tests for classification, especially in public health service. Objective To describe cytogenetic (karyotype and fluorescence in situ hybridization, FISH), molecular markers and World Health Organization (WHO) -2016 classification of diagnostic samples sent to two reference centers in Brazil. Material and Methods This is a cross-sectional study involving patients diagnosed with ALL from January 2014 to May 2018. Diagnostic bone marrow specimens were analyzed by G band conventional karyotyping (Nomenclature according International System for Human Cytogenomic 2016) (n: 157), molecular markers [(genic fusions by RT-PCR - BCR-ABL1 (n: 96), TCF3-PBX1 (n: 77), ETV6-RUNX1 (n: 83), KMT2A-AFF (n:74)] and B-ALL multi-probe FISH (n:54) were employed according to manufacturer's recommendations and following international guidelines. It was attempted to classify all cases by WHO-2016, as well as by age. Samples with no metaphases, non-conclusive or without molecular tests were considered non-classifiable Results Samples from 157 ALL patients at diagnosis were analyzed. Median age was 8 years old (1 month - 88 years) [6 (3.8%) cases had less than 12 months; 99 (63%) between 1 to 15 years; 22 (14%) between 16 and 39 years and 30 (19.1%) older than 40 years]. The majority were B cell lineage ALL (93%). Thirty cases were excluded due to missing immunophenotyping, karyotype and/or molecular studies. Alterations were detected in 94 (74%) of 127 cases [88 (76%)/116 in B-ALL and 6 (54%)/11 in T-ALL. It was possible to classify by WHO 2016 B-ALL subtypes 116 cases, all of them stratified by age groups (Graphic 1). Conclusion Our results are consistent with the literature, showing that KMT2A rearrangement predominates in infant ALL, while a pediatric age range from 1 to 15 years old, with a predominance of good prognostic subtypes: hyperdiploidy and ETV6-RUNX1. In adults, there is predominance of the BCR-ABL1 subtype, which seems to be more frequent than non-Latin cohorts. B-ALL NOS was detected in 27.8% of the cases, predominating in the age group of 16 to 39 years, which may correspond to Ph-like ALL, a recently described subtype linked to a worse prognosis and seemingly more common in latinos. Figure. Figure. Disclosures No relevant conflicts of interest to declare.

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Abstract. Spatially-explicit maps of aboveground biomass are essential for calculating the losses and gains in forest carbon at a regional to national level. The production of such maps across wide areas will become increasingly necessary as international efforts to protect primary forests, such as the REDD+ (Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and forest Degradation) mechanism, come into effect, alongside their use for management and research more generally. However, mapping biomass over high-biomass tropical forest is challenging as (1) direct regressions with optical and radar data saturate, (2) much of the tropics is persistently cloud-covered, reducing the availability of optical data, (3) many regions include steep topography, making the use of radar data complex, (4) while LiDAR data does not suffer from saturation, expensive aircraft-derived data are necessary for complete coverage. We present a solution to the problems, using a combination of terrain-corrected L-band radar data (ALOS PALSAR), spaceborne LiDAR data (ICESat GLAS) and ground-based data. We map Gabon's Lopé National Park (5000 km2) because it includes a range of vegetation types from savanna to closed-canopy tropical forest, is topographically complex, has no recent cloud-free high-resolution optical data, and the dense forest is above the saturation point for radar. Our 100 m resolution biomass map is derived from fusing spaceborne LiDAR (7142 ICESat GLAS footprints), 96 ground-based plots (average size 0.8 ha) and an unsupervised classification of terrain-corrected ALOS PALSAR radar data, from which we derive the aboveground biomass stocks of the park to be 78 Tg C (173 Mg C ha−1). This value is consistent with our field data average of 181 Mg C ha−1, from the field plots measured in 2009 covering a total of 78 ha, and which are independent as they were not used for the GLAS-biomass estimation. We estimate an uncertainty of ± 25 % on our carbon stock value for the park. This error term includes uncertainties resulting from the use of a generic tropical allometric equation, the use of GLAS data to estimate Lorey's height, and the necessity of separating the landscape into distinct classes. As there is currently no spaceborne LiDAR satellite in operation (GLAS data is available for 2003–2007 only), this methodology is not suitable for change-detection. This research underlines the need for new satellite LiDAR data to provide the potential for biomass-change estimates, although this need will not be met before 2015.

Abstract:

Abstract. Spatially-explicit maps of aboveground biomass are essential for calculating the losses and gains in forest carbon at a regional to national level. The production of such maps across wide areas will become increasingly necessary as international efforts to protect primary forests, such as the REDD+ (Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and forest Degradation) mechanism, come into effect, alongside their use for management and research more generally. However, mapping biomass over high-biomass tropical forest is challenging as (1) direct regressions with optical and radar data saturate, (2) much of the tropics is persistently cloud-covered, reducing the availability of optical data, (3) many regions include steep topography, making the use of radar data complex, (5) while LiDAR data does not suffer from saturation, expensive aircraft-derived data are necessary for complete coverage. We present a solution to the problems, using a combination of terrain-corrected L-band radar data (ALOS PALSAR), spaceborne LiDAR data (ICESat GLAS) and ground-based data. We map Gabon's Lopé National Park (5000 km2) because it includes a range of vegetation types from savanna to closed-canopy tropical forest, is topographically complex, has no recent contiguous cloud-free high-resolution optical data, and the dense forest is above the saturation point for radar. Our 100 m resolution biomass map is derived from fusing spaceborne LiDAR (7142 ICESat GLAS footprints), 96 ground-based plots (average size 0.8 ha) and an unsupervised classification of terrain-corrected ALOS PALSAR radar data, from which we derive the aboveground biomass stocks of the park to be 78 Tg C (173 Mg C ha−1). This value is consistent with our field data average of 181 Mg C ha−1, from the field plots measured in 2009 covering a total of 78 ha, and which are independent as they were not used for the GLAS-biomass estimation. We estimate an uncertainty of &amp;pm;25% on our carbon stock value for the park. This error term includes uncertainties resulting from the use of a generic tropical allometric equation, the use of GLAS data to estimate Lorey's height, and the necessity of separating the landscape into distinct classes. As there is currently no spaceborne LiDAR satellite in operation (GLAS data is available for 2003–2009 only), this methodology is not suitable for change-detection. This research underlines the need for new satellite LiDAR data to provide the potential for biomass-change estimates, although this need will not be met before 2015.

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Background:Modic type 1 changes (MC1) are vertebral bone marrow lesions associated with non-specific low back pain (LBP). The pathophysiology of MC1 includes inflammation, fibrosis, and high bone turnover. Bone marrow stromal cells (BMSCs) are key regulators of these processes: BMSCs contribute to inflammation by regulating myelopoiesis/osteoclastogenesis; BMSCs can differentiate into osteoblasts contributing to high bone turnover, and BMSCs can differentiate into pro-fibrotic myofibroblasts.Objectives:To identify dysregulated biological processes in MC1 BMSCs contributing to the pathobiology of MC1.Methods:Bone marrow aspirates were obtained from LBP patients with MC1 undergoing lumbar spinal fusion. Aspirates were taken prior to screw insertion. From each patient, a MC1 and a healthy control (HC) aspirate from the adjacent vertebral body was collected. BMSCs were isolated by plastic adherence and expanded. RNA from BMSCs passage 3 was sequenced (n=3 + 3) (Illumina Novaseq) and gene ontology of significantly dysregulated genes (p-value < 0.05) was analyzed. Specificity and rate of BMSC matrix adhesion were quantified: BMSCs (n=8 + 8) were seeded on fibronectin-coated, collagen-I-coated, and non-coated plastic dishes. BMSC adhesion was evaluated from 15min to 30min (Δ 30min - 15min). Percentage of adherent cells of MC1 and HC BMSC was compared with paired t-test. In order to identify integrins responsible for dysregulated cell-matrix adhesion, gene expression of 15 relevant integrins was measured by quantitative real-time PCR (qPCR). Normalized expressions were compared between MC1 and HC BMSC with paired t-test. Integrin β1 protein level was semi quantitatively analyzed by Western Blot (n = 5 + 5) and normalized to β-Actin expression.Results:By RNA sequencing, 154 genes were differentially expressed between MC1 and HC BMSCs (p-value ≤ 0.01; log2-ratio ≥ 0.5). Gene ontology enrichment analysis revealed an overrepresentation of the biological process “cell-matrix adhesion” among all significantly regulated genes (p-value < 9.3e-13). A change in cell adhesion was corroborated with adhesion assay. Binding (Δ 30min - 15min) to collagen I (MC1 + 16%, HC +10%, p-value = 0.10), fibronectin (MC1 + 17%, HC +6%, p-value = 0.03), and non-coated surface (MC1 + 46%, HC +35%, p-value = 0.05) was increased in MC1 (Figure 1). Integrin gene expression analysis revealed significant upregulation of integrin beta-1 gene (ITGB1) in MC1 vs. HC (fold change = 1.24, p-value = 0.047), whereas there was no significant difference between the other integrins tested. On protein level, integrin β1 was upregulated in MC1 in four out of five patients (Figure 2).Figure 1.Adhesion assay.Figure 2.Western Blot analysis.Conclusion:Adhesion of BMSCs to matrix and integrin β1 expression are increased in MC1. Integrin β1 is essential for cell-matrix adhesion and an important contributor to the initiation and progression of tissue fibrosis, a hallmark of MC1. Therefore, BMSCs and integrin β1 might be relevant novel targets for the treatment of MC1.Disclosure of Interests: :Irina Heggli: None declared, Susanne Epprecht: None declared, Tamara Mengis: None declared, Astrid Juengel: None declared, Michael Betz: None declared, Jose Spirig: None declared, Florian Wanivenhaus: None declared, Florian Brunner: None declared, Mazda Farshad: None declared, Oliver Distler Grant/research support from: Grants/Research support from Actelion, Bayer, Boehringer Ingelheim, Competitive Drug Development International Ltd. and Mitsubishi Tanabe; he also holds the issued Patent on mir-29 for the treatment of systemic sclerosis (US8247389, EP2331143)., Consultant of: Consultancy fees from Actelion, Acceleron Pharma, AnaMar, Bayer, Baecon Discovery, Blade Therapeutics, Boehringer, CSL Behring, Catenion, ChemomAb, Curzion Pharmaceuticals, Ergonex, Galapagos NV, GSK, Glenmark Pharmaceuticals, Inventiva, Italfarmaco, iQvia, medac, Medscape, Mitsubishi Tanabe Pharma, MSD, Roche, Sanofi and UCB, Speakers bureau: Speaker fees from Actelion, Bayer, Boehringer Ingelheim, Medscape, Pfizer and Roche, Stefan Dudli: None declared

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<p>Resumen</p><p>Hace casi cuatro décadas que Throbbing Gristle hizo su aparición en la escena underground internacional como un estallido inesperado, e inesperable, cuyas reverberaciones se prolongan hasta nuestros días. Surgidos del colectivo artístico COUM Transmissions, la banda dio nombre a la música industrial mediante la fundación de su propio sello discográfico, Industrial Records, en 1976. Desde aquellos años ha adoptado formas y estilos diversos, mostrando un espíritu siempre renovado y propagando un modo más amplio de entender el arte de los sonidos al fundirlo con otras disciplinas y usar de manera compleja samples pre-grabados, sobresaltos y distorsiones. Este ensayo presenta a Throbbing Gristle como uno de los grandes motores no solo de la música sino de la estética y el arte contemporáneos.</p><p>Palabras claves</p><p>Cut up, Genesis P-Orridge, música industrial, ruidismo, sampling, Throbbing Gristle.</p><p> </p><p>PASKASKA MANA PUCHUKASKA KUTISKA THROBBING GRISTLE Sugllapi Ñalla kami chusku patsha watakuna. Throbbing Gristle kawaririgta undergroundpi tukui llagtama ugnarigta, chiuramandata kunankamami kawariri sugllapi iachakunawa. COUM Transmissions, sutichirka suma tunaikunata, paikikin Discogra ficopi Asintaska. Manaunailla industriaska waranga iskun chunga kanchis chunga Sugta watamandata samaiachiska, allilla uiari kachu. Kaikuna kawachirka Throbbing Gristleta iapa iacha kagmanda chi suma uiariikunata iachangapa. Ima suti Rimai Simi: Cut up, Genesis P- Orridge, suma sugrigcha uiari uiaritukui, Sampling, Throbbing Gristle.</p><p> </p><p>THE OPEN, THE UNFINISHED: A RETURN TO THROBBING GRISTLE. Abstract</p><p>Four decades have passed since Throbbing Gristle first appearance in the international underground scene as an unexpected explosion, as an electronic explosion whose reverberations extend to the present day. Born from the performance art collective COUM Transmissions, the band gave a name to “industrial music” by founding their own record label, Industrial Records, in 1976. Since then it has adopted different styles, showing always a renewed attitude and propagating ample ways to understand the art of sounds, by fusing it with other disciplines and introducing a complexity based on pre-recorded samples, shocks and distortions. This essay showcases Throbbing Gristle as one of the greatest engines behind not only contemporary music, but also contemporary aesthetics and art.</p><p>Keywords Cut up, Genesis P-Orridge, industrial music, noise aesthetic, sample, Throbbing Gristle</p><p>L’OUVERT, L’INACHEVÉ: UN RETOUR À THROBBING GRISTLE. Résumé</p><p>Cela fait presque quatre décennies que Throbbing Gristle a fait son apparition dans la scène underground internationale comme une venue inattendue, et inespérable, dont les répercussions s’étendent jusqu’à nos jours. Résultant du collectif artistique COUM Transmissions, le groupe donna un nom à la musique industrielle à travers la création de son propre label discographique, Industrial Records, en 1976. Depuis ces années cela a pris des formes et des styles divers, affichant un esprit sans cesse renouvelé et diffusant une manière plus large de comprendre l’art des sons en le fusionnant avec d’autres disciplines et utilisant de façon complexe des samples préenregistrés, des soubresauts et des distorsions. Cet article présente Throbbing Gristle comme l’un des grands moteurs non seulement de la musique, mais aussi de l’esthétique et de l’art contemporain.</p><p>Mots clés</p><p>Cut up, Genèse P-Orridge, musique industrielle, musique bruitiste, sampling, Throbbing Gristle.</p><p>O ABERTO, O INACABADO: UM RETORNO A THROBBING GRISTLE. Resumo</p><p>Faz quase quatro décadas que Throbbing Gristle fez sua aparição na cena underground internacional como um estouro inesperado, e inesperável, cujas reverberações se prolongam até nossos dias. Surgidos do coletivo artístico COUM Transmissions, a banda deu nome à música industrial mediante a fundação de seu próprio selo discográfico, Industrial Records, em 1976. Desde aqueles anos foi adotado formas e estilos diversos, mostrando um espírito sempre renovado e propagando um modo mais amplo de entender a arte dos sons ao fundi-lo com outras disciplinas e usar de maneira complexa samples pré-gravados, sobressaltos e distorções. Este ensaio apresenta a Throbbing Gristle como um dos grandes motores não somente da música senão da estética e da arte contemporâneas.</p><p>Palavras chaves</p><p>Cut up, Genesis P-Orridge, música industrial, ruidismo, sampling, Throbbing Gristle.</p>

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Abstract Introduction: Immune tolerance induction (ITI) is the standard of care for eradication of inhibitors in subjects with severe hemophilia A. ITI is not always effective and can require a lengthy and burdensome treatment regimen. Those who have previously failed ITI are more likely to fail subsequent ITI. The successful use of recombinant factor VIII Fc fusion protein (rFVIIIFc) for ITI was described in our initial retrospective review of 19 high-risk subjects, including first-time and rescue ITI subjects (Carcao et al, Haemophilia, 2018). These findings indicated that time to tolerization appears to be faster with rFVIIIFc, despite a high-risk profile. It has been postulated that the Fc domain of rFVIIIFc may promote tolerization due to immunomodulatory properties. We report characteristics and ITI outcomes of 6 newly identified subjects, as well as follow-up data from 12 of the 19 subjects included in the original analysis. Methods: A follow-up of subjects enrolled in the original retrospective chart review and clinical outcomes of newly identified males with severe hemophilia A and historical high-titer inhibitors (≥5 BU) treated with rFVIIIFc for ITI is reported from 12 sites in the US and Canada. De-identified data were collected via electronic surveys. This interim analysis was performed on aggregated data collected through July 6, 2018. Data collection is ongoing, with 29 subject charts (19 original subjects and an additional 10) expected by October. Results: Of 25 charts reviewed to date, 9 were first-time ITI and 16 were rescue ITI subjects. Of 9 first-time ITI charts, 7 subjects were from the original study (4 had follow-up data), and 2 subjects were newly identified. Of 16 rescue ITI charts, 12 subjects were from the original study (8 with follow-up data), and 4 subjects were newly identified. All but 1 subject in the first-time ITI group had ≥1 high-risk feature. The median (range) age (n=9) at initiation of rFVIIIFc ITI was 1.4 (0.8-4.3) years and the median (range) time from inhibitor detection to initiation of rFVIIIFc ITI was 1.5 (0-9.4) months (Table 1). The median (range) inhibitor titer at rFVIIIFc ITI initiation was 32 (3-1126) BU/mL, and the dosing regimen of rFVIIIFc ranged from 50 IU/kg 3 times per week (TIW) to 200 IU/kg daily. All 16 rescue ITI subjects had high-risk features. The median (range) age at rFVIIIFc ITI initiation was 7.8 (1.6-48.9) years, with a median (range) time from inhibitor detection to initiation of rFVIIIFc ITI of 7.1 (0.6-43) years (Table 1). The median (range) number of prior ITI courses was 2.5 (1-7). The median (range) inhibitor titer at rFVIIIFc ITI start was 24.2 (0.6-237) BU/mL, and the dosing regimen of rFVIIIFc ranged from 43 IU/kg TIW to 200 IU/kg daily. Eight of 9 first-time ITI subjects achieved a negative Bethesda titer in a median (range) time of 27.2 (3-64.1) weeks and mean (standard deviation [SD]) time of 25.9 (20.7) weeks. All 8 were subsequently tolerized with a median (range) time to tolerization of 29.7 (3-64.1) weeks and a mean (SD) time to tolerization of 33.4 (20.4) weeks (Table 2). One of the 8 subjects, although he achieved a negative Bethesda titer and ultimately was tolerized (time to tolerization: 59 weeks), did so after a complicated course of ITI: he was initially on rFVIIIFc ITI for 15 weeks then was switched to plasma-derived FVIII ITI for 12 weeks. Owing to lack of reduction in inhibitor titer, the subject was switched back to rFVIIIFc ITI. Fourteen weeks later he became Bethesda titer‒negative and achieved tolerance 18 weeks after that. The 9th subject had a reduced titer and continues on rFVIIIFc ITI. Eight of 16 rescue ITI subjects reached negative Bethesda titer in a median (range) time of 29.6 (3-70) weeks (Table 2) and a mean (SD) of 34.9 (25.6) weeks. Of these, 2 subjects were tolerized at 23.1 and 35 weeks, respectively; both have transitioned to rFVIIIFc prophylaxis. Eight subjects continue on rFVIIIFc ITI and 6 transitioned to other ITI treatment regimens. Conclusions: A rapid time to tolerization was achieved in high-risk first-time ITI subjects in a real-world setting. ITI with rFVIIIFc led to rapid negative inhibitor titer in most first-time ITI subjects and many rescue ITI subjects. Faster time to tolerization is expected to improve subject's quality of life, joint health, and healthcare utilization. Findings from this study are being tested in 2 prospective trials using rFVIIIFc for ITI in subjects with hemophilia A with inhibitors (first time and rescue). Disclosures Carcao: Bayer: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Shire: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Biotest: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; Novo Nordisk: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Grifols: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; CSL-Behring: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Octapharma: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Bioverativ/Sanofi: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Pfizer: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; LFB: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; Roche: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees. Shapiro:Shire: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding, Speakers Bureau; Sangamo Biosciences: Consultancy; Genetech: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding, Speakers Bureau; Bio Products Laboratory: Consultancy; Bioverativ, a Sanofi Company: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; BioMarin: Research Funding; Novo Nordisk: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Prometic Life Sciences: Consultancy, Research Funding; Bayer Healthcare: Other: International Network of Pediatric Hemophilia; Octapharma: Research Funding; Daiichi Sankyo: Research Funding; OPKO: Research Funding; Kedrion Biopharma: Consultancy, Research Funding. Hwang:Bioverativ: Other: PI in clinical research study; Shire: Consultancy; Hema Biologics: Consultancy; Bayer: Consultancy; BPI: Consultancy. Pipe:Catalyst Biosciences: Consultancy; Shire: Consultancy, Research Funding; Spark Therapeutics: Consultancy; Freeline: Consultancy; Bayer: Consultancy; uniQure: Consultancy; Biomarin: Consultancy; Apcintex: Consultancy; Ainylam: Consultancy; F. Hoffmann-La Roche Ltd: Consultancy; Genentech: Consultancy; Pfizer: Consultancy; CSL Behring: Consultancy; Bioverativ: Consultancy; Nove Nordisk: Consultancy; Siemens: Research Funding; HEMA Biologics: Consultancy; R2 Diagnostics: Research Funding. Ahuja:Shire: Honoraria, Speakers Bureau; Bayer: Honoraria; Bioverativ: Honoraria, Speakers Bureau. Staber:uniQure: Honoraria; Bayer: Honoraria; NovoNordisk: Consultancy. Sun:Octapharma: Research Funding; Novo Nordisk: Consultancy. Ding:Bioverativ: Other: Site PI for clinical research study. Wang:Bayer: Consultancy; Bayer, Novo Nordisk, Octapharma, Genentech, HEMA Biologics, Shire, CSL Behring: Honoraria; Bayer, Bioverative, Novo Nordisk, Octapharma, Shire, Genentech, Biomarain, Pfizer, CSL Behring, HEMA Biologics, Daiichi Sankyo: Research Funding; CSL Behring: Consultancy; Terumo BCT: Other: CPC Clinical Research; Novo Nordisk: Consultancy. Steele:Baxter/SHIRE: Other: Travel, Hotel; Bayer: Honoraria; Roche: Honoraria. Tsao:Bioverativ: Employment. Feng:Bioverativ: Employment. Al-Khateeb:Bioverativ: Other: Consultancy (via Trinity Partners, LLC). Dumont:Bioverativ: Employment. Jain:Bioverativ: Employment.

Abstract:

Abstract Purpose Despite the rapid increase in instrumented spinal fusions for a variety of indications, most studies focus on short-term fusion rates. Long-term clinical outcomes are still scarce and inconclusive. This study investigated clinical outcomes > 10 years after single-level instrumented posterolateral spinal fusion for lumbar degenerative or isthmic spondylolisthesis with neurological symptoms. Methods Cross-sectional long-term follow-up among the Dutch participants of an international multicenter randomized controlled trial comparing osteogenic protein-1 with autograft. Clinical outcomes were assessed using the Oswestry Disability Index (ODI), EQ-5D-3L and visual analogue scale (VAS) for leg and back pain, as well as questions on satisfaction with treatment and additional surgery. Results The follow-up rate was 73% (41 patients). At mean 11.8 (range 10.1–13.7) years after surgery, a non-significant deterioration of clinical outcomes compared to 1-year follow-up was observed. The mean ODI was 20 ± 19, mean EQ-5D-3L index score 0.784 ± 0.251 and mean VAS for leg and back pain, respectively, 34 ± 33 and 31 ± 28. Multiple regression showed that diagnosis (degenerative vs. isthmic spondylolisthesis), graft type (OP-1 vs. autograft) and 1-year fusion status (fusion vs. no fusion) were not predictive for the ODI at long-term follow-up (p = 0.389). Satisfaction with treatment was excellent and over 70% of the patients reported lasting improvement in back and/or leg pain. No revision surgeries for non-union were reported. Conclusion This study showed favourable clinical outcomes > 10 years after instrumented posterolateral spinal fusion and supports spondylolisthesis with neurological symptoms as indication for fusion surgery.

Abstract:

NOTE: This article was published in a former series of GEUS Bulletin. Please use the original series name when citing this article, for example: Dawes, P. R. (1997). Greenland, Denmark and the Faeroe Islands, and the national geological survey (GEUS): 1996, a year of transition for publications. Geology of Greenland Survey Bulletin, 176, 9-16. https://doi.org/10.34194/ggub.v176.5054 _______________ The former Geological Survey of Greenland (Grønlands Geologiske Undersøgelse: GGU) was to have celebrated its 50th anniversary in 1996. The ministerial reorganisation and the establishment of a Ministry of Environment and Energy led directly to the merger in 1995 of GGU with its much older relative, the Geological Survey of Denmark (Danmarks Geologiske Undersøgelse: DGU). This larger institution, also with headquarters in Copenhagen, but with roots going back to the last century, had already celebrated its 100th birthday in 1988. DGU, as well as serving the sovereign country Denmark, had also a governmental mandate to serve the third country of the Kingdom of Denmark, the Faeroe Islands. As reported in last year’s Report of Activities, the fusion of these two well-known Danish institutions produced a new national geological survey with a staff of about 360, viz. the Geological Survey of Denmark and Greenland (Ghisler, 1996). The official name of the Survey is Danmarks og Grønlands Geologiske Undersøgelse; it is known increasingly within the Survey and nationally − and we hope in time internationally − by the everyday nickname GEUS, derived from the Danish name for a geological survey i.e. Geologisk Undersøgelse.

Abstract:

Artikkel annab ülevaate 20. sajandi alguse kirjandusliku avangardi suhetest tehnikaga. Avangardi (eriti futurismi) jaoks pidi tehnika saama loomise eeskujuks ja masinate seadused esteetilise loovuse seadusteks. Artikkel väidab, et paljud avangardi tekstiuuenduslikud ideaalid on vastuolus tehnika ideaalidega ja iseloomustavad ennekõike loodust. Tehnika väärtustas tulemust, avangard protsessi. Tehnika väärtustas süsteemsust, ennustatavust, koopialisust, avangard vabarütme, ennustamatust ja originaalsust. Tehnika nõudis ratsionaalsust ja eesmärgipärast tegutsemist, avangard kuulutas intuitsiooni ja prohvetlikku kujutlust. Tehnika tõi odavad masstooted, avangard hindas haruldust. Tehnika väärtustas funktsionaalsust, avangard ebafunktsionaalsust. Tehnika väärtustas puhtust ja hügieeni, avangard järgis inetuse esteetikat. Tehnika nõudis tootmises vigade ja häirete vältimist, avangard tõstis vea loovaks ideeks. The article examines the relationship between the early twentieth century international and Estonian literary avant-garde and new technology, which radically changed life and interpersonal relationships in Europe and America (trains, airplanes, metro, telephone, telegraph, skyscrapers, fast food, etc.). At first, I highlight general features connecting the new technology and its products, which emerged in distinct opposition to nature. The central activity in the world of technology appeared to be efficient, planned, and purposeful production, in which the main agents were engineer, designer, and worker. The new technology emphasized the value of the product, which rapidly became standardized and cheaply made mass-produced perfect copies of each other. The beauty of the new era was to be a technological, functionalist beauty. Production as a process had to operate without failures and the ideal product had to be without any defects. Therefore, the technological process had to be clean, even hygienic. The new technology established its own rhythm in modern cities, characterized by repeatability and predictability. At the same time, the technology covered cities by the voices that made up the noise of technology. It could be said, even, that the new technology exceeded the limits of time and space. The result was a world of simultaneity. At the same time, relationships and links between people became increasingly loose and the world and man’s worldview was characterized by increasing fragmentation. The early European avant-garde at the beginning of the twentieth century greeted the new world of technology and speed with great enthusiasm (Italian futurism, constructivism, etc.). Perhaps only early expressionism and Russian futurism had even more ambivalent attitude to the technology. The First World War significantly decreased the pre-war fascination with technology. The war destroyed the faith in the machines; the machine now became a destroyer, and the new mechanical man (a fusion of man and machine) came into view as a killer with killed soul. At the same time, modern technology became more and more common in the everyday life, and, hence, the attitude towards technology changed. The technology became a harrowing phenomenon. For early European avant-garde, the new technology was supposed to become a model for the creation and laws of machines laws of aesthetic creativity (Marinetti). We can find several features in the texts of avant-garde (especially in poetry), which are in accordance with the new world of speed and technology. Simultaneous and fragmented text represented simultaneity and fragmentarity of the world. The speed was intermediated by the telegram style, parataxis, glossolalia, onomatopoeia, mathematical symbols, etc. The artist’s ideal was engineer and machine had to become a model for making the text. I present examples of such new texts in Estonian avant-garde poetry and prose. However, much of the avant-garde ideas and ideals for textual innovation contradicted the ideals of technology. Whilst technology predominantly esteemed the result, the avant-garde valued the process of making the text. In addition, the world of technology expected systematics, predictability, repetitive rhythms, and copies while avant-garde proclaimed free rhythms, free verse, unpredictability, and originality. Technology insisted on rational and purposeful acting; avant-garde proclaimed intuition and prophetic imagination. Technology brought cheap mass products; avant-garde appreciated the rarity and expensiveness. Technology promoted utilitarianism and functionality; avant-garde non-functionality. Technology put stress on the cleanliness and hygiene of the products; avant-garde often followed the aesthetics of ugliness. Technology required efficiency and economy of production, avoiding mistakes and disturbances; avant-garde regarded error as a creative idea. I argue that many of these avant-garde ideas are very similar to nature. For example, chaos, illogicality, glossolalia, words-in-freedom, and zaum truly characterize nature. Originality, variability, unpredictable rhythms, non-systematicity are also the qualities of nature. Lack of purpose, irrationality, and lack of thought are features of nature. An error or a shift as the basis of creation and inefficiency characterizes nature, too. The aesthetics of ugliness parallels the ugliness of nature. Thus, the observance of the avant-garde ideals results in a text that, on the one hand, craves the world of technology and machines, but on the other hand goes back to the ideas and ideals of nature and seeks solutions largely in the same way as nature.

Abstract:

The year 2019 is the 150th anniversary of John Wesley Powell’s epic exploration of the Colorado River through Grand Canyon and the 100th anniversary of the establishment of Grand Canyon National Park. This is an excellent moment to look back 150 years to think about where we have come from as a science and society, and look forward 100 years towards the accelerated change we expect in the future. For historians, archaeologists, geologists and astronomers, of course, this century-long time scale is short compared to other perspectives. They might choose also to celebrate the 479th anniversary of the first sighting of Grand Canyon by Europeans in 1540, the 1000th anniversary of Ancestral Puebloan farmers in Grand Canyon, the 12,000th anniversary of the arrival of humans migrating south from the Bering Land Bridge, the 5 millionth anniversary of the integration of the Colorado River through Grand Canyon to the Gulf of California, the 4.6 billionth anniversary of the formation of Earth, or the 13.75 billionth anniversary of the Big Bang and the formation of our Universe. Geology is all about time, and knowing some geology helps with the difficult endeavour of placing human timeframes into perspectives of deep time. This guide is for geology students of all levels and types visiting the South Rim of Grand Canyon. It is designed as a 3-day field trip and introduction to the rocks and landscapes. The term ‘students’ in our view also includes visitors who want to know about the basics of Grand Canyon geology while taking scenic hikes to see the geology first-hand. It is organized as if you enter the Park at its East entrance, near Cameron, and exit the Park at the South entrance, towards Flagstaff, but the three activities can be done in any order. As an introduction, we present a brief summary of the history of geologic maps and stratigraphic columns, and the geologists who made them. The maps and depictions of Grand Canyon geology over the past 160 years record a visual progression of how geoscience knowledge in general has developed and matured. The first sixty years, before the Park was founded, may have been the greatest in terms of the rapid growth that merged geology, art and public outreach. The second fifty years (to about 1969) saw important advances in stratigraphy and paleontology and solid efforts by the Park to apply and interpret Grand Canyon geology for the public. The most recent 50 years have seen major advances in regional geological mapping, dating of rocks, plate tectonics, and improved geoscience interpretation. The next 100 years will hopefully see additional innovative efforts to use the iconic field laboratory of Grand Canyon rocks and landscapes to resolve global geoscience debates, inform resource sustainability imperatives and contribute to science literacy for an international public. The three activities described are as follows: Activity 1 (an hour or two) is an overview from Lipan Point. This is a vehicle pull-out on the East Rim drive and serves as an introduction for those entering the Park, or a recap for those who are leaving. Activity 2 (most of a day) is a day hike on the South Rim with visits to Yavapai Geology Museum and the Trail of Time Exhibit. The Trail of Time is a geology timeline trail laid out at a scale of one metre = 1 million years along the Rim Trail. It is a great family hike, fully accessible, with magnificent views of Grand Canyon. The rocks were collected along the river and have been placed at their ‘birthdays’ along the Trail for you to see and touch and sketch. If you walk the entire 4.56 km (2.8 mile) Trail of Time, a long way, you get a visceral feeling for the age of the Earth and you also go through historic Grand Canyon Village for lunch and shops. Activity 3 (all day) is a hike to Plateau Point along the Bright Angel Trail. One has not really seen and appreciated Grand Canyon geology until you delve its depths. You can go any distance down, but if you do the entire 19 km (12 mile) hike, you descend through a 1 km (3300 foot) thick set of Paleozoic rock layers to a spectacular vista where you feel like you can touch the Colorado River as well as the Grand Canyon Supergroup and Vishnu basem*nt rocks of the inner Granite Gorge. The Plateau Point Trail takes off at Indian Gardens, or alternatively, this guide describes some good geology stops a short way down Garden Creek. The Bright Angel Trail continues to the Colorado River and to Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the canyon, but this is generally done as an overnight endeavour. You can get campground reservations (https://www.nps.gov/grca/planyourvisit/campsite-information.htm) or reservations at Phantom Ranch well in advance through a lottery (https://www.grandcanyonlodges.com/lodging/lottery/). RÉSUMÉL’année 2019 marque le 150e anniversaire de l’exploration épique du fleuve Colorado par John Wesley Powell à travers le Grand Canyon ainsi que le 100e anniversaire de la création du parc national du Grand Canyon. C’est un excellent moment pour regarder 150 ans en arrière et se rappeler le chemin parcouru par la science et la société, et envisager le changement accéléré auquel nous nous attendons pour les 100 prochaines années. Pour les historiens, les archéologues, les géologues et les astronomes, bien sûr, cette échelle d'un siècle est courte par rapport à d'autres perspectives. Ils pourraient également choisir de célébrer le 479e anniversaire de la première observation du Grand Canyon par les Européens en 1540, le 1000e anniversaire des agriculteurs Pueblo ancestraux dans le Grand Canyon, le 12 000e anniversaire de l'arrivée d'humains migrant depuis l'isthme de Béring vers le sud, le 5 millionième anniversaire de l'intégration du fleuve Colorado à travers le Grand Canyon jusqu'au golfe de Californie, le 4,6 milliardième anniversaire de la formation de la Terre ou le 13,75 milliardième anniversaire du Big Bang et de la formation de notre univers. La géologie est une question de temps, et connaître un peu de géologie facilite la tâche difficile qui consiste à placer l’échelle de temps humaine dans le contexte du « temps profond ». Ce guide est destiné aux étudiants en géologie de tous niveaux et de tous types qui visitent le South Rim du Grand Canyon. Il est conçu comme une excursion de trois jours et une initiation aux roches et aux paysages. Selon nous, le terme « étudiants » inclut également les visiteurs qui souhaitent en savoir plus sur la géologie de base du Grand Canyon tout en faisant des randonnées panoramiques pour observer la géologie. Il est organisé comme si vous entrez dans le parc par son entrée est, près de Cameron, et quittez le parc par l’entrée sud, en direction de Flagstaff, mais les trois activités peuvent être effectuées dans n’importe quel ordre. En guise d'introduction, nous présentons un bref résumé de l'histoire des cartes géologiques et des colonnes stratigraphiques, ainsi que les géologues qui les ont réalisées. Les cartes et les représentations de la géologie du Grand Canyon au cours des 160 dernières années montrent une progression visuelle de l'évolution et de la maturation des connaissances géoscientifiques en général. Les soixante premières années, avant la création du parc, ont peut-être été les meilleures en termes de croissance rapide résultant de la fusion de la géologie, de l’art et de la vulgarisation. Les cinquante années suivantes (jusqu’en 1969 environ) ont été marquées par d’importants progrès en stratigraphie et paléontologie et par les efforts soutenus du parc pour permettre au public d'accéder à l’application et l’interprétation de la géologie du Grand Canyon. Au cours des 50 dernières années, la cartographie géologique régionale, la datation des roches, la tectonique des plaques et l'amélioration de l'interprétation géoscientifique ont considérablement progressé. Espérons que les 100 prochaines années verront des efforts novateurs supplémentaires visant à utiliser l’emblématique laboratoire des roches et du paysages du Grand Canyon pour résoudre les débats géoscientifiques mondiaux, informer sur les impératifs de durabilité des ressources et contribuer à la culture scientifique d’un public international. Les trois activités décrites sont les suivantes. L’activité 1 (une heure ou deux) est une vue d’ensemble de Lipan Point. Il s’agit d’une sortie en véhicule sur East Rim Drive et sert d’introduction pour ceux qui entrent dans le parc ou de récapitulation pour ceux qui en partent. L'activité 2 (presque une journée) est une randonnée d'une journée sur le South Rim avec la visite du musée de géologie de Yavapai et de l'exposition « Trail of Time ». Le « Trail of Time » est un sentier chronologique géologique tracé à une échelle d'un mètre pour un million d'années le long de Rim Trail. C'est une excellente randonnée en famille, entièrement accessible, avec des vues magnifiques sur le Grand Canyon. Les roches ont été collectées le long de la rivière et ont été placées à leurs « anniversaires » le long du sentier pour que le public puisse les voir, les toucher et les dessiner. Le parcours entier du « Trail of Time » sur 4,56 km (2,8 miles) offre une représentation intuitive de l'âge de la Terre et permet de passer également par le village historique du Grand Canyon pour déjeuner et faire les boutiques. L'activité 3 (toute la journée) consiste en une randonnée vers Plateau Point, le long de Bright Angel Trail. On n'a pas vraiment vu et apprécié la géologie du Grand Canyon tant qu’on n’en a pas exploré les profondeurs. N'importe quelle distance peut être parcourue, mais en arpentant les 19 km (12 milles) de la randonnée entière, on descend à travers un ensemble de couches de roches paléozoïques épaisses de 1 km (3 300 pieds) jusqu'à une vue spectaculaire où on a l’impression de pouvoir toucher le fleuve Colorado ainsi que le super-groupe du Grand Canyon et les roches du socle de Vishnu de la gorge granitique intérieure. Le Plateau Point Trail commence à Indian Gardens mais ce guide propose d’autres points de départ avec une géologie intéressante non loin de Garden Creek. Le Bright Angel Trail continue vers le fleuve Colorado et le Phantom Ranch au fond du canyon, mais cela se fait généralement de manière nocturne. Des emplacements aux terrains de camping peuvent être réservés (https://www.nps.gov/grca/planyourvisit/campsite-information.htm) ou des réservations au Phantom Ranch peuvent être obtenues bien à l’avance par le biais d’une loterie (https://www.grandcanyonlodges.com/lodging/lottery/).

Abstract:

Naomi Klein’s global bestseller No Logo was published in paperback in the USA in December 2000; in the UK in January 2001. Few blockbuster publications can have been more sweetly timed. All around the world, spectacular public protests were occurring at major international forums: at the World Trade Organisation meeting in Seattle in 1999, at Melbourne’s World Economic Forum meeting in September 2000 and later that month at the International Monetary Fund meeting in Prague. In what was dubbed a ‘year of global protest’ in journals from the Providence Phoenix to the Socialist Review, Klein’s book seemed to offer a story that lent coherence to what was otherwise seen as a bewilderingly heterogenous ‘movement’. Though protestors were often described in the media as criticising and opposing ‘globalisation’, the sense of this perennially vague word, and the nature and purpose of oppositional practice, seemed to change depending on who was asked: French farmers, Washington trade unionists, African politicians, feral DJs, or those emblematic ‘anarchists in black ski masks’ with whom reporters everywhereseemed to be so fascinated. Amidst media and public confusion, and concerns that the new movements might simply be incoherent, Klein suggested that the major target of these plural global protests was, and ought to be postmodernity’s hegemon, the trans-national corporation, particularly where it was operating in its newer, brand-driven mode. At a time when we were told that symbolic production was the dominant economic mode in the West, the logo which was the new corporation’s organising principle, its key property and the talisman of its identity was, in Klein’s view, a sensible, even inevitable focus for dissent. The logo, and a corporation’s brand, partly since they were its central commodities, were also its vulnerabilities. Describing the often-horrific consequences of TNCs’ negiligent or nasty labour and environmental practices (on- and offshore), their voracious co-optation of popular culture, and pointing out the contradictions between these tendencies and the companies’ lovingly nurtured brand identities, Klein offered a rationale for those practices which themselves acted on the symbolic level, and turned the logo against its masters. With Klein (and others like Adbusters) describing, validating and promoting new (and not so new) forms of anticorporate activism, methods of creative resistance with lineage stretching back at least as far as dada became nominalised, - or perhaps branded – as “culture-jamming”, “adbusting”, “hacktivism” etc. In academe, scholarly capital was made from taxonomies and histories of such practices produced for an audience anxious to know about radical cultural action that seemed to be premised on a critical semiotics. These practices themselves became popular (or was it just that they were, suddenly, easier to recognise?) Activist appropriations of the logo began to proliferate, dotting the landscape of our visual culture like pimples on the cheeks of McDonald’s staff. The visual-cultural hack had been codified, incorporated, disseminated, not least through the circuits of that paradigm of international capitalism, publishing. Some questions arose almost immediately. Was the work of Klein and the culture-jammers, whose critique parasitised its object, simply doing its merry, viral work within the body of its late-capitalist host? Or was Klein’s packaging of dissent the final, grand co-optation of oppositional practice? Did either question make sense? And, finally, what was the Matrix? More questions have arisen about Klein’s book and what it described as time has passed. Though her publisher, forgivably, drew comparisons with Marx, whereas Lenin required a prison sentence to come to grips with Capital, No Logo requires only a weekend of a moderately speedy reader. Is the book’s easily digestible analysis sufficient to its object – nothing less than global capitalism – and is a sufficient basis for effective critical action? Does the book, and the practices it describes, simply represent a recrudescence of the tendency on the left, related to Puritan iconoclasm, to be suspicious of visual culture, wary of pleasure and alert for what the illusion conceals? Does Klein’s description of the contradictions between brand identity and corporate practice represent a repetition of ideological critique, where brand management is collapsed into the manufacturing of false consciousness? Does it all proceed from an anxiety around the operation of the sign and its circulation? Or is the opposite true, and is this activism as a playful semiotic contest with(in) corporate culture? Does Klein’s (and, she implies, her generation’s) self-confessed fascination with ‘the shiny surfaces of pop culture’ lead to a fetishism of branding practices and a lack of attention to the operations of what Marxists once called the ‘base’, and do her solutions amount to a strategy of consumer sovereignty-style activism, which leaves the structures of global inequality intact? Does No Logo privilege Western consumer activism as a solution, and does it, through its deployment of the suffering of the Oriental other, simply reconstitute a ‘zone of safety’ around the Western subject? Is it possible, in any case, for any more detailed or nuanced analysis to have a non-specialist circulation? Is it significant that almost all responses to the book are structured by ambivalence? You may be relieved to know that the ‘logo’ edition of m/c, though it needs to be situated in relation to the popular emergence of ‘logo-centric’ critique and practice, doesn’t try to answer too many of these questions directly. Instead, the authors approach the issue theme from the perspective of 2003, where, among other things, a war has intervened and exposed again the strengths and weaknesses of global dissent, and the ambitions of global capital. What this edition of m/c indicates is the variety of possible responses to, and uses of, corporate visual culture. Some of the authors write about or speak to the ‘celebrities’ of anticorporate activism – the new avant-gardes – showing not only that their plurality of political positions, motivations, and means of expression always meant a diverse and surprising range of actions beyond the scope of terms like ‘culture jamming’, but that the character of anticorporate activism has changed since (or always evaded) Klein’s attempt to map them. McKenzie Wark’s feature article is written in the finest tradition of cultural histories of the avant-garde. It tells the story of etoy, the Swiss collective who through fortuity and their own taste for refusal were thrown into a confrontation with one of the brightest rising corporate stars of the e-commerce boom. The importance of this confrontation and its implications increased in direct proportion with its growing absurdity. Danni Zuvela’s chat with the producers of Value-Added Cinema, Susie Khamis’s piece on ®™ark and jOhn pAce’s on the Yes Men show us the interesting and, importantly, very funny methods used by anticorporate activists in challenging the operations of global corporations and the metanational . Some of the authors tell new kinds of stories about brands and their use. Douglas Rushkoff gives us a brief history of the brand and its use in coercion. Lucy Nicholas, in ‘What kind of f*cked version of Hello Kitty are you’, ingeniously maps generational and political contest within feminism onto the differing readings, uses and appropriations of that emblem of Japanese-style cuteness, Hello Kitty, based on her research on, and practice of riot grrrl feminism. Andrew Grainger and David L. Andrews, in ‘Postmodern Puma’, tell of how Puma’s commercial recovery in recent years has been premised on ‘nurturing of an ever-expanding array of consumer subjectivities’, and suggest that the very mutability of Puma’s brand identity may ensure its survival in the global style wars. The reader will also find extended theoretical consideration of the mechanisms and functionings of the logo in meaning-making, and of its place in contemporary visual culture. While Helene Frichot carries out a Deleuzean critique of the operations of the logo and its makers, Douglas Kellner thinks about the logo in terms of Situationist ideas about the society of the spectacle, and wonders about the logo as both stimulus to, and object of consumption. In two of the collected pieces, we find scholars turning the lens around on educational institutions, and considering the genesis and uses of the scholarly ‘brand’. Jeremy Hunsinger is concerned with the conversion of the university, and academic reputation, into brand identity. Ned Rossiter worries about the rise of ‘creative industries’ as a scholarly and institutional paradigm in place of the traditional humanities, and and wonders how much it really helps the students in whose name it is instituted. This is related to a paper Rossiter delivered with Danny Butt at the Cultural Studies Association of Australia conference in 2002, which gave rise to lively discussion. While Craig Bellamy echoes and expands on themes in this introduction with a survey of global protest and social movements in the years since No Logo was published, the issue’s cover art – ‘logo’s’ logo – subtly amplifies and complements the themes of the whole issue. In the beginning, we are told, was the word (‘logos’), later we get the word made flesh. Here then is the flesh-made word; the visceral, original meaning of brand presented to us by Melbourne artist busa<>aat. Here is the logo (home)-branded on meat, reminding us of the brand’s genesis as a marker for organic chattels, and parodying and predicting the trajectory of symbolic capital – beyond the adolescent “love-marks” of contemporary branders and into the fusion of flesh and fantasy – real branding, where the good defines the Good. From a present where footballers rename themselves ‘Whiskas’ for a day, busa<>aat sees a future where we can dance together toe to logo, jiggling to a jingle, competing like microscopic Spanish dancers on an Arnott’s Shape. One where we can all get on down at the logo au-go-go. May we have this dance? Works Cited Klein, Naomi. No Logo: Taking Aim at the Brand Bullies. New York: Picador, 2000. Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Pace, John and Wilson, Jason A.. "(No) Logo Au-go-go " M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture< http://www.media-culture.org.au/0306/01-editorial.php>. APA Style Pace, J. & Wilson, J. A. (2003, Jun 19). (No) Logo Au-go-go . M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 6,< http://www.media-culture.org.au/0306/01-editorial.php>

Abstract:

All history of this area and the general talk and all of that is that 1973 was a turning point and the Aquarius Festival is credited with having turned this region around in so many ways, but I think that is a myth ... and I have to honour the truth; and the truth is that old Dicke Donelly came and did a Welcome to Country the night before the festival. (Joseph in Joseph and Hanley)In 1973 the Australian Union of Students (AUS) held the Aquarius Arts and Lifestyle Festival in a small, rural New South Wales town called Nimbin. The festival was seen as the peak expression of Australian counterculture and is attributed to creating the “Rainbow Region”, an area with a concentration of alternative life stylers in Northern NSW (Derrett 28). While the Aquarius Festival is recognised as a founding historical and countercultural event, the unique and important relationships established with Indigenous people at this time are generally less well known. This article investigates claims that the 1973 Aquarius Festival was “the first event in Australian history that sought permission for the use of the land from the Traditional Owners” (Joseph and Hanley). The diverse international, national and local conditions that coalesced at the Aquarius Festival suggest a fertile environment was created for reconciliatory bonds to develop. Often dismissed as a “tree hugging, soap dodging movement,” the counterculture was radically politicised having sprung from the 1960s social revolutions when the world witnessed mass demonstrations that confronted war, racism, sexism and capitalism. Primarily a youth movement, it was characterised by flamboyant dress, music, drugs and mass gatherings with universities forming the epicentre and white, middle class youth leading the charge. As their ideals of changing the world were frustrated by lack of systematic change, many decided to disengage and a migration to rural settings occurred (Jacob; Munro-Clarke; Newton). In the search for alternatives, the counterculture assimilated many spiritual practices, such as Eastern traditions and mysticism, which were previously obscure to the Western world. This practice of spiritual syncretism can be represented as a direct resistance to the hegemony of the dominant Western culture (Stell). As the new counterculture developed, its progression from urban to rural settings was driven by philosophies imbued with a desire to reconnect with and protect the natural world while simultaneously rejecting the dominant conservative order. A recurring feature of this countercultural ‘back to the land’ migration was not only an empathetic awareness of the injustices of colonial past, but also a genuine desire to learn from the Indigenous people of the land. Indigenous people were generally perceived as genuine opposers of Westernisation, inherently spiritual, ecological, tribal and communal, thus encompassing the primary values to which the counterculture was aspiring (Smith). Cultures converged. One, a youth culture rebelling from its parent culture; the other, ancient cultures reeling from the historical conquest by the youths’ own ancestors. Such cultural intersections are rich with complex scenarios and politics. As a result, often naïve, but well-intended relations were established with Native Americans, various South American Indigenous peoples, New Zealand Maori and, as this article demonstrates, the Original People of Australia (Smith; Newton; Barr-Melej; Zolov). The 1960s protest era fostered the formation of groups aiming to address a variety of issues, and at times many supported each other. Jennifer Clarke says it was the Civil Rights movement that provided the first models of dissent by formulating a “method, ideology and language of protest” as African Americans stood up and shouted prior to other movements (2). The issue of racial empowerment was not lost on Australia’s Indigenous population. Clarke writes that during the 1960s, encouraged by events overseas and buoyed by national organisation, Aborigines “slowly embarked on a political awakening, demanded freedom from the trappings of colonialism and responded to the effects of oppression at worst and neglect at best” (4). Activism of the 1960s had the “profoundly productive effect of providing Aborigines with the confidence to assert their racial identity” (159). Many Indigenous youth were compelled by the zeitgeist to address their people’s issues, fulfilling Charlie Perkins’s intentions of inspiring in Indigenous peoples a will to resist (Perkins). Enjoying new freedoms of movement out of missions, due to the 1967 Constitutional change and the practical implementation of the assimilation policy, up to 32,000 Indigenous youth moved to Redfern, Sydney between 1967 and 1972 (Foley, “An Evening With”). Gary Foley reports that a dynamic new Black Power Movement emerged but the important difference between this new younger group and the older Indigenous leaders of the day was the diverse range of contemporary influences. Taking its mantra from the Black Panther movement in America, though having more in common with the equivalent Native American Red Power movement, the Black Power Movement acknowledged many other international struggles for independence as equally inspiring (Foley, “An Evening”). People joined together for grassroots resistance, formed anti-hierarchical collectives and established solidarities between varied groups who previously would have had little to do with each other. The 1973 Aquarius Festival was directly aligned with “back to the land” philosophies. The intention was to provide a place and a reason for gathering to “facilitate exchanges on survival techniques” and to experience “living in harmony with the natural environment.” without being destructive to the land (Dunstan, “A Survival Festival”). Early documents in the archives, however, reveal no apparent interest in Australia’s Indigenous people, referring more to “silken Arabian tents, mediaeval banners, circus, jugglers and clowns, peace pipes, maypole and magic circles” (Dunstan, “A Survival Festival”). Obliterated from the social landscape and minimally referred to in the Australian education system, Indigenous people were “off the radar” to the majority mindset, and the Australian counterculture similarly was slow to appreciate Indigenous culture. Like mainstream Australia, the local counterculture movement largely perceived the “race” issue as something occurring in other countries, igniting the phrase “in your own backyard” which became a catchcry of Indigenous activists (Foley, “Whiteness and Blackness”) With no mention of any Indigenous interest, it seems likely that the decision to engage grew from the emerging climate of Indigenous activism in Australia. Frustrated by student protestors who seemed oblivious to local racial issues, focusing instead on popular international injustices, Indigenous activists accused them of hypocrisy. Aquarius Festival directors, found themselves open to similar accusations when public announcements elicited a range of responses. Once committed to the location of Nimbin, directors Graeme Dunstan and Johnny Allen began a tour of Australian universities to promote the upcoming event. While at the annual conference of AUS in January 1973 at Monash University, Dunstan met Indigenous activist Gary Foley: Gary witnessed the presentation of Johnny Allen and myself at the Aquarius Foundation session and our jubilation that we had agreement from the village residents to not only allow, but also to collaborate in the production of the Festival. After our presentation which won unanimous support, it was Gary who confronted me with the question “have you asked permission from local Aboriginal folk?” This threw me into confusion because we had seen no Aboriginals in Nimbin. (Dunstan, e-mail) Such a challenge came at a time when the historical climate was etched with political activism, not only within the student movement, but more importantly with Indigenous activists’ recent demonstrations, such as the installation in 1972 of the Tent Embassy in Canberra. As representatives of the counterculture movement, which was characterised by its inclinations towards consciousness-raising, AUS organisers were ethically obliged to respond appropriately to the questions about Indigenous permission and involvement in the Aquarius Festival at Nimbin. In addition to this political pressure, organisers in Nimbin began hearing stories of the area being cursed or taboo for women. This most likely originated from the tradition of Nimbin Rocks, a rocky outcrop one kilometre from Nimbin, as a place where only certain men could go. Jennifer Hoff explains that many major rock formations were immensely sacred places and were treated with great caution and respect. Only a few Elders and custodians could visit these places and many such locations were also forbidden for women. Ceremonies were conducted at places like Nimbin Rocks to ensure the wellbeing of all tribespeople. Stories of the Nimbin curse began to spread and most likely captivated a counterculture interested in mysticism. As organisers had hoped that news of the festival would spread on the “lips of the counterculture,” they were alarmed to hear how “fast the bad news of this curse was travelling” (Dunstan, e-mail). A diplomatic issue escalated with further challenges from the Black Power community when organisers discovered that word had spread to Sydney’s Indigenous community in Redfern. Organisers faced a hostile reaction to their alleged cultural insensitivity and were plagued by negative publicity with accusations the AUS were “violating sacred ground” (Janice Newton 62). Faced with such bad press, Dunstan was determined to repair what was becoming a public relations disaster. It seemed once prompted to the path, a sense of moral responsibility prevailed amongst the organisers and they took the unprecedented step of reaching out to Australia’s Indigenous people. Dunstan claimed that an expedition was made to the local Woodenbong mission to consult with Elder, Uncle Lyle Roberts. To connect with local people required crossing the great social divide present in that era of Australia’s history. Amy Nethery described how from the nineteenth century to the 1960s, a “system of reserves, missions and other institutions isolated, confined and controlled Aboriginal people” (9). She explains that the people were incarcerated as a solution to perceived social problems. For Foley, “the widespread genocidal activity of early “settlement” gave way to a policy of containment” (Foley, “Australia and the Holocaust”). Conditions on missions were notoriously bad with alcoholism, extreme poverty, violence, serious health issues and depression common. Of particular concern to mission administrators was the perceived need to keep Indigenous people separate from the non-indigenous population. Dunstan described the mission he visited as having “bad vibes.” He found it difficult to communicate with the elderly man, and was not sure if he understood Dunstan’s quest, as his “responses came as disjointed raves about Jesus and saving grace” (Dunstan, e-mail). Uncle Lyle, he claimed, did not respond affirmatively or negatively to the suggestion that Nimbin was cursed, and so Dunstan left assuming it was not true. Other organisers began to believe the curse and worried that female festival goers might get sick or worse, die. This interpretation reflected, as Vanessa Bible argues, a general Eurocentric misunderstanding of the relationship of Indigenous peoples with the land. Paul Joseph admits they were naïve whites coming into a place with very little understanding, “we didn’t know if we needed a witch doctor or what we needed but we knew we needed something from the Aborigines to lift the spell!”(Joseph and Hanley). Joseph, one of the first “hippies” who moved to the area, had joined forces with AUS organisers. He said, “it just felt right” to get Indigenous involvement and recounted how organisers made another trip to Woodenbong Mission to find Dickee (Richard) Donnelly, a Song Man, who was very happy to be invited. Whether the curse was valid or not it proved to be productive in further instigating respectful action. Perhaps feeling out of their depth, the organisers initiated another strategy to engage with Australian Indigenous people. A call out was sent through the AUS network to diversify the cultural input and it was recommended they engage the services of South African artist, Bauxhau Stone. Timing aligned well as in 1972 Australia had voted in a new Prime Minister, Gough Whitlam. Whitlam brought about significant political changes, many in response to socialist protests that left a buoyancy in the air for the counterculturalist movement. He made prodigious political changes in support of Indigenous people, including creating the Aboriginal Arts Board as part of the Australian Council of the Arts (ACA). As the ACA were already funding activities for the Aquarius Festival, organisers were successful in gaining two additional grants specifically for Indigenous participation (Farnham). As a result We were able to hire […] representatives, a couple of Kalahari bushmen. ‘Cause we were so dumb, we didn’t think we could speak to the black people, you know what I mean, we thought we would be rejected, or whatever, so for us to really reach out, we needed somebody black to go and talk to them, or so we thought, and it was remarkable. This one Bau, a remarkable fellow really, great artist, great character, he went all over Australia. He went to Pitjantjatjara, Yirrkala and we arranged buses and tents when they got here. We had a very large contingent of Aboriginal people come to the Aquarius Festival, thanks to Whitlam. (Joseph in Joseph and Henley) It was under the aegis of these government grants that Bauxhau Stone conducted his work. Stone embodied a nexus of contemporary issues. Acutely aware of the international movement for racial equality and its relevance to Australia, where conditions were “really appalling”, Stone set out to transform Australian race relations by engaging with the alternative arts movement (Stone). While his white Australian contemporaries may have been unaccustomed to dealing with the Indigenous racial issue, Stone was actively engaged and thus well suited to act as a cultural envoy for the Aquarius Festival. He visited several local missions, inviting people to attend and notifying them of ceremonies being conducted by respected Elders. Nimbin was then the site of the Aquarius Lifestyle and Celebration Festival, a two week gathering of alternative cultures, technologies and youth. It innovatively demonstrated its diversity of influences, attracted people from all over the world and was the first time that the general public really witnessed Australia’s counterculture (Derrett 224). As markers of cultural life, counterculture festivals of the 1960s and 1970s were as iconic as the era itself and many around the world drew on the unique Indigenous heritage of their settings in some form or another (Partridge; Perone; Broadley and Jones; Zolov). The social phenomenon of coming together to experience, celebrate and foster a sense of unity was triggered by protests, music and a simple, yet deep desire to reconnect with each other. Festivals provided an environment where the negative social pressures of race, gender, class and mores (such as clothes) were suspended and held the potential “for personal and social transformation” (St John 167). With the expressed intent to “take matters into our own hands” and try to develop alternative, innovative ways of doing things with collective participation, the Aquarius Festival thus became an optimal space for reinvigorating ancient and Indigenous ways (Dunstan, “A Survival Festival”). With philosophies that venerated collectivism, tribalism, connecting with the earth, and the use of ritual, the Indigenous presence at the Aquarius Festival gave attendees the opportunity to experience these values. To connect authentically with Nimbin’s landscape, forming bonds with the Traditional Owners was essential. Participants were very fortunate to have the presence of the last known initiated men of the area, Uncle Lyle Roberts and Uncle Dickee Donnely. These Elders represented the last vestiges of an ancient culture and conducted innovative ceremonies, song, teachings and created a sacred fire for the new youth they encountered in their land. They welcomed the young people and were very happy for their presence, believing it represented a revolutionary shift (Wedd; King; John Roberts; Cecil Roberts). Images 1 and 2: Ceremony and talks conducted at the Aquarius Festival (people unknown). Photographs reproduced by permission of photographer and festival attendee Paul White. The festival thus provided an important platform for the regeneration of cultural and spiritual practices. John Roberts, nephew of Uncle Lyle, recalled being surprised by the reaction of festival participants to his uncle: “He was happy and then he started to sing. And my God … I couldn’t get near him! There was this big ring of hippies around him. They were about twenty deep!” Sharing to an enthusiastic, captive audience had a positive effect and gave the non-indigenous a direct Indigenous encounter (Cecil Roberts; King; Oshlak). Estimates of the number of Indigenous people in attendance vary, with the main organisers suggesting 800 to 1000 and participants suggesting 200 to 400 (Stone; Wedd; Oshlak: Joseph; King; Cecil Roberts). As the Festival lasted over a two week period, many came and left within that time and estimates are at best reliant on memory, engagement and perspectives. With an estimated total attendance at the Festival between 5000 and 10,000, either number of Indigenous attendees is symbolic and a significant symbolic statistic for Indigenous and non-indigenous to be together on mutual ground in Australia in 1973. Images 3-5: Performers from Yirrkala Dance Group, brought to the festival by Stone with funding from the Federal Government. Photographs reproduced by permission of photographer and festival attendee Dr Ian Cameron. For Indigenous people, the event provided an important occasion to reconnect with their own people, to share their culture with enthusiastic recipients, as well as the chance to experience diverse aspects of the counterculture. Though the northern NSW region has a history of diverse cultural migration of Italian and Indian families, the majority of non-indigenous and Indigenous people had limited interaction with cosmopolitan influences (Kijas 20). Thus Nimbin was a conservative region and many Christianised Indigenous people were also conservative in their outlook. The Aquarius Festival changed that as the Indigenous people experienced the wide-ranging cultural elements of the alternative movement. The festival epitomised countercultural tendencies towards flamboyant fashion and hairstyles, architectural design, fantastical art, circus performance, Asian clothes and religious products, vegetarian food and nudity. Exposure to this bohemian culture would have surely led to “mind expansion and consciousness raising,” explicit aims adhered to by the movement (Roszak). Performers and participants from Africa, America and India also gave attending Indigenous Australians the opportunity to interact with non-European cultures. Many people interviewed for this paper indicated that Indigenous people’s reception of this festival experience was joyous. For Australia’s early counterculture, interest in Indigenous Australia was limited and for organisers of the AUS Aquarius Festival, it was not originally on the agenda. The counterculture in the USA and New Zealand had already started to engage with their Indigenous people some years earlier. However due to the Aquarius Festival’s origins in the student movement and its solidarities with the international Indigenous activist movement, they were forced to shift their priorities. The coincidental selection of a significant spiritual location at Nimbin to hold the festival brought up additional challenges and countercultural intrigue with mystical powers and a desire to connect authentically to the land, further prompted action. Essentially, it was the voices of empowered Indigenous activists, like Gary Foley, which in fact triggered the reaching out to Indigenous involvement. While the counterculture organisers were ultimately receptive and did act with unprecedented respect, credit must be given to Indigenous activists. The activist’s role is to trigger action and challenge thinking and in this case, it was ultimately productive. Therefore the Indigenous people were not merely passive recipients of beneficiary goodwill, but active instigators of appropriate cultural exchange. After the 1973 festival many attendees decided to stay in Nimbin to purchase land collectively and a community was born. Relationships established with local Indigenous people developed further. Upon visiting Nimbin now, one will see a vibrant visual display of Indigenous and psychedelic themed art, a central park with an open fire tended by local custodians and other Indigenous community members, an Aboriginal Centre whose rent is paid for by local shopkeepers, and various expressions of a fusion of counterculture and Indigenous art, music and dance. While it appears that reconciliation became the aspiration for mainstream society in the 1990s, Nimbin’s early counterculture history had Indigenous reconciliation at its very foundation. The efforts made by organisers of the 1973 Aquarius Festival stand as one of very few examples in Australian history where non-indigenous Australians have respectfully sought to learn from Indigenous people and to assimilate their cultural practices. It also stands as an example for the world, of reconciliation, based on hippie ideals of peace and love. They encouraged the hippies moving up here, even when they came out for Aquarius, old Uncle Lyle and Richard Donnelly, they came out and they blessed the mob out here, it was like the hairy people had come back, with the Nimbin, cause the Nimbynji is the little hairy people, so the hairy people came back (Jerome). References Barr-Melej, Patrick. “Siloísmo and the Self in Allende’s Chile: Youth, 'Total Revolution,' and the Roots of the Humanist Movement.” Hispanic American Historical Review 86.4 (Nov. 2006): 747-784. Bible, Vanessa. Aquarius Rising: Terania Creek and the Australian Forest Protest Movement. BA (Honours) Thesis. University of New England, Armidale, 2010. Broadley, Colin, and Judith Jones, eds. Nambassa: A New Direction. Auckland: Reed, 1979. Bryant, Gordon M. Parliament of Australia. Minister for Aboriginal Affairs. 1 May 1973. Australian Union of Students. Records of the AUS, 1934-1991. National Library of Australia MS ACC GB 1992.0505. Cameron, Ian. “Aquarius Festival Photographs.” 1973. Clarke, Jennifer. Aborigines and Activism: Race, Aborigines and the Coming of the Sixties to Australia. Crawley: University of Western Australia Press, 2008. Derrett, Ross. Regional Festivals: Nourishing Community Resilience: The Nature and Role of Cultural Festivals in Northern Rivers NSW Communities. PhD Thesis. Southern Cross University, Lismore, 2008. Dunstan, Graeme. “A Survival Festival May 1973.” 1 Aug. 1972. Pamphlet. MS 6945/1. Nimbin Aquarius Festival Archives. National Library of Australia, Canberra. ---. E-mail to author, 11 July 2012. ---. “The Aquarius Festival.” Aquarius Rainbow Region. n.d. Farnham, Ken. Acting Executive Officer, Aboriginal Council for the Arts. 19 June 1973. Letter. MS ACC GB 1992.0505. Australian Union of Students. Records of the AUS, 1934-1991. National Library of Australia, Canberra. Foley, Gary. “Australia and the Holocaust: A Koori Perspective (1997).” The Koori History Website. n.d. 20 May 2013 ‹http://www.kooriweb.org/foley/essays/essay_8.html›. ---. “Whiteness and Blackness in the Koori Struggle for Self-Determination (1999).” The Koori History Website. n.d. 20 May 2013 ‹http://www.kooriweb.org/foley/essays/essay_9.html›. ---. “Black Power in Redfern 1968-1972 (2001).” The Koori History Website. n.d. 20 May 2013 ‹http://www.kooriweb.org/foley/essays/essay_1.html›. ---. “An Evening with Legendary Aboriginal Activist Gary Foley.” Conference Session. Marxism 2012 “Revolution in the Air”, Melbourne, Mar. 2012. Hoff, Jennifer. Bundjalung Jugun: Bundjalung Country. Lismore: Richmond River Historical Society, 2006. Jacob, Jeffrey. New Pioneers: The Back-to-the-Land Movement and the Search for a Sustainable Future. Pennsylvania: Penn State Press, 1997. Jerome, Burri. Interview. 31 July 2012. Joseph, Paul. Interview. 7 Aug. 2012. Joseph, Paul, and Brendan ‘Mookx’ Hanley. Interview by Rob Willis. 14 Aug. 2010. Audiofile, Session 2 of 3. nla.oh-vn4978025. Rob Willis Folklore Collection. National Library of Australia, Canberra. Kijas, Johanna, Caravans and Communes: Stories of Settling in the Tweed 1970s & 1980s. Murwillumbah: Tweed Shire Council, 2011. King, Vivienne (Aunty Viv). Interview. 1 Aug. 2012. Munro-Clarke, Margaret. Communes of Rural Australia: The Movement Since 1970. Sydney: Hale and Iremonger, 1986. Nethery, Amy. “Aboriginal Reserves: ‘A Modern-Day Concentration Camp’: Using History to Make Sense of Australian Immigration Detention Centres.” Does History Matter? Making and Debating Citizenship, Immigration and Refugee Policy in Australia and New Zealand. Eds. Klaus Neumann and Gwenda Tavan. Canberra: Australian National University Press, 2009. 4. Newton, Janice. “Aborigines, Tribes and the Counterculture.” Social Analysis 23 (1988): 53-71. Newton, John. The Double Rainbow: James K Baxter, Ngati Hau and the Jerusalem Commune. Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2009. Offord, Baden. “Mapping the Rainbow Region: Fields of Belonging and Sites of Confluence.” Transformations 2 (March 2002): 1-5. Oshlak, Al. Interview. 27 Mar. 2013. Partridge, Christopher. “The Spiritual and the Revolutionary: Alternative Spirituality, British Free Festivals, and the Emergence of Rave Culture.” Culture and Religion: An Interdisciplinary Journal 7 (2006): 3-5. Perkins, Charlie. “Charlie Perkins on 1965 Freedom Ride.” Youtube, 13 Oct. 2009. Perone, James E. Woodstock: An Encyclopedia of the Music and Art Fair. Greenwood: Greenwood Publishing Group, 2005. Roberts, John. Interview. 1 Aug. 2012. Roberts, Cecil. Interview. 6 Aug. 2012. Roszak, Theodore. The Making of a Counter Culture: Reflections on the Technocratic Society and Its Youthful Opposition. New York: University of California Press,1969. St John, Graham. “Going Feral: Authentica on the Edge of Australian culture.” The Australian Journal of Anthropology 8 (1997): 167-189. Smith, Sherry. Hippies, Indians and the Fight for Red Power. New York: Oxford University Press, 2012. Stell, Alex. Dancing in the Hyper-Crucible: The Rite de Passage of the Post-Rave Movement. BA (Honours) Thesis. University of Westminster, London, 2005. Stone, Trevor Bauxhau. Interview. 1 Oct. 2012. Wedd, Leila. Interview. 27 Sep. 2012. White, Paul. “Aquarius Revisited.” 1973. Zolov, Eric. Refried Elvis: The Rise of the Mexican Counterculture. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999.

Abstract:

This article makes a case for the everyday while on tour and argues that the ability to continue with everyday routines and social relationships, while at the same time moving through and staying in liminal or atypical zones of tourist locales, is a key part of some kinds of tourist experience. Based on ethnographic field research with grey nomads (retirees who take extended tours of Australia in caravans and motorhomes) everyday life while on tour is examined, specifically the overlap and intersection between the out-of-the-ordinary “tourist zone” and the ordinariness of the “everyday zone.” The “everyday zone” and “tourist zone” can be readily differentiated by their obvious geospatial boundaries (being at home or being away on holiday). More specifically, the “everyday zone” refers to the routines of quotidian life, or the mundane practices which make up our daily, at-home lives. These practices are closely connected with the domestic realm and include consumption practices (clothing, cooking, mass media) and everyday social interactions. The “tourist zone” is similarly concerned with consumption. In this zone, however, tourists are seen to consume places; the culture, landscape, and peoples of exotic or out-of-the-ordinary tourist locales. Needless to say this consumption of place also includes the consumption of services and objects available in the tourist destinations (Urry, “The Consuming of Place” 220). The notion of tourists being away from home has often been contrasted with constructions of home—with the dull routines of everyday life—by social scientists and tourist marketers alike in an effort to illuminate the difference between being “away” and being at “home.” Scott McCabe and Elizabeth Stokoe suggest that peoples’ notion of “home” takes into account the meaning of being away (602). That is to say that when people are away from home, as tourists for example, they often compare and contrast this with the fundamental aspects of living at home. Others, however, argue that with the widespread use of mobile communication technologies, the distinction between the notion of being at “home” and being “away” becomes less clear (White and White 91). In this sense, the notion of home or the everyday is viewed with an eye towards social relationships, rather than any specific geographical location (Jamal and Hill 77–107; Massey 59–69; Urry, “The Tourist Gaze” 2–14; White and White 88–104). It can be argued, therefore, that tourism entails a fusion of the routines and relationships associated with the everyday, as well as the liminal or atypical world of difference. This article is based on semi-structured interviews with 40 grey nomads, as well as four months of ethnographic fieldwork carried out in rural and remote Australia—in Western Australia, the Northern Territory, and South Australia. Grey nomads have been part of Australian senior culture for at least four decades. They are a relatively heterogeneous group of tourists encompassing a range of socio-economic backgrounds, preferred activities, health status, and favoured destinations (Davies et al. 40–1; Economic Development Committee 4; Holloway 117–47), as well age cohorts—including the frugal generation (1910–1932), the silent generation (1931–1946), and the baby boomer generation (1946–65). Grey nomads usually tour as spousal couples (Tourism Research Australia 26; Onyx and Leonard 387). Some of these couples live solely on government pensions while others are obviously well-resourced—touring in luxury motorhomes costing well over half a million dollars. Some prefer to bush camp in national parks and other isolated locations, and some choose to stay long term in caravan parks socialising with other grey nomads and the local community. All grey nomads, nonetheless, maintain a particularly close link with the everyday while touring. Mobile communication technologies anchor grey nomads (and other tourists) to the everyday—allowing for ready contact with existing family and friends while on tour. Grey nomads’ mobile dwellings, their caravans and motorhomes, integrate familiar domestic spaces with a touring life. The interior and exterior spaces of these mobile dwellings allow for easy enactment of everyday, domestic routines and the privatised world of adult spousal relationships. This peripatetic form of dwelling, where the dwelling itself accommodates both travel and an everyday domestic life further blurs the distinctions between the “everyday zone” and the “tourist zone”. In this sense grey nomads carry out a lifestyle that is both anchored and mobile; anchored in the everyday domestic life while at the same time being nomadic or geographically unstable. This blurring of the boundaries between the “everyday zone” and “tourist zone” is attractive to senior tourists, offering them a relatively safe and comfortable incursion into tourist locales, where established routines and patterns of everyday life can be maintained. Other homes-away-from-homes such as serviced apartments, holiday homes and house swaps also offer greater connection to the everyday, but are geographically anchored to specific tourism spaces. The caravan or motorhome allows this at-home connection for the peripatetic tourist offsets the relative rigours of outback touring in remote and rural Australia. Everyday Social Relationships in the “Tourist Zone” When tourists go away from home, they are usually thought of as being away from both place (home) and relationships (family and friends). Nowadays, however, being away from home does not necessarily mean being away from family and friends. This is because the ease and speed of today’s telecommunication technologies allows for instantaneous contact with family and friends back home—or the virtual co-presence of family and friends while being away on tour. In the past, those friends and relations who were geographically isolated from each other still enjoyed social contact via letters and telegrams. Such contacts, however, occurred less frequently and message delivery took time. Long distance telephone calls were also costly and therefore used sparingly. These days, telecommunication technologies such as mobile phones and the Internet, as well as the lower cost of landline phone calls, mean that everyday social contact does not need to be put on hold. Keeping in contact is now a comparatively fast, inexpensive, and effortless activity and socialising with distant friends and relatives is now a routine activity (Larsen 24). All grey nomads travel with a mobile phone device, either a digital mobile, Next G or satellite phone (Obst, Brayley and King 8). These phones are used to routinely keep in contact with family and friends, bringing with them everyday familial relationships while on tour. “We ring the girls. We’ve got two daughters. We ring them once a week, although if something happens Debbie [daughter] will ring us” (Teresa). Grey nomads also take advantage of special deals or free minutes when they scheduled weekly calls to family or friends. “I mainly [use] mobile, then I ring, because I’ve got that hour, free hour” (Helen). E-mail is also a favoured way of keeping in contact with family and friends for some grey nomads. This is because the asynchronicity of e-mail interaction is very convenient as they can choose the times when they pick up and send messages. “Oh, thank goodness for the e-mail” (Pat). Maintaining social contact with family and friends at a distance is not necessarily as straightforward as when grey nomads and other tourists are at home. According to discussants in this study and the Regional Telecommunications Independent Review Committee, mobile phone coverage within Australia is still rather patchy when outside major metropolitan areas. Consequently, the everyday task of kin keeping via the phone can be somewhat intermittent, especially for those grey nomads who spend a great deal of time outside major towns in rural and remote Australia. “You can never get much [reception] but [...] they can just ring the mobile and just leave a message and we will get that message [later]” (Rena). Similarly, using the Internet to e-mail family and friends and catch up with online banking can only be carried out when passing through larger towns. “I do it [using the Internet] like every major town we went through. I’d stop and do a set of e-mails and I used to do my banking” (Maureen). The intermittent phone coverage in remote and rural Australia was not always viewed as an inconvenience by discussants in this study. This is because continuing engagement with family and friends while on tour may leave little respite from the ongoing obligations or any difficulties associated with family and friends back home, and encroach on the leisure and relaxation associated with grey nomad touring. “I don’t want the phone to ring […] That’s one thing I can do without, the phone ringing, especially at 4:00 in the morning” (Rena). In this way, too much co-presence, in the form of mobile phone calls from family and friends, can be just as much a nuisance when away from home as when at home—and impinge on the feeling of “being away from it all.” Naomi White and Peter White also suggest that “being simultaneously home and away is not always experienced in a positive light” (98) and at times, continued contact (via the phone) with friends and family while touring is not satisfying or enjoyable because these calls reiterate the “dynamics evident in those that are [usually] geographically proximate” (100). Thus, while mobile communication technologies are convenient tools for grey nomads and other tourists which blur the boundaries between the “everyday zone” and “tourist zones” in useful and pleasurable ways, their overuse may also encroach on tourists’ away time, thus interfering with their sense of solitude and quiescence when touring in remote or rural Australia. The “Everyday Zone” of the Caravan or Motorhome Being a tourist involves “everyday practices, ordinary places and significant others, such as family members and friends, but co-residing and at-a-distance” (Larsen 26). While tourism involves some sense of liminality, in reality, it is interspersed with the actuality of the everyday routines and sociabilities enacted while touring. Tim Edensor notes that; Rather than transcending the mundane, most forms of tourism are fashioned by culturally coded escape attempts. Moreover, although suffused with notions of escape from normativity, tourists carry quotidian habits and responses with them: they are part of the baggage. (61) Grey nomads go further than this by bringing on tour with them a domestic space in which everyday routines and sociabilities are sustained. Travelling in this manner “makes possible, and probably encourages, greater continuity with everyday routine than many other kinds of holiday making” (Southerton et al. 6). To be able to sleep in your own bed with your own pillow and linen, or perhaps travel with your dogs, makes caravanning and motorhoming an attractive touring option for many people. Thus, the use of caravans or motorhomes when travelling brings with it a great deal of mobile domesticity while on tour. The caravan or motorhome is furnished with most of the essentially-domestic objects and technologies to enable grey nomads to sleep, eat, relax, and be entertained in a manner similar to that which they enjoy in the family home, albeit within smaller dimensions. Lorna: We have shower, toilet. We had microwave, stereo. We have air conditioning and heating.Eric: Yeah, reverse cycle air conditioning.Lorna: Reverse cycle. What else do we have?Eric: Hot water service. Gas or 240 volt. 12 volt converter in that, which is real good, it runs your lights, runs everything like that. You just hook it into the main power and it converts it to 12 volt. Roll out awning plus the full annex.Lorna: Full annex. What else do we have? There’s a good size stove in it. The size of caravans and motorhomes means that many domestic tasks often take less time or are simplified. Cleaning the van takes a lot less time and cooking often becomes simplified, due to lack of bench and storage space. Women in particular like this aspect of grey nomad travel. “It is great. Absolutely. You don’t have toilets to clean, you don’t have bathrooms to clean. Cooking your meals are easier because everything is all […] Yeah. It’s more casual” (Sonya). This touring lifestyle also introduces new domestic routines, such as emptying chemical toilets, filling water tanks, towing and parking the van and refilling gas tanks, for example. Nonetheless grey nomads, spend significantly less time on these domestic tasks when they are touring. In this sense, the caravan or motorhome brings with it the comforts and familiarity of home, while at the same time minimising the routine chores involved in domestic life. With the core accoutrements of everyday life available, everyday activities such as doing the dishes, watching television, preparing and eating a meal—as well as individual hobbies and pastimes—weave themselves into a daily life that is simultaneously home and away. This daily life, at home in the caravan or motorhome, brings with it possibilities of a domestic routinised lifestyle—one that provides welcome comfort and familiarity when travelling and a retreat from the demands of sightseeing. On the farm I used to make jam and cakes, so I do it again [in the caravan]. I make jam, I made marmalade a couple of weeks ago. We’d often stay home [in the caravan], I’d just clean or do a bit of painting. (Jenny) Touring in a caravan or motorhome allows for some sense of predictability: that you own and control the private spaces of your own mobile dwelling, and can readily carry out everyday domestic routines and sociabilities. “We go for a long walk. We come back and we see friends and we stop and have a coffee with them, and then you come home in the caravan at 2.30 and you can still have lunch” (Yvonne). Touring in a caravan or motorhome also frees grey nomads from dependence on prearranged tourist experiences such as organised tours or hotel meal times where much of the tourist experience can be regimented. We always went in hotels and you always had to dress up, and you had to eat before a certain time, and you had your breakfast before a certain time. And after 2.30 you can’t have lunch anymore and sometimes we have lunch at 2 o’clock. I like the caravan park [better]. (Donald) Despite the caravan or motorhome having close links with everyday life and the domestic realm, its ready mobility offers a greater sense of autonomy while touring: that you are unfettered, not bound to any specific place or timetable, and can move on at whim. Grey nomads often cross paths with other tourists dependent on guided bus tours. “They go in [to Kakadu] on a bus trip. All they do is go in on the main road, they’re in there for the day and there’re back. That’s absolutely ridiculous” (Vance). This autonomy, or freedom to structure their own tourist experiences, allows grey nomads the opportunity to travel at a leisurely pace. Even those grey nomads who travel to the same northern destination every year take their time and enjoy other tourist locations along the way. We take our time. This time, last time, we did three weeks before we got in [to] Broome. We spent a lot [of time] in Karratha but also in Geraldton. And when we came back, in Kalbarri, [we had] a week in Kalbarri. But it’s nice going up, you know. You go all through the coast, along the coast. (John) Caravan or motorhome use, therefore, provides for a routinised everyday life while at the same time allowing a level of autonomy not evident in other forms of tourism—which rely more heavily on pre-booking accommodation and transport options. These contradictory aspects of grey nomad travel, an everyday life of living in a caravan or motorhome coupled with freedom to move on in an independent manner, melds the “everyday zone” and the “tourist zone” in a manner appealing to many grey nomads. Conclusion Theories of tourism tend to pay little attention to the aspects of tourism that involve recurrent activities and an ongoing connectedness with everyday life. Tourism is often defined: by contrasting it to home geographies and everydayness: tourism is what they are not. [...] The main focus in such research is on the extraordinary, on places elsewhere. Tourism is an escape from home, a quest for more desirable and fulfilling places. (Larsen 21) Nonetheless, tourism involves everyday routines, everyday spaces and an everyday social life. Grey nomads find that mobile phones and the Internet make possible the virtual co-presence of family and friends allowing everyday relationships to continue while touring. Nonetheless, the pleasure of ongoing contact with distant family and friends while touring may at times encroach on the quietude or solitude grey nomads experienced when touring remote and rural Australia. In addition to this, grey nomads’ caravans and motorhomes are equipped with the many comforts and domestic technologies of home, making for the continuance of everyday domiciliary life while on tour, further obfuscating the boundaries between the “tourist zone” and the “everyday zone.” In this sense grey nomads lead a lifestyle that is both anchored and mobile. This anchoring involves dwelling in everyday spaces, carrying out everyday domestic and social routines, as well as maintaining contact with friends and family via mobile communication technologies. This anchoring allows for some sense of predictability: that you own and control the private spaces of your own mobile dwelling, and can readily carry out everyday domestic routines and sociabilities. Conversely, the ready mobility of the caravan or motorhome offers a sense of autonomy: that you are unfettered, not bound to any specific place and can move on at whim. This peripatetic form of dwelling, where the dwelling itself is the catalyst for both travel and an everyday domestic life, is an under researched area. Mobile dwellings such as caravans, motorhomes, and yachts, constitute dwellings that are anchored in the everyday yet unfixed to any one locale. References Davies, Amanda, Matthew Tonts, and Julie Cammell. Coastal Camping in the Rangelands: Emerging Opportunities for Natural Resource Management. Perth: Rangelands WA, 2009. 24 Sep. 2011 ‹http://www.rangelandswa.com.au/pages/178/publications›. Economic Development Committee. Inquiry into Developing Queensland’s Rural and Regional Communities through Grey Nomad Tourism. Brisbane: Queensland Parliament, 2011. 23 Sep. 2011 ‹http://www.parliament.qld.gov.au/Documents/TableOffice/TabledPapers/2011/5311T3954.pdf›. Edensor, Tim. “Performing Tourism, Staging Tourism: (Re)Producing Tourist Space and Practice.” Tourist Studies 1 (2001): 59–81. Holloway, Donell. Grey Nomads: Retirement, Leisure and Travel in the Australian Context. PhD diss. Edith Cowan University: Perth, 2010. Jamal, Tanzin, and Steve Hill. “The Home and the World: (Post) Touristic Spaces of (in) Authenticity.” The Tourist as a Metaphor of The Social World. Ed. Graham Dann. Wallingford: CAB International, 2002. 77–107. Larsen, Jonas. “De-Exoticizing Tourist Travel: Everyday Life and Sociality on the Move.” Leisure Studies 27 (2008): 21–34. Massey, Doreen. “Power-Geometry and a Progressive Sense of Place.” Mapping the Futures: Local Cultures, Global Change. Eds. Jon Bird et al. London: Routeledge, 1993. 59–69. McCabe, Scott, and Elizabeth Stokoe. “Place and Identity in Tourists’ Accounts.” Annals of Tourism Research 31 (2004): 601–22. Obst, Patricia L., Nadine Brayley, and Mark J. King. “Grey Nomads: Road Safety Impacts and Risk Management.” 2008 Australasian Road Safety Research, Policing and Education Conference. Adelaide: Engineers Australia, 2008. Onyx, Jenny, and Rosemary Leonard. “The Grey Nomad Phenomenon: Changing the Script of Aging.” The International Journal of Aging and Human Development 64 (2007): 381–98. Regional Telecommunications Independent Review Committee. Regional Telecommunications Review Report: Framework for the Future. Canberra: RTIRC, 2008. Southerton, Dale, Elizabeth Shove, Alan Warde, and Rosemary Dean. “Home from Home? A Research Note on Recreational Caravanning.” Department of Sociology, Lancaster University. 1998. 10 Jan. 2009 ‹http://www.lancs.ac.uk/fass/sociology/papers/southerton-et-al-home-from-home.pdf›. Tourism Research Australia. Understanding the Caravan industry in WA: Grey Nomads—Fast Facts. Perth, Australia: Tourism WA (n.d.). Urry, John. “The Consuming of Place.” Discourse, Communication, and Tourism. Eds. Adam Jaworski and Annette Pritchard. Clevedon: Channel View Publications, 2005. 19–27. ———. The Tourist Gaze. London: Sage, 2002. White, Naomi, and Peter White. “Home and Away: Tourists in a Connected World.” Annals of Tourism Research 34 (2006): 88–104.

Abstract:

During times of disorder the mainstream media tends towards propaganda by hom*ogenising its representation of the ‘other’. This reduces rich histories, diverse cultures and a myriad of languages and religious beliefs down to sweeping statements, broad generalizations and inaccurate assumptions. This paper seeks to explore the representation in the media of the rich array of minority groups that make up the people of Iraq, the epicentre of today’s greatest disorder. In the interest of establishing a liberal, democratic and culturally diverse Iraq, this paper argues that the media must re-order its representation of the many peoples that make up Iraq. Historically, Iraq or Mesopotamia has been ruled by a vast array of kingdoms and empires. From the ancient Babylonians, Assyrians, Persians and Seleucids through to the spread of Islam under the rule of the Caliphates and later the Ottomans, this part of the world has seen more than its share of war, bloodshed and domination. However, history also tells us that despite the disorder, this area has mostly celebrated diversity since the ancient cities of Ur and Nineveh. Later, Ottoman sultans generally believed that a strong, civilized state was a cosmopolitan one (Mostyn and Hourani 192). After the fall of the Ottoman Empire at the end of the First World War, however, much of the Middle East plummeted into an unparalleled level of disorder. A territorial crisis ensued and the fighting between a surfeit of ethnic and religious groups went unchecked. Britain and France moved into much of what are now Iraq, Syria, Jordan and Israel with an emphasis on curtailing chaos by imposing order. Nation-states were hastily designed (Jordan was famously drawn by Winston Churchill in the back of a taxi), ancient peoples were divided and new identities were born. In 1920 the many different peoples of the three previously autonomous regions, or vilayets, of Baghdad, Basra and Mosul became Iraqis (Cordesman and Hashim 60, 71). In essence, Iraq is a created or ‘imagined community’ (Anderson) that was not even imagined by the people of the region. This is, of course, common throughout the Middle East and forms the basic premise of Said’s work on Orientalism (Said) – that the Middle East does not exist other than as a powerful European ideological construct designed to help the West better categorize the ‘otherness’ of all things Eastern. Today, Iraqi society is considered “the most spiritually diverse in the Middle East” (Braude 65) and while much Western scholarly and media attention has been given to the plight of the Kurds (Robinson 20) and the rebellion of the Shi’ites (who form the majority within formerly Sunni controlled Iraq) (Keeble 12), little attention has been paid to other Iraqis. In fact, Iraq is home to “numerous racial and religious minorities…(including) Turkomans, Persians, Assyrians, Armenians, Chaldeans, Jews, Yazidihs, Sabeans, and others” (Batatu, as cited in Cordesman and Hashim 71). To put things in perspective, Hourani identified approximately 40 distinct minority groups that dwell within the Arab World (Hourani 1-2). Each of these groups has their own language, their own culture, their own religion, food, history, dress and customs. However, it seems that since the 11th September 2001 – and the political and militaristic disorder that has ensued – the Western mainstream Media have portrayed events involving the Middle East and its people by fusing Orientalism and propaganda in order to further hom*ogenize these ‘others’. The current reporting of the war in Iraq (including the search for Weapons of Mass Destruction, the invasion of Iraq, the toppling and later capture of Saddam Hussein and the ongoing war against insurgents / terrorists / car and suicide bombers / kidnappings and beheadings) has rarely made reference to the plight of Iraq’s minorities. This trend therefore serves to reduce and hom*ogenize these groups into an all-encompassing Middle Eastern ‘other’. Their rich array of religions, cultures, languages etc become one. We know them only through disorder and opposition: non-white, non-western, non-Christian, non-civilized. The lack of minority representation in the mainstream media and its role in constructing minority identity has been discussed, to varying degrees, by a number of academics with a variety of approaches and results. This has included research into the people of the Acquitaine region of France (Scrivan and Roberts), the Flemish in Belgium (Van den Bulck), African Americans in the US (Goshorn and Gandy) and the Oka Indians in Canada (Grenier) to name a few. What appears to be common amongst this research is the notion that the lack of representation and the hom*ogenization of the ‘other’ negatively influence these minority groups. By investigating the representation of the Sami people of northern Finland in the Finnish press, Pietikainen and Hujanen interpret the relationship between Sami identity and the way that it is played out in Finnish news discourse. Essentially, they argue, “news representations…contribute to the construction of identities of the people and region in question” (ibid 252). While the above research does suggest that the lack of representation of minority groups in the mainstream media have serious implications for the identities of these peoples, it does not seem to address the extent to which this is effected by times of conflict, war or disorder. Nor does it address the compound result of a lack of representation in both the media of one’s homeland and the global media. More scholarly attention is therefore needed in order to understand the relationship between a lack of representation of minority groups in the media (both domestic and international), how this constructs minority identity and to what degree this shifts during times of disorder. Here, the minority groups of Iraq serve as a near perfect case study. Beyond this, there is also a need for a re-ordering of what is considered newsworthy during times of disorder. Here Arnot (as cited in Coole 847), in discussing the media representation of asylum seekers claims that journalists often fail in reporting the complexity of such situations and need to seek the truth and report on what is real. Unfortunately, journalists often omit important pieces of information “that will shock, sadden and compel readers to sympathise with victims of such atrocities in the world…” (Coole 847). In this way, an accurate representation of the many different peoples of Iraq in the mainstream media would not only serve to positively construct minority identity but may also lead to a better understanding of the conflict, and the peoples trapped within it. While the best possible scenario would obviously be the reconstruction of Iraq’s infrastructure, followed by a peaceful withdrawal from Iraq and the development of a multifarious yet harmonious Middle East, this paper has addressed the issues surrounding the mainstream media’s lack of representation of Iraq’s minorities during this time of disorder. Here the media have hom*ogenized the many peoples of Iraq and effectively unified them under the ‘imagined’ banner of Middle Eastern ‘other’. This opens up new areas of concern regarding the relationship between the media and disorder and the consequences this has for the identity of Iraq’s minority groups. Furthermore, this paper calls for a re-ordering of what is considered newsworthy during times of disorder in an attempt to encourage a more accurate representation, construction and understanding of the many different peoples involved. By telling a more complex story, the media can play a positive role in the development of a l iberal, democratic and culturally diverse Iraq. References Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities. Revised ed. London: Verso, 1991. Braude, Joseph. The New Iraq: A Thought-Provoking Analysis of the Rebuilding of a Nation. Sydney: HarperCollins, 2003. Coole, Carolynne. “A Warm Welcome? Scottish and UK Media Reporting of an Asylum-Seeker Murder.” Media, Culture & Society 24 (2002): 839-52. Cordesman, Anthony H., and Ahmed S. Hashim. Iraq: Sanctions and Beyond. Colorado: Westview Press, 1997. Goshorn, Kent, and Oscar H. Jr. Gandy. “Race, Risk and Responsibility: Editorial Constraint in the Framing of Inequality.” Journal of Communication 45.2 (1995): 133-51. Grenier, Marc. “Native Indians in the English-Canadian Press: The Case of the ‘Oka Crisis’.” Media, Culture & Society 16 (1994): 313-36. Hourani, A. H. Minorities in the Arab World. London: Oxford University Press, 1947. Keeble, Richard. Secret State, Silent Press: New Militarism, the Gulf and the Modern Image of Warfare. Bedfordshire: University of Luton Press, 1997. Mostyn, Trevor, and Albert Hourani. The Cambridge Encyclopedia of the Middle East and North Africa. Eds. Trevor Mostyn and Albert Hourani. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988. Pietikainen, Sari, and Jaana Hujanen. “At the Crossroads of Ethnicity, Place and Identity: Representations of Northern People and Regions in Finnish News Discourse.” Media, Culture & Society 25 (2003): 251-68. Robinson, Piers. The CNN Effect: The Myth of News, Foreign Policy and Intervention. London: Routledge, 2002. Said, Edward W. Orientalism. London: Penguin, 1978. Scrivan, Michael, and Emily Roberts. “Local Specificity and Regional Unity under Siege: Territorial Identity and the Television News of Aquitaine.” Media, Culture & Society 23 (2001): 587-605. Van den Bulck, Hilde. “Public Service Television and International Identity as a Project of Modernity: The Example of Flemish Television.” Media, Culture & Society 23 (2001): 53-69. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Isakhan, Ben. "Re-ordering Iraq: Minorities and the Media in Times of Disorder." M/C Journal 7.6 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0501/11-isakhan.php>. APA Style Isakhan, B. (Jan. 2005) "Re-ordering Iraq: Minorities and the Media in Times of Disorder," M/C Journal, 7(6). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0501/11-isakhan.php>.

Abstract:

Given that the new advances in technology in the 1980s had a major impact on the carefully constructed myth of authenticity in horror and p*rnography, ranging from flawless special effects at one extreme to the idea of the handheld voyeur movie at the other, it is rather ironic that the key progenitor to the erotic-grotesque form is a long-established and in some ways basic form: the pen and paper art of manga. This medium can be traced back to pillow books and the illustrated tradition in Japanese culture – a culture where even written language has evolved from drawings rather than alphabetical ciphers. Technological innovation notwithstanding, the 1980s is an extraordinary period for manga and it is perhaps here that we find the most startling hybridisation of p*rn and horror where, to borrow a phrase from Liz Kotz, “pathology meets pleasure, where what we most fear is what we most desire” (Kotz 188). Many of the most extreme examples of 1980s manga repeatedly confront the reader with tales that intersperse and interlink imagery and narrative sequences of sex, violence and the abject. Suehiro Maruo is in many ways a commercially marginalised but highly renowned manga artist of the erotic-grotesque. His full-length manga novel Mr Arashi’s Amazing Freak Show (1984) is a sweeping tale of carnival freaks redolent with sex and sadism, but in this article I will address his short comic strips from around the same period. The stories collected in Suehiro Maruo’s Ultra-Gash Inferno (2001) present a mortifying vision of sex and horror with stories that draw on the erotically tinged world of classical Japanese theatre and the short fiction of Edogawa Rampo but push them into the domain of extreme p*rnography. In “Putrid Night” (1981), an abusive man, Todoroki, subjects his teenage wife, Sayoko, to vicious cunniling*s and anal sex. In one sequence, Sayoko gives oral sex while Todoroki runs a samurai sword across her cheek. In her misery, Sayoko finds true love in the teenage boy Michio. Their illicit sexual love is tender and fulfilling and yet the imagery that intersperses it is ominous: when they have sex in a field, their conjoined bodies are juxtaposed with rotting fruit infested with ants and Michio’s erect penis is juxtaposed with a serpent in the grass. Sayoko and Michio plot to murder Todoroki. The result is disastrous, with Todoroki cutting off the arms of his wife and her lover through the elbows, and lancing their eyeballs. In the carnage, Todoroki has sex with Sayoko. The young lovers do not die, and Todoroki keeps them alive in a cell as “pets” (19). In a grotesque triumph of true love, Todoroki, to his horror, spies on his two victims and sees them, their eye sockets and arm stumps pouring blood, tenderly making love. In “sh*t Soup” (1982), Maruo produces a comic strip with no story as such and is therefore a highly simplistic p*rnographic narrative. We witness a menage a trois with a young woman and her two male lovers and the comic presents their various exploits. In their opening bout, the woman squeezes a cow’s eyeball into her vagin* and one man sucks it out of her while the other licks her beneath the eyelid. Later, the three excrete onto dinner plates and dine upon their mixed sh*t. The story ends with the three laughing deliriously as they fall from a cliff, an emblem of their joyful abandon and the intersection of love and death. As epilogue, Maruo describes the taste of excrement and invites us to taste our own. This ending is an ingenious narrative decision, as it turns on the reader and strives to deny us – the viewer/voyeur – any comfortable distance: we are invited, as it were, to eat sh*t literally and if we refuse, we can eat sh*t metaphorically. Suehiro Maruo’s work can also be subtle: in what looks like a realistic image at the opening of “A Season in Hell” (1981), a dead teenage girl lies, covered in “gore and faeces” (45), on a grassy path which resembles the hairy opening to female sexual organs. The surrounding field is like a pudenda and the double arch of the nearby bridge resembles breasts. Maruo can thus outwit the censorship tradition in which pubic hair is generally forbidden (it does appear in some of Maruo’s comic strips), although erections, ejacul*tions and hairless openings and organs would seem to be always graphically permissible. Probably the most excessive vision in Ultra-Gash Inferno is “The Great Masturbator” (1982). In this, Suehiro Maruo presents a family in which the father repeatedly dresses his daughter up as a schoolgirl in order to rape her, even cutting a vagin*-sized hole into her abdomen. Eventually, he slices her with numerous openings so that he can penetrate her with his fists as well as his penis. Meanwhile, her brother embarks on an incestuous relationship with his ancient aunt. After her death, he acquires her false teeth and uses them to masturbat*. He ejacul*tes onto her grave, splitting his head open on the tombstone. The excess and debauchery make it a shocking tale, a kind of violent manga reworking of Robert Crumb’s cartoon “The family that lays together, stays together” (91) from Snatch 2 (January 1969). Like Crumb, we could argue that Maruo employs explicit sexual imagery and an ethos of sexual taboo with the same purpose of transgressing and provoking the jargon of particular social norms. The political dimension to Maruo’s work finds its most blatant treatment in “Planet of the Jap” (1985), anthologised in Comics Underground Japan (1996). This manga strip is a devastating historical-political work presented as a history lesson in which Japan won the Second World War, having dropped atomic bombs on Los Angeles and San Francisco. The comic is full of startling iconic imagery such as the Japanese flag being hoisted over the shell-pocked Statue of Liberty and the public execution of General MacArthur. Of course, this being Maruo, there is a p*rnographic sequence. In a lengthy and graphic episode, an American mother is raped by Japanese soldiers while her son is murdered. As these horrors are committed, the lyrics of a patriotic song about present-day Japan, written by the Ministry of Education, form the textual narrative. Although the story could be seen as a comment on the subjection of Japan at the end of the Second World War – a sustained ironic inversion of history – it seems more likely to be a condemnation of the phase of Japanese history when, tragically, a minority of “atavistic, chauvinistic, racist warmongers” secured for themselves a position of “ideological legitimacy and power” (Lehmann 213). However, Maruo is being deliberately provocative to his contemporary reader: he writes this story in the mid-1980s, the peak of Japan’s post-war prosperity. As Joy Hendry says, Japan’s “tremendous economic success” in this period is not just important for Japan but marks an “important element of world history” (Hendry 18). Maruo ends “Planet of the Jap” with a haunting international message: “Don’t be fooled. Japan is by no means a defeated nation. Japan is still the strongest country in the world” (124). The p*rn-horror creator Suehiro Maruo follows in the tradition of figures like Octave Mirbeau, Georges Bataille and Robert Crumb who have used explicit p*rnography and sexual taboo as a forum for political provocation. The sexual horror of Maruo’s erotic-grotesque manga may terrify some readers and titillate others. It may even terrify and titillate at the same time in a disturbing fusion which has social and political implications: all the Maruo works in this essay were produced in the early to mid-1980s, the peak of Japanese economic success. They also coincide with the boom years of the Japanese sex industry, which Akira Suei argues was terminated by the repressive legislation of the New Amusem*nt Business Control and Improvement Act of 1985 (Suei, 10). Suei’s account of the period paints one of frivolity and inventiveness embodied in the phenomenon of “no-panties coffee shops” (10) and the numerous sex clubs which offered extraordinary “role-playing opportunities” (13). The mood is one of triumph for the sexual expression of the customers but also for the extremely well-paid sex workers. Maruo’s stories contemporaneous with this have their own freedom of sexual expression, creating a vision where sexually explicit images comment upon a wide variety of subjects, from the family, scatological taboos, through to national history and Japan’s economic success. At the same time as presenting explicit sex as a feature in his films, Maruo always closely weaves it in with the taboo of death. Martin Heidegger interprets human existence as Sein-zum-Tode (being-towards-death) (Kearney 35): in Maruo’s vision, existence is evidently one of sexual-being-towards-death. Like Suehiro Maruo’s hideously maimed and blind lovers, humanity always returns to the impulse of its sexuality and the desire/will to org*sm: what Maruo calls “the cosmic gash” of physical love, a gash which also reveals, in a Heideggerian sense, the non-being that is the only certainty of existence. And we should remember that even when love is blind, someone will always be watching. References Crumb, Robert. The Complete Crumb, Volume 5: Happy Hippy Comix. Seattle: Fantagraphics, 1990. Hendry, Joy. Understanding Japanese Society. London: Routledge, 1987. Kearney, Richard. Modern Movements in European Philosophy. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1986. Kotz, Liz. “Complicity: Women Artists Investigating Masculinity” in Paula Church Gibson (ed.) More Dirty Looks: Gender, p*rnography and Power (Second Edition). London, BFI, 2004, 188-203. Lehmann, Jean-Pierre. The Roots of Modern Japan. London: Macmillan, 1982. Maruo, Suehiro. “Planet of the Jap” in Quigley, Kevin (ed.). Comics Underground Japan. New York: Blast Books, 1992. —-. Mr Arashi’s Amazing Freak Show. New York: Blast, 1992. —-. Ultra-Gash Inferno. London: Creation, 2001 Mizuki, Shigeru. Youkai Gadan. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1992. Rampo, Edogawa. Japanese Tales of Mystery and Imagination. New York: Tuttle, 1956. Suei, Akira “The Lucky Hole as the Black Hole” in Nobuyoshi Araki. Araki: Tokyo Lucky Hole. Köln: Taschen, 1997, 10-15. MLA Style Hand, Richard J. "Dissecting the Gash: Sexual Horror in the 1980s and the Manga of Suehiro Maruo." M/C Journal 7.4 (2004). 10 October 2004 <http://www.media-culture.org.au/0410/05_horror.php>. APA Style Hand, R. (2004 Oct 11). Dissecting the Gash: Sexual Horror in the 1980s and the Manga of Suehiro Maruo, M/C Journal, 7(4). Retrieved Oct 10 2004 from <http://www.media-culture.org.au/05_horror.php>

Abstract:

About half way through Yann Arthus-Bertrand’s film Home (2009) the narrator describes the fall of the Rapa Nui, the indigenous people of the Easter Islands. The narrator posits that the Rapa Nui culture collapsed due to extensive environmental degradation brought about by large-scale deforestation. The Rapa Nui cut down their massive native forests to clear spaces for agriculture, to heat their dwellings, to build canoes and, most importantly, to move their enormous rock sculptures—the Moai. The disappearance of their forests led to island-wide soil erosion and the gradual disappearance of arable land. Caught in the vice of overpopulation but with rapidly dwindling basic resources and no trees to build canoes, they were trapped on the island and watched helplessly as their society fell into disarray. The sequence ends with the narrator’s biting remark: “The real mystery of the Easter Islands is not how its strange statues got there, we know now; it's why the Rapa Nui didn't react in time.” In their unrelenting desire for development, the Rapa Nui appear to have overlooked the role the environment plays in maintaining a society. The island’s Moai accompanying the sequence appear as memento mori, a lesson in the mortality of human cultures brought about by their own misguided and short-sighted practices. Arthus-Bertrand’s Home, a film composed almost entirely of aerial photographs, bears witness to present-day environmental degradation and climate change, constructing society as a fragile structure built upon and sustained by the environment. Home is a call to recognise how contemporary practices of post-industrial societies have come to shape the environment and how they may impact the habitability of Earth in the near future. Through reflexivity and a ritualised structure the text invites spectators to look at themselves in a new light and remake their self-image in the wake of global environmental risk by embracing new, alternative core practices based on balance and interconnectedness. Arthus-Bertrand frames climate change not as a burden, but as a moment of profound realisation of the potential for change and humans ability to create a desirable future through hope and our innate capacity for renewal. This article examines how Arthus-Bertrand’s ritualised construction of climate change aims to remake viewers’ perception of present-day environmental degradation and investigates Home’s place in contemporary climate change communication discourse. Climate change, in its capacity to affect us globally, is considered a world risk. The most recent peer-reviewed Synthesis Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change suggests that the concentration of atmospheric greenhouse gases has increased markedly since human industrialisation in the 18th century. Moreover, human activities, such as fossil fuel burning and agricultural practices, are “very likely” responsible for the resulting increase in temperature rise (IPPC 37). The increased global temperatures and the subsequent changing weather patterns have a direct and profound impact on the physical and biological systems of our planet, including shrinking glaciers, melting permafrost, coastal erosion, and changes in species distribution and reproduction patterns (Rosenzweig et al. 353). Studies of global security assert that these physiological changes are expected to increase the likelihood of humanitarian disasters, food and water supply shortages, and competition for resources thus resulting in a destabilisation of global safety (Boston et al. 1–2). Human behaviour and dominant practices of modernity are now on a path to materially impact the future habitability of our home, Earth. In contemporary post-industrial societies, however, climate change remains an elusive, intangible threat. Here, the Arctic-bound species forced to adapt to milder climates or the inhabitants of low-lying Pacific islands seeking refuge in mainland cities are removed from the everyday experience of the controlled and regulated environments of homes, offices, and shopping malls. Diverse research into the mediated and mediatised nature of the environment suggests that rather than from first-hand experiences and observations, the majority of our knowledge concerning the environment now comes from its representation in the mass media (Hamilton 4; Stamm et al. 220; Cox 2). Consequently the threat of climate change is communicated and constructed through the news media, entertainment and lifestyle programming, and various documentaries and fiction films. It is therefore the construction (the representation of the risk in various discourses) that shapes people’s perception and experience of the phenomenon, and ultimately influences behaviour and instigates social response (Beck 213). By drawing on and negotiating society’s dominant discourses, environmental mediation defines spectators’ perceptions of the human-nature relationship and subsequently their roles and responsibilities in the face of environmental risks. Maxwell Boykoff asserts that contemporary modern society’s mediatised representations of environmental degradation and climate change depict the phenomena as external to society’s primary social and economic concerns (449). Julia Corbett argues that this is partly because environmental protection and sustainable behaviour are often at odds with the dominant social paradigms of consumerism, economic growth, and materialism (175). Similarly, Rowan Howard-Williams suggests that most media texts, especially news, do not emphasise the link between social practices, such as consumerist behaviour, and their environmental consequences because they contradict dominant social paradigms (41). The demands contemporary post-industrial societies make on the environment to sustain economic growth, consumer culture, and citizens’ comfortable lives in air-conditioned homes and offices are often left unarticulated. While the media coverage of environmental risks may indeed have contributed to “critical misperceptions, misleading debates, and divergent understandings” (Boykoff 450) climate change possesses innate characteristics that amplify its perception in present-day post-industrial societies as a distant and impersonal threat. Climate change is characterised by temporal and spatial de-localisation. The gradual increase in global temperature and its physical and biological consequences are much less prominent than seasonal changes and hence difficult to observe on human time-scales. Moreover, while research points to the increased probability of extreme climatic events such as droughts, wild fires, and changes in weather patterns (IPCC 48), they take place over a wide range of geographical locations and no single event can be ultimately said to be the result of climate change (Maibach and Roser-Renouf 145). In addition to these observational obstacles, political partisanship, vested interests in the current status quo, and general resistance to profound change all play a part in keeping us one step removed from the phenomenon of climate change. The distant and impersonal nature of climate change coupled with the “uncertainty over consequences, diverse and multiple engaged interests, conflicting knowledge claims, and high stakes” (Lorenzoni et al. 65) often result in repression, rejection, and denial, removing the individual’s responsibility to act. Research suggests that, due to its unique observational obstacles in contemporary post-industrial societies, climate change is considered a psychologically distant event (Pawlik 559), one that is not personally salient due to the “perceived distance and remoteness [...] from one’s everyday experience” (O’Neill and Nicholson-Cole 370). In an examination of the barriers to behaviour change in the face of psychologically distant events, Robert Gifford argues that changing individuals’ perceptions of the issue-domain is one of the challenges of countering environmental inertia—the lack of initiative for environmentally sustainable social action (5). To challenge the status quo a radically different construction of the environment and the human-nature relationship is required to transform our perception of global environmental risks and ultimately result in environmentally consequential social action. Yann Arthus-Bertrand’s Home is a ritualised construction of contemporary environmental degradation and climate change which takes spectators on a rite of passage to a newfound understanding of the human-nature relationship. Transformation through re-imagining individuals’ roles, responsibilities, and practices is an intrinsic quality of rituals. A ritual charts a subjects path from one state of consciousness to the next, resulting in a meaningful change of attitudes (Deflem 8). Through a lifelong study of African rituals British cultural ethnographer Victor Turner refined his concept of rituals in a modern social context. Turner observed that rituals conform to a three-phased processural form (The Ritual Process 13–14). First, in the separation stage, the subjects are selected and removed from their fixed position in the social structure. Second, they enter an in-between and ambiguous liminal stage, characterised by a “partial or complete separation of the subject from everyday existence” (Deflem 8). Finally, imbued with a new perspective of the outside world borne out of the experience of reflexivity, liminality, and a cathartic cleansing, subjects are reintegrated into the social reality in a new, stable state. The three distinct stages make the ritual an emotionally charged, highly personal experience that “demarcates the passage from one phase to another in the individual’s life-cycle” (Turner, “Symbols” 488) and actively shapes human attitudes and behaviour. Adhering to the three-staged processural form of the ritual, Arthus-Bertrand guides spectators towards a newfound understanding of their roles and responsibilities in creating a desirable future. In the first stage—the separation—aerial photography of Home alienates viewers from their anthropocentric perspectives of the outside world. This establishes Earth as a body, and unearths spectators’ guilt and shame in relation to contemporary world risks. Aerial photography strips landscapes of their conventional qualities of horizon, scale, and human reference. As fine art photographer Emmet Gowin observes, “when one really sees an awesome, vast place, our sense of wholeness is reorganised [...] and the body seems always to diminish” (qtd. in Reynolds 4). Confronted with a seemingly infinite sublime landscape from above, the spectator’s “body diminishes” as they witness Earth’s body gradually taking shape. Home’s rushing rivers of Indonesia are akin to blood flowing through the veins and the Siberian permafrost seems like the texture of skin in extreme close-up. Arthus-Bertrand establishes a geocentric embodiment to force spectators to perceive and experience the environmental degradation brought about by the dominant social practices of contemporary post-industrial modernity. The film-maker visualises the maltreatment of the environment through suggested abuse of the Earth’s body. Images of industrial agricultural practices in the United States appear to leave scratches and scars on the landscape, and as a ship crosses the Arctic ice sheets of the Northwest Passage the boat glides like the surgeon’s knife cutting through the uppermost layer of the skin. But the deep blue water that’s revealed in the wake of the craft suggests a flesh and body now devoid of life, a suffering Earth in the wake of global climatic change. Arthus-Bertrand’s images become the sublime evidence of human intervention in the environment and the reflection of present-day industrialisation materially altering the face of Earth. The film-maker exploits spectators’ geocentric perspective and sensibility to prompt reflexivity, provide revelations about the self, and unearth the forgotten shame and guilt in having inadvertently caused excessive environmental degradation. Following the sequences establishing Earth as the body of the text Arthus-Bertrand returns spectators to their everyday “natural” environment—the city. Having witnessed and endured the pain and suffering of Earth, spectators now gaze at the skyscrapers standing bold and tall in the cityscape with disillusionment. The pinnacles of modern urban development become symbols of arrogance and exploitation: structures forced upon the landscape. Moreover, the images of contemporary cityscapes in Home serve as triggers for ritual reflexivity, allowing the spectator to “perceive the self [...] as a distanced ‘other’ and hence achieve a partial ‘self-transcendence’” (Beck, Comments 491). Arthus-Bertrand’s aerial photographs of Los Angeles, New York, and Tokyo fold these distinct urban environments into one uniform fusion of glass, metal, and concrete devoid of life. The uniformity of these cultural landscapes prompts spectators to add the missing element: the human. Suddenly, the homes and offices of desolate cityscapes are populated by none other than us, looking at ourselves from a unique vantage point. The geocentric sensibility the film-maker invoked with the images of the suffering Earth now prompt a revelation about the self as spectators see their everyday urban environments in a new light. Their homes and offices become blemishes on the face of the Earth: its inhabitants, including the spectators themselves, complicit in the excessive mistreatment of the planet. The second stage of the ritual allows Arthus-Bertrand to challenge dominant social paradigms of present day post-industrial societies and introduce new, alternative moral directives to govern our habits and attitudes. Following the separation, ritual subjects enter an in-between, threshold stage, one unencumbered by the spatial, temporal, and social boundaries of everyday existence. Turner posits that a subjects passage through this liminal stage is necessary to attain psychic maturation and successful transition to a new, stable state at the end of the ritual (The Ritual Process 97). While this “betwixt and between” (Turner, The Ritual Process 95) state may be a fleeting moment of transition, it makes for a “lived experience [that] transforms human beings cognitively, emotionally, and morally.” (Horvath et al. 3) Through a change of perceptions liminality paves the way toward meaningful social action. Home places spectators in a state of liminality to contrast geocentric and anthropocentric views. Arthus-Bertrand contrasts natural and human-made environments in terms of diversity. The narrator’s description of the “miracle of life” is followed by images of trees seemingly defying gravity, snow-covered summits among mountain ranges, and a whale in the ocean. Grandeur and variety appear to be inherent qualities of biodiversity on Earth, qualities contrasted with images of the endless, uniform rectangular greenhouses of Almeria, Spain. This contrast emphasises the loss of variety in human achievements and the monotony mass-production brings to the landscape. With the image of a fire burning atop a factory chimney, Arthus-Bertrand critiques the change of pace and distortion of time inherent in anthropocentric views, and specifically in contemporary modernity. Here, the flames appear to instantly eat away at resources that have taken millions of years to form, bringing anthropocentric and geocentric temporality into sharp contrast. A sequence showing a night time metropolis underscores this distinction. The glittering cityscape is lit by hundreds of lights in skyscrapers in an effort, it appears, to mimic and surpass daylight and thus upturn the natural rhythm of life. As the narrator remarks, in our present-day environments, “days are now the pale reflections of nights.” Arthus-Bertrand also uses ritual liminality to mark the present as a transitory, threshold moment in human civilisation. The film-maker contrasts the spectre of our past with possible visions of the future to mark the moment of now as a time when humanity is on the threshold of two distinct states of mind. The narrator’s descriptions of contemporary post-industrial society’s reliance on non-renewable resources and lack of environmentally sustainable agricultural practices condemn the past and warn viewers of the consequences of continuing such practices into the future. Exploring the liminal present Arthus-Bertrand proposes distinctive futurescapes for humankind. On the one hand, the narrator’s description of California’s “concentration camp style cattle farming” suggests that humankind will live in a future that feeds from the past, falling back on frames of horrors and past mistakes. On the other hand, the example of Costa Rica, a nation that abolished its military and dedicated the budget to environmental conservation, is recognition of our ability to re-imagine our future in the face of global risk. Home introduces myths to imbue liminality with the alternative dominant social paradigm of ecology. By calling upon deep-seated structures myths “touch the heart of society’s emotional, spiritual and intellectual consciousness” (Killingsworth and Palmer 176) and help us understand and come to terms with complex social, economic, and scientific phenomena. With the capacity to “pattern thought, beliefs and practices,” (Maier 166) myths are ideal tools in communicating ritual liminality and challenging contemporary post-industrial society’s dominant social paradigms. The opening sequence of Home, where the crescent Earth is slowly revealed in the darkness of space, is an allusion to creation: the genesis myth. Accompanied only by a gentle hum our home emerges in brilliant blue, white, and green-brown encompassing most of the screen. It is as if darkness and chaos disintegrated and order, life, and the elements were created right before our eyes. Akin to the Earthrise image taken by the astronauts of Apollo 8, Home’s opening sequence underscores the notion that our home is a unique spot in the blackness of space and is defined and circ*mscribed by the elements. With the opening sequence Arthus-Bertrand wishes to impart the message of interdependence and reliance on elements—core concepts of ecology. Balance, another key theme in ecology, is introduced with an allusion to the Icarus myth in a sequence depicting Dubai. The story of Icarus’s fall from the sky after flying too close to the sun is a symbolic retelling of hubris—a violent pride and arrogance punishable by nemesis—destruction, which ultimately restores balance by forcing the individual back within the limits transgressed (Littleton 712). In Arthus-Bertrand’s portrayal of Dubai, the camera slowly tilts upwards on the Burj Khalifa tower, the tallest human-made structure ever built. The construction works on the tower explicitly frame humans against the bright blue sky in their attempt to reach ever further, transgressing their limitations much like the ill-fated Icarus. Arthus-Bertrand warns that contemporary modernity does not strive for balance or moderation, and with climate change we may have brought our nemesis upon ourselves. By suggesting new dominant paradigms and providing a critique of current maxims, Home’s retelling of myths ultimately sees spectators through to the final stage of the ritual. The last phase in the rite of passage “celebrates and commemorates transcendent powers,” (Deflem 8) marking subjects’ rebirth to a new status and distinctive perception of the outside world. It is at this stage that Arthus-Bertrand resolves the emotional distress uncovered in the separation phase. The film-maker uses humanity’s innate capacity for creation and renewal as a cathartic cleansing aimed at reconciling spectators’ guilt and shame in having inadvertently exacerbated global environmental degradation. Arthus-Bertrand identifies renewable resources as the key to redeeming technology, human intervention in the landscape, and finally humanity itself. Until now, the film-maker pictured modernity and technology, evidenced in his portrayal of Dubai, as synonymous with excess and disrespect for the interconnectedness and balance of elements on Earth. The final sequence shows a very different face of technology. Here, we see a mechanical sea-snake generating electricity by riding the waves off the coast of Scotland and solar panels turning towards the sun in the Sahara desert. Technology’s redemption is evidenced in its ability to imitate nature—a move towards geocentric consciousness (a lesson learned from the ritual’s liminal stage). Moreover, these human-made structures, unlike the skyscrapers earlier in the film, appear a lot less invasive in the landscape and speak of moderation and union with nature. With the above examples Arthus-Bertrand suggests that humanity can shed the greed that drove it to dig deeper and deeper into the Earth to acquire non-renewable resources such as oil and coal, what the narrator describes as “treasures buried deep.” The incorporation of principles of ecology, such as balance and interconnectedness, into humanity’s behaviour ushers in reconciliation and ritual cleansing in Home. Following the description of the move toward renewable resources, the narrator reveals that “worldwide four children out of five attend school, never has learning been given to so many human beings” marking education, innovation, and creativity as the true inexhaustible resources on Earth. Lastly, the description of Antarctica in Home is the essence of Arthus-Bertrand’s argument for our innate capacity to create, not simply exploit and destroy. Here, the narrator describes the continent as possessing “immense natural resources that no country can claim for itself, a natural reserve devoted to peace and science, a treaty signed by 49 nations has made it a treasure shared by all humanity.” Innovation appears to fuel humankind’s transcendence to a state where it is capable of compassion, unification, sharing, and finally creating treasures. With these examples Arthus-Bertrand suggests that humanity has an innate capacity for creative energy that awaits authentic expression and can turn humankind from destroyer to creator. In recent years various risk communication texts have explicitly addressed climate change, endeavouring to instigate environmentally consequential social action. Home breaks discursive ground among them through its ritualistic construction which seeks to transform spectators’ perception, and in turn roles and responsibilities, in the face of global environmental risks. Unlike recent climate change media texts such as An Inconvenient Truth (2006), The 11th Hour (2007), The Age of Stupid (2009), Carbon Nation (2010) and Earth: The Operator’s Manual (2011), Home eludes simple genre classification. On the threshold of photography and film, documentary and fiction, Arthus-Bertrand’s work is best classified as an advocacy film promoting public debate and engagement with a universal concern—the state of the environment. The film’s website, available in multiple languages, contains educational material, resources to organise public screenings, and a link to GoodPlanet.info: a website dedicated to environmentalism, including legal tools and initiatives to take action. The film-maker’s approach to using Home as a basis for education and raising awareness corresponds to Antonio Lopez’s critique of contemporary mass-media communications of global risks. Lopez rebukes traditional forms of mediatised communication that place emphasis on the imparting of knowledge and instead calls for a participatory, discussion-driven, organic media approach, akin to a communion or a ritual (106). Moreover, while texts often place a great emphasis on the messenger, for instance Al Gore in An Inconvenient Truth, Leonardo DiCaprio in The 11th Hour, or geologist Dr. Richard Alley in Earth: The Operator’s Manual, Home’s messenger remains unseen—the narrator is only identified at the very end of the film among the credits. The film-maker’s decision to forego a central human character helps dissociate the message from the personality of the messenger which aids in establishing and maintaining the geocentric sensibility of the text. Finally, the ritual’s invocation and cathartic cleansing of emotional distress enables Home to at once acknowledge our environmentally destructive past habits and point to a hopeful, environmentally sustainable future. While The Age of Stupid mostly focuses on humanity’s present and past failures to respond to an imminent environmental catastrophe, Carbon Nation, with the tagline “A climate change solutions movie that doesn’t even care if you believe in climate change,” only explores the potential future business opportunities in turning towards renewable resources and environmentally sustainable practices. The three-phased processural form of the ritual allows for a balance of backward and forward-looking, establishing the possibility of change and renewal in the face of world risk. The ritual is a transformative experience. As Turner states, rituals “interrupt the flow of social life and force a group to take cognizance of its behaviour in relation to its own values, and even question at times the value of those values” (“Dramatic Ritual” 82). Home, a ritualised media text, is an invitation to look at our world, its dominant social paradigms, and the key element within that world—ourselves—with new eyes. It makes explicit contemporary post-industrial society’s dependence on the environment, highlights our impact on Earth, and reveals our complicity in bringing about a contemporary world risk. The ritual structure and the self-reflexivity allow Arthus-Bertrand to transform climate change into a personally salient issue. This bestows upon the spectator the responsibility to act and to reconcile the spectre of the past with the vision of the future.Acknowledgments The author would like to thank Dr. Angi Buettner whose support, guidance, and supervision has been invaluable in preparing this article. References Beck, Brenda E. “Comments on the Distancing of Emotion in Ritual by Thomas J. Scheff.” Current Anthropology 18.3 (1977): 490. Beck, Ulrich. “Risk Society Revisited: Theory, Politics and Research Programmes.” The Risk Society and Beyond: Critical Issues for Social Theory. Ed. Barbara Adam, Ulrich Beck, and Joost Van Loon. London: Sage, 2005. 211–28. Boston, Jonathan., Philip Nel, and Marjolein Righarts. “Introduction.” Climate Change and Security: Planning for the Future. Wellington: Victoria U of Wellington Institute of Policy Studies, 2009. Boykoff, Maxwell T. “We Speak for the Trees: Media Reporting on the Environment.” Annual Review of Environment and Resources 34 (2009): 431–57. Corbett, Julia B. Communicating Nature: How we Create and Understand Environmental Messages. Washington, DC: Island P, 2006. Cox, Robert. Environmental Communication and the Public Sphere. London: Sage, 2010. 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Palmer. “Silent Spring and Science Fiction: An Essay in the History and Rhetoric of Narrative.” And No Birds Sing: Rhetorical Analyses of Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring. Ed. Craig Waddell. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois UP, 2000. 174–204. Littleton, C. Scott. Gods, Goddesses and Mythology. New York: Marshall Cavendish, 2005. Lorenzoni, Irene, Mavis Jones, and John R. Turnpenny. “Climate Change, Human Genetics, and Post-normality in the UK.” Futures 39.1 (2007): 65–82. Lopez, Antonio. “Defusing the Cannon/Canon: An Organic Media Approach to Environmental Communication.” Environmental Communication 4.1 (2010): 99–108. Maier, Daniela Carmen. “Communicating Business Greening and Greenwashing in Global Media: A Multimodal Discourse Analysis of CNN's Greenwashing Video.” International Communications Gazette 73.1–2 (2011): 165–77. Milfront, Taciano L. “Global Warming, Climate Change and Human Psychology.” Psychological Approaches to Sustainability: Current Trends in Theory, Research and Practice. Eds. Victor Corral-Verdugo, Cirilo H. Garcia-Cadena and Martha Frias-Armenta. New York: Nova Science Publishers, 2010. 20–42. O’Neill, Saffron, and Sophie Nicholson-Cole. “Fear Won’t Do It: Promoting Positive Engagement with Climate Change through Visual and Iconic Representations.” Science Communication 30.3 (2009): 355–79. Pawlik, Kurt. “The Psychology of Global Environmental Change: Some Basic Data and an Agenda for Cooperative International Research.” International Journal of Psychology 26.5 (1991): 547–63. Reynolds, Jock., ed. Emmet Gowin: Changing the Earth: Aerial Photographs. New Haven, CT: Yale UP, 2002. Rosenzweig, Cynthia, David Karoly, Marta Vicarelli, Peter Neofotis, Qigang Wu, Gino Casassa, Annette Menzel, Terry L. Root, Nicole Estrella, Bernard Seguin, Piotr Tryjanowski, Chunzhen Liu, Samuel Rawlins, and Anton Imeson. “Attributing Physical and Biological Impacts to Anthropogenic Climate Change.” Nature 453.7193 (2008): 353–58. Roser-Renouf, Connie, and Edward W. Maibach. “Communicating Climate Change.” Encyclopaedia of Science and Technology Communication. Ed. Susanna Hornig Priest. Thousand Oaks, California: Sage. 2010. 141–47. Stamm, Keith R., Fiona Clark, and Paula R. Eblacas. “Mass Communication and the Public Understanding of Environmental Problems: The Case of Global Warming.” Public Understanding of Science 9 (2000): 219–37. Turner, Victor. “Dramatic Ritual – Ritual Drama: Performative and Reflexive Anthropology.” The Kenyon Review, New Series 1.3 (1979): 80–93. —-. “Symbols in African Ritual.” Perspectives in Cultural Anthropology. Ed. Herbert A. Applebaum. Albany: State U of New York P, 1987. 488–501. —-. The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure. New Jersey: Transaction Publishers, 2008.

Abstract:

Introduction It appears that graffiti has begun to clean up its act. Escalating numbers of mature graffiti writers feel the removal of their graffiti has robbed them of a history, and are turning to legal projects in an effort to restore it. Phibs has declared the graffiti underground “limited” and Kano claims its illegal aspect no longer inspires him (Hamilton, 73). A sign of the times was the exhibition Sake of Name: Australian Graffiti Now which opened at the Wharf 2 Theatre in January 2001. The exhibition was commissioned by the Sydney Theatre Company and comprised twenty-two pieces painted by graffiti writers from around Australia. Keen to present a respectable image, writers rejected the original title of Bomb the Wharf, as they felt it focused on the negative aspects of the culture (Andrews, 2). Premier Bob Carr opened the exhibition with the declaration that there is a difference between “graffiti art” and “graffiti vandalism”. The Premier’s stance struck a discordant note with Tony Stevens, a twenty-three-year veteran graffiti cleaner. Described by the Sydney Morning Herald as an “urban art critic by default,” Stevens could see no distinction between graffiti art and vandalism (Leys, 1). Furthermore, he expressed his disappointment that the pieces had “no sense of individuality … it could be graffiti from any American city” (Stevens, 1). As far as Stevens could see, Australian graffiti expressed nothing of its Australian context; it simply mimicked that of America. Sydney Theatre Company director Benedict Andrews responded with a venomous attack on Stevens. Andrews accused the cleaner of being blinded by prejudice (1), and felt that years of cleaning texta tags from railway corridors could not have possibly qualified Stevens as an art critic (3). “The artists in this exhibition are not misfits,” Andrews wrote (2). “They are serious artists in dialogue with their culture and the landscapes in which they live” (2). He went on to hail the strength and diversity of the Australian graffiti scene: “it is a vital and agile international culture and in Australia has evolved in specific ways” (1). The altercation between Stevens and Andrews pointed to one of the debates concerning Australian graffiti: whether it is unique or simply imitative of the American form. Hinged on the assessment of graffiti as vandalism is the view that graffiti is dirty, a disease. Proponents of this view consider graffiti to be an undifferentiated global phenomenon. Others conceive of graffiti as art, and as such argue that it is expressive of local experiences. Graffiti writers maintain that graffiti is expressive of local experiences and they describe it in terms of regional styles and aesthetics. This article maps the transformation of hip hop graffiti as it has been disseminated throughout the world. It registers the distinctiveness of graffiti in Australia and argues that graffiti is not a globally hom*ogenous form, but one which develops in a locally specific manner. Writing and Replicating: Hip Hop Graffiti and Cultural Imperialism Contemporary graffiti subcultures are strongly identified with large American cities. Originating in the black neighbourhood cultures of Philadelphia and New York City in the late 1960s and early 1970s, hip hop graffiti emerged as part of a larger, homegrown, alternative youth culture (“Urban Graffiti”, 77). Before the end of the 1970s, the aesthetic codes and stylised images of hip hop graffiti began to disseminate to major cities across America and throughout the globe. Its transmission was facilitated by: the production and export of films such as Style Wars (Silver and Chalfant, 1983) and Wild Style (Ahearn, 1983); the covers of rap albums; graffiti magazines; art dealers; and style manuals such as Subway Art (Cooper and Chalfant) and Spraycan Art (Chalfant and Prigroff). Graffiti migrated to Australian shores during the early 1980s, gaining influence through the appearance of these seminal works, which are credited by many as having inspired them to pick up a can of spraypaint. During its larval stages, the subcultural codes of graffiti invented by American writers were reiterated in an Australian context. Australian graffiti writers poached the vocabulary and rhetoric invented by their American counterparts. Writers spoke of “getting up”, “getting fame” and their “crew”, classifying their work as “tags”, “pieces”, or “throw ups”. They utilised the same bubble letters, and later, the incomprehensible “wildstyle” originally devised by American writers. It was not long, however, before Australian writers were making their own innovations and developing a unique style. Despite this, there is still widespread conviction in the view that Australian graffiti is a replica of an American cultural form. This view is supported at a theoretical level by the concept of cultural imperialism. It is generally understood, at a basic level, to be the diffusion of a foreign culture at the expense of a local culture. The concept has been usefully clarified by John Tomlinson. Since there are various orders of power involved in allegations of cultural imperialism, Tomlinson attempts to resist some implicit “master narrative” of the term, accounting for cultural imperialism in a multidimensional fashion (20). He outlines five possible versions, which inflect cultural imperialism to mean cultural domination; a discourse of nationality; media imperialism; global capital; and modernity (19-28). The idea that Australian graffiti replicates American graffiti draws particularly on the first two versions—that of cultural imperialism as cultural domination, and the discourse of nationality. Both these approaches focus on the processes involved in cultural imperialism—“the invasion of an indigenous culture by a foreign one” (Tomlinson, 23). Many people I spoke to about graffiti saw it as evidence of foreign, particularly American, domination and influence over Australian culture. They expressed concern that the appearance of graffiti would signal an influx of “American” problems: gang activity, escalating violence and social disorder. Cultural imperialism as a discourse of nationality hinges on the concepts of “belonging” and “indigenous culture”. In a conference organised by the Graffiti Program of the Government of Western Australia, Senator Ian Campbell argued that graffiti had no place in Australia. He felt that, “there should be little need for social comment through the vandalism of other’s property. Perhaps in nations where … freedoms are not recognised … but not in Australia” (6). Tomlinson argues that the conceptions of cultural imperialism as both cultural domination and as a discourse of nationality are popular because of their highly ambiguous (and thus accommodating) nature (19, 23). However, both notions are problematic. Tomlinson immediately dismisses the notion of cultural imperialism as cultural domination, arguing that one should aim for specificity. “Imperialism” and “domination” are rather general notions, and as such both have sufficient conceptual breadth and ambiguity to accommodate most uses to which they might be put (19). Cultural imperialism as a discourse of nationality is similarly problematic, relying on the precise definitions of a series of terms—such as belonging, and indigenous culture—which have multiple inflections (24). Cultural imperialism has often been tracked as a process of hom*ogenisation. Conceiving of cultural imperialism as hom*ogenisation is particularly pertinent to the argument for the global hom*ogeneity of graffiti. Cultural hom*ogenisation makes “everywhere seem more or less the same,” assuming a global uniformity which is inherently Western, and in extreme cases, American (6). The implications of “Americanisation” are relevant to the attitudes of Australian graffiti writers. On the Blitzkrieg Bulletin Board—an internet board for Australian graffiti writers—I found evidence of a range of responses to “Americanisation” in Australian graffiti. One of the writers had posted: “you shouldn’t even be doing graff if you are a toy little kid, buying export paint and painting legal walls during the day … f*** all y’all nigg*z!” s3 replied, “I do know that modern graffiti originated in America but … token are you American? Why do you want to talk like an American gangsta rapper?” The global currency of graffiti is one in which local originality and distinctiveness are highly prized. It is a source of shame for a writer to “bite”. Many of the writers I spoke to became irate when I suggested that Australian styles “bit” those of America. It seems inconsistent that Australian graffiti writers would reproduce American graffiti, if they do not even tolerate Australian writers using the word “nigg*”. Like the argument that Australian graffiti replicates that of America, the concept of cultural imperialism is problematic. By the 1970s the concept was beginning to come apart at the seams, its “artificial coherence” exposed when subjected to a range of applications (Tomlinson, 8). Although the idea of cultural imperialism has been discredited and somewhat abandoned at the level of theory, the concept nonetheless continues to guide attitudes towards graffiti. Jeff Ferrell has argued that the interplay of cultural resources involved in worldwide graffiti directly locates it inside issues of cultural imperialism (“Review of Moscow Graffiti”, paragraph 5). Stylistic and subcultural consistencies are mobilised to substantiate assertions of the operation of cultural imperialism in the global form of graffiti. This serves to render it globally hom*ogeneous. While many graffiti writers would concede that graffiti maintains certain global elements, few would agree that this is indicative of a global hom*ogeneity of form. As part of the hip hop component of their website, Triple J conducted an investigation into graffiti. It found that “the graffiti aesthetic developed in New York has been modified with individual characteristics … and has transformed into a unique Australian style” (“Old Skool”, paragraph 6). Veteran writers Umph, Exit, Phibs and Dmote agree. Perth writer Zenith claims, “we came up with styles from the US back in the day and it has grown into something quite unique” (personal communication). Exit declares, “every city has its own particular style. Graffiti from Australia can easily be distinguished by graffiti artists. Australia has its own particular style” (1). Umph agrees: “to us writers, the differences are obvious” (2). Although some continue to perceive Australian graffiti as replicating that of America, it appears that this is no longer the case. Evidence has emerged that Australian graffiti has evolved into a unique and localised form, which no longer imitates that of America. “Going Over” Cultural Imperialism: Hip Hop Graffiti and Processes of Globalisation The argument that graffiti has developed local inflections has lately garnered increasing support due to new theories of global cultural interaction and exchange. The modern era has been characterised by the increasing circulation of goods, capital, knowledge, information, people, images, ideologies, technologies and practices across national borders and territorial boundaries (Appadurai, 230; Scholte, 10). Academic discussion of these developments has converged in recent years around the concept of “globalisation”. While cultural imperialism describes these movements as the diffusion of a foreign culture at the expense of a local one, globalisation interprets these profound changes as evidence of “a global ecumene of persistent cultural interaction and exchange” (Hannerz, 107). In such a view, the globe is not characterised by domination and hom*ogenisation (as with cultural imperialism), but more in terms of exchange and heterogeneity. Recent studies acknowledge that globalisation is complex and multidimensional (Giddens, 30; Kalb, 1), even a process of paradoxes (Findlay, 30). Globalisation is frequently described in terms of contradictory processes—universalisation vs. particularisation, hom*ogenisation vs. differentiation, integration vs. fragmentation. Another of these dialectical tendencies is that of localisation. Kloos defines localisation as representing “the rise of localised, culturally defined identities … localisation stresses sociocultural specificity, in a limited space” (281). While localisation initially appears to stand in opposition to globalisation, the concepts are actually involved in a dialectical process (Giddens, 64). The relationship between localisation and globalisation has been formulated as follows: “Processes of globalisation trigger identity movements leading to the creation of localised, cultural-specific, identities” (Kloos, 282). The development of localisation is particularly pertinent to this study of graffiti. The concept allows for local diversity and has led to the understanding that global cultural phenomena are involved in a process of exchange. Work around globalisation lends credence to the argument that, as graffiti has disseminated throughout the globe, it has mutated to the specific locale within which it exists. Graffiti has always been locally specific: from the early stages which witnessed writers such as Julio 204, Fran 207 and Joe 136 (the numbers referred to their street), to the more recent practice of suffixing tag names with the name of a writers’ crew and their area code. The tendency to include area codes has been largely abandoned in Australia as the law has responded to graffiti with increasing vigilance, but evolutions in graffiti have pointed towards the development of regionally specific styles which writers have come to recognise. Thus, graffiti cannot be thought of as a globally hom*ogenous form, nor can it be said that Australian graffiti replicates that of America. As hip hop has circulated throughout the globe it has appeared to adopt local inflections, having adapted into something quite locally distinctive. In a sense hip hop has been “translated” to particular circ*mstances. It is now appropriate to consider Australian hip hop and graffiti as a translation of a global cultural phenomenon. A useful reference in this regard is Yuri Lotman, who designates dialogue as the elementary mechanism of translation (143). He suggests that participants involved in a dialogue alternate between a position of “transmission” and “reception” (144). Hence cultural developments are cyclical, and relationships between units—which may range from genres to national cultures—pass through periods of “transmission” and “reception” (144). Lotman proposes that the relationship between structures follows a pattern: at first, a structure will appear in decline, static, unoriginal. He records these “intermissions” as “pauses in dialogue”, during which the structure absorbs influences from the outside (144). When saturation reaches a certain limit, the structure begins producing its own texts as its “passive state changes to a state of alertness” (145). This is a useful way of comprehending Australian hip hop culture. It appears that the Australian hip hop scene has left behind its period of “reception” and is now witnessing one of “transmission” in which it is producing uniquely Australian flavours and styles. Of the contemporary graffiti I have observed, it appears that Australian writing is truly distinctive. Australian writers may have initially poached the subcultural codes developed by their American counterparts, however Australia has evolved to be truly unique where it counts—in graffiti styles. Distinctive graffiti styles can be witnessed, not only between different continents, but also within geographic locations. American graffiti registers a variety of locally specific forms. New York remains devoted to the letter, while graffiti on the west coast of America is renowned for its gang writing. American lettering styles tend to develop existing styles. New York wildstyle is easily recognised, and differs from letters in the Bay Area and San Francisco, which feature arrows inside the letters. While American graffiti is by and large concerned with letters, Australia has gained some repute for its exploration of characters. Like American writers, Australians employ characters poached from popular culture, but for the most part Australian writers employ characters and figures that they have invented themselves, often poaching elements from a wide variety of sources and utilising a wide variety of styles. Marine imagery, not usually employed in American graffiti, recurs in Australian pieces. Kikinit in the Park, a youth festival held in Fremantle in March 2001, featured a live urban art display by Bugszy Snaps, who combined oceanic and graffiti iconography, fusing sea creatures with spraypaint cans. Phibs also “uses images from the sea a lot” (Hamilton, 73), having grown up at the beach. In spite of this focus on the development of characters and images, Australia has not neglected the letter. While initially Australian graffiti artists imitated the styles developed in America, Australian lettering has evolved into something exceptional. Some writers have continued to employ bubble letters and wildstyle, and Australia has kept up with modifications in wildstyle that has seen it move towards 3D. Australia has cultivated this form of traditional wildstyle, elevating it to new heights. Sometimes it is combined with other styles; other times it appears as controlled wildstyle—set around a framework of some sort. In other instances, Australia has charted new territory with the letter, developing styles that are completely individual. Australian writing also blends a variety of lettering and graphic styles, combining letters and figures in new and exciting ways. Australian graffiti often fuses letters with images. This is relatively rare in American graffiti, which tends to focus on lettering and, on the whole, utilises characters to less effect than Australian graffiti. Conclusion Graffiti is not a globally hom*ogeneous form, but one which has developed in locally specific and distinctive ways. As hip hop graffiti has circulated throughout the globe it has been translated between various sites and developed local inflections. In order to visualise graffiti in this manner, it is necessary to recognise theories of cultural imperialism as guiding the widespread belief that graffiti is a globally hom*ogeneous form. I have refuted this view and the worth of cultural imperialism in directing attitudes towards graffiti, as there is a valid foundation for considering the local distinctiveness of Australian graffiti. By engaging critically with literature around globalisation, I have established a theoretical base for the argument that graffiti is locally specific. Envisaging the global form of hip hop graffiti as translated between various sites and having developed in locally specific ways has exposed the study of graffiti outside of the United States. Current writings on cultural studies and graffiti are dominated by the American academy, taking the United States as its centre. In rectifying this imbalance, I stress the need to recognise the distinctiveness of other cultures and geographic locations, even if they appear to be similar. While writers across Australia argue that their locations produce original styles, few have been willing to expound on how their scene is “fresh”. One writer I spoke with was an exception. Zenith explained that: “the way we are original is that our style has developed for so long, fermented if you will, because of Perth being so damned isolated” (personal communication). He went on to say: “I also happen to feel that we’re losing the originality every second of every day, for a number of reasons … with web sites, videos, magazines, and all this type of graffito affiliated stuff” (personal communication). Hip hop graffiti culture is one in which communication and exchange is of central concern. The circulation of this “graffito affiliated stuff”—websites, graffiti magazines, videos, books—as well as the fact that aerosol artists frequently travel to other cities and countries to write, demonstrates that this is a culture which, although largely identified with America, is also global in reach. This global interaction and exchange is increasingly characterised by a complex relationship which involves imitation and adaptation. Glossary Bite To copy another graffiti writer’s style Crew Organised group of graffiti writers Getting up Successful graffiti endeavour; to graffiti Going over To graffiti over another’s graffiti Piece The most sophisticated kind of graffiti, which includes characters, words and phrases Tag A stylised version of a signature; the most basic form of graffiti Throw up Two-dimensional version of a tag Wildstyle Style of graffiti characterised by interlocking letters and arrows Writer Graffiti artist; one who does graffiti References Andrews, Benedict. “If a Cleaner Can Review Graffiti Art, Then …” Sydney Morning Herald 15 Jan. 2001. 15 August 2001 http://www.smh.com.au/news/0101/15/features/features8.html>. Appadurai, Arjun. “Globalization and the Research Imagination.” International Social Science Journal 51.2 (1999): 229-38. Campbell, Ian. “The National Perspective.” Dealing with Graffiti. Ed. Graffiti Program, Government of Western Australia: Perth, 1997: 6-7. Chalfant, Henry, and James Prigroff. Spraycan Art. London: Thames & Hudson, 1987. Cooper, Martha, and Henry Chalfant. Subway Art. London: Thames & Hudson, 1984. “Exit”. n.d. [1998]. 18 Jul. 2001 http://loud.net.au/projects/digit/garry/exit.htm>. Ferrell, Jeff. “Review of Moscow Graffiti: Language and Subculture.” Social Justice 20.3-4 (1993): 188 (15). ———. “Urban Graffiti: Crime, Control, and Resistance.” Youth and Society 27 (1995-6): 73-87. Findlay, Mark. The Globalization of Crime: Understanding Transitional Relationships in Context. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1999. Giddens, Anthony. Runaway World: How Globalization Is Reshaping our Lives. New York: Routledge, 2000. Hamilton, Kate. “Can in Hand.” Rolling Stone 590 (2001): 72-5. Hannerz, Ulf. “Scenarios for Peripheral Cultures.” Culture, Globalization and the World-System: Contemporary Conditions for the Representation of Identity. Ed. Anthony D. King. Houndmills: Macmillan, 1991. 107-28. Kalb, Don. “Localizing Flows: Power, Paths, Institutions, and Networks.” The Ends of Globalization: Bringing Society Back In. Ed. Don Kalb. Boston: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, 2000. 1-29. Kloos, Peter. “The Dialectics of Globalization and Localization.” The Ends of Globalization: Bringing Society Back In. Ed. Don Kalb. Boston: Rowman and Littlefield, 2000. 281-97. Leys, Nick. “Graffiti Removalist Gives Art Installation a Spray.” Sydney Morning Herald 9 January 2001. 9 Jan. 2001. http://www.smh.com.au/news/0101/09/national/national15.html>. Lotman, Yuri. The Universe of the Mind: A Semiotic Theory of Culture. Bloomington, IN: Indiana UP, 1990. “Old Skool.” Triple J. 2001. 18 Jul. 2001 http://www.abc.net.au/triplej/arts/graff/oldskool/default.htm>. s3. “Name & Email Supplied.” Online posting. 9 May 2004. Blitzkrieg Bulletin Board. 20 July 2001 http://network54.com/Forum>. Scholte, Jan Aarte. “Globalisation: Prospects For a Paradigm Shift.” Politics and Globalisation: Knowledge, Ethics and Agency. Ed. Martin Shaw. London: Routledge, 1999. 9-22. Stevens, Tony. “It’s Vandalism, It’s Illegal and It Causes Anguish and Frustration.” Sydney Morning Herald 5 Feb. 2001. 4 Mar. 2001 http://www.smh.com.au/news/0102/05/features/features10.html>. Style Wars. Dir. Tony Silver and Henry Chalfant. 1983. DVD. Passion River, 2005. Token. “F*** You Little Kids!” Online posting. 5 May 2000. Blitzkrieg Bulletin Board. 20 Jul. 2001 http://network54.com/Forum>. Tomlinson, John. Cultural Imperialism: A Critical Introduction. London: Pinter Publishers, 1991. Umph. n.d. [1998]. 18 Jul. 2001. http://loud.net.au/projects/digit/garry/umph.htm>. Wild Style. Dir. Charlie Ahearn. 1983. DVD. Rhino Theatrical, 2002. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Lombard, Kara-Jane. "“To Us Writers, the Differences Are Obvious”: The Adaptation of Hip Hop Graffiti to an Australian Context." M/C Journal 10.2 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0705/05-lombard.php>. APA Style Lombard, K. (May 2007) "“To Us Writers, the Differences Are Obvious”: The Adaptation of Hip Hop Graffiti to an Australian Context," M/C Journal, 10(2). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0705/05-lombard.php>.

Abstract:

Previously limited and somewhat neglected as a focus of academic scrutiny, interest in home and domesticity is now growing apace across the humanities and social sciences (Mallett; Blunt, “Cultural Geographies of Home”; Blunt and Dowling). This is evidenced in the recent publication of a range of books on home from various disciplines (Chapman and Hockey; Cieraad; Miller; Chapman; Pink; Blunt and Dowling), the advent in 2004 of a new journal, Home Cultures, focused specifically on the subject of home and domesticity, as well as similar recent special issues in several other journals, including Antipode, Cultural Geographies, Signs and Housing, Theory and Society. This increased interest in the home as a site of social and cultural inquiry reflects a renewed fascination with home and domesticity in the media, popular culture and everyday life. Domestic life is explicitly central to the plot and setting of many popular and/or critically-acclaimed television programs, especially suburban dramas like Neighbours [Australia], Coronation Street [UK], Desperate Housewives [US] and The Secret Life of Us [Australia]. The deeply-held value of home – as a place that must be saved or found – is also keenly represented in films such as The Castle [Australia], Floating Life [Australia], Rabbit-Proof Fence [Australia], House of Sand and Fog [US], My Life as a House [US] and Under the Tuscan Sun [US]. But the prominence of home in popular media imaginaries of Australia and other Western societies runs deeper than as a mere backdrop for entertainment. Perhaps most telling of all is the rise and ratings success of a range of reality and/or lifestyle television programs which provide their audiences with key information on buying, building, renovating, designing and decorating home. In Australia, these include Backyard Blitz , Renovation Rescue, The Block, Changing Rooms, DIY Rescue, Location, Location and Our House. Likewise, popular magazines like Better Homes and Gardens and Australian Vogue Living tell us how to make our homes more beautiful and functional. Other reality programs, meanwhile, focus on how we might secure the borders of our suburban homes (Crimewatch [UK]) and our homeland (Border Security [Australia]). Home is also a strong theme in other media forms and debates, including life writing, novels, art and public dialogue about immigration and national values (see Blunt and Dowling). Indeed, notions of home increasingly frame ‘real world’ experiences, “especially for the historically unprecedented number of people migrating across countries”, where movement and resettlement are often configured through processes of leaving and establishing home (Blunt and Dowling 2). In this issue of M/C Journal we contribute to these critical voices and popular debates, seeking to further untangle the intricate and multi-layered connections between home and everyday life in the contemporary world. Before introducing the articles comprising this issue, we want to extend some of the key themes that weave through academic and popular discussions of home and domesticity, and which are taken up and extended here by the subsequent articles. Home is powerful, emotive and multi-faceted. As a basic desire for many, home is saturated with the meanings, memories, emotions, experiences and relationships of everyday life. The idea and place of home is perhaps typically configured through a positive sense of attachment, as a place of belonging, intimacy, security, relationship and selfhood. Indeed, many reinforce their sense of self, their identity, through an investment in their home, whether as house, hometown or homeland. But at the same time, home is not always a well-spring of succour and goodness; others experience alienation, rejection, hostility, danger and fear ‘at home’. Home can be a site of domestic violence or ‘house arrest’; young gay men and lesbians may feel alienated in the family home; asylum seekers are banished from their homelands; indigenous peoples are often dispossessed of their homelands; refugees might be isolated from a sense of belonging in their new home(land)s. But while this may seriously mitigate the affirmative experience of home, many still yearn for places, both figurative and material, to call ‘home’ – places of support, nourishment and belonging. The experience of violence, loss, marginalisation or dispossession can trigger, in Michael Brown’s words, “the search for a new place to call home”: “it means having to relocate oneself, to leave home and reconfigure it elsewhere” (50). Home, in this sense, understood as an ambiguous site of both belonging and alienation, is not a fixed and static location which ‘grounds’ an essential and unchanging sense of self. Rather, home is a process. If home enfolds and carries some sense of desire for positive feelings of attachment – and the papers in this special issue certainly suggest so, most quite explicitly – then equally this is a relationship that requires ongoing maintenance. Blunt and Dowling call these processes ‘homemaking practices’, and point to how home must be understood as a lived space which is “continually created and recreated through everyday practices” (23). In this way, home is posited as relational – the ever-changing outcome of the ongoing and mediated interaction between self, others and place. What stands out in much of the above discussion is the deep inter-connection between home, identity and self. Across the humanities and social sciences, home has been keenly explored as a crucial site “for the construction and reconstruction of one’s self” (Young 153). Indeed, Blunt and Dowling contend that “home as a place and an imaginary constitutes identities – people’s sense of themselves are related to and produced through lived and imaginative experiences of home” (24). Thus, through various homemaking practices, individuals generate a sense of self (and social groups produce a sense of collective identity) while they create a place called home. Moreover, as a relational entity, neither home nor identity are fixed, but mutually and ongoingly co-constituted. Homemaking enables changing and cumulative identities to be materialised in and supported by the home (Blunt and Dowling). Unfolding identities are progressively embedded and reflected in the home through both everyday practices and routines (Wise; Young), and accumulating and arranging personally meaningful objects (Marcoux; Noble, “Accumulating Being”). Consequently, as one ‘makes home’, one accumulates a sense of self. Given these intimate material and affective links between home, self and identity, it is perhaps not surprising that writing about a place called home has often been approached autobiographically (Blunt and Dowling). Emphasising the importance of autobiographical accounts for understanding home, Blunt argues that “through their accounts of personal memories and everyday experiences, life stories provide a particularly rich source for studying home and identity” (“Home and Identity”, 73). We draw attention to the importance of autobiographical accounts of home because this approach is prominent across the papers comprising this issue of M/C Journal. The authors have used autobiographical reflections to consider the meanings of home and processes of homemaking operating at various scales. Three papers – by Brett Mills, Lisa Slater and Nahid Kabir – are explicitly autobiographical, weaving scholarly arguments through deeply personal experiences, and thus providing evocative first-hand accounts of the power of home in the contemporary world. At the same time, several other authors – including Melissa Gregg, Gilbert Caluya and Jennifer Gamble – use personal experiences about home, belonging and exclusion to introduce or illustrate their scholarly contentions about home, self and identity. As this discussion suggests, home is relational in another way, too: it is the outcome of a relationship between material and imaginative qualities. Home is somewhere – it is situated, located, emplaced. But it is also much more than a location – as suggested by the saying, ‘A house is not a home’. Rather, a house becomes a home when it is imbued with a range of meanings, feelings and experiences by its occupants. Home, thus, is a fusion of the imaginative and affective – what we envision and desire home to be – intertwined with the material and physical – an actual location which can embody and realise our need for belonging, affirmation and sustenance. Blunt and Dowling capture this relationship between emplacement and emotion – the material and the imaginative – with their powerful assertion of home as a spatial imaginary, where “home is neither the dwelling nor the feeling, but the relation between the two” (22). Moreover, they demonstrate that this conceptualisation also detaches ‘home’ from ‘dwelling’ per se, and invokes the creation of home – as a space and feeling of belonging – at sites and scales beyond the domestic house. Instead, as a spatial imaginary, home takes form as “a set of intersecting and variable ideas and feelings, which are related to context, and which construct places, extend across spaces and scales, and connects places” (Blunt and Dowling 2). The concept of home, then, entails complex scalarity: indeed, it is a multi-scalar spatial imaginary. Put quite simply, scale is a geographical concept which draws attention to the layered arenas of everyday life – body, house, neighbourhood, city, region, nation and globe, for instance – and this terminology can help extend our understanding of home. Certainly, for many, house and home are conflated, so that a sense of home is coterminous with a physical dwelling structure (e.g. Dupuis and Thorns). For others, however, home is signified by intimate familial or community relationships which extend beyond the residence and stretch across a neighbourhood (e.g. Moss). And moreover, without contradiction, we can speak of hometowns and homelands, so that home can be felt at the scale of the town, city, region or nation (e.g. Blunt, Domicile and Diaspora). For others – international migrants and refugees, global workers, communities of mixed descent – home can be stretched into transnational belongings (e.g. Blunt, “Cultural Geographies of Home”). But this notion of home as a multi-scalar spatial imaginary is yet more complicated. While the above arenas (house, neighbourhood, nation, globe, etc.) are often simply posited as discrete territories, they also intersect and interact in complex ways (Massey; Marston). Extending this perspective, we can grasp the possibility of personal and collective homemaking processes operating across multiple scales simultaneously. For instance, making a house into a home invariably involves generating a sense of home and familiarity in a wider neighbourhood or nation-state. Indeed, Greg Noble points out that homemaking at the scale of the dwelling can be inflected by broader social and national values which are reflected materially in the house, in “the furniture of everyday life” (“Comfortable and Relaxed”, 55) – landscape paintings and national flags and ornaments, for example. He demonstrates that “homes articulate domestic spaces to national experience” (54). For others – those moving internationally between nation-states – domestic practices in dwelling structures are informed by cultural values and social ideals which extend well beyond the nation of settlement. Everyday domestic practices from one’s ‘land of origin’ are integral for ‘making home’ in a new house, neighbourhood and country at the same time (Hage). Many of the papers in this issue reflect upon the multi-scalarity of homemaking processes, showing how home must be generated across the multiple intersecting arenas of everyday life simultaneously. Indeed, given this prominence across the papers, we have chosen to use the scale of home as our organising principle for this issue. We begin with the links between the body – the geography closest to our skin (McDowell) – the home, and other scales, and then wind our way out through evocations of home at the intersecting scales of the house, the neighbourhood, the city, the nation and the diasporic. The rhetoric of home and belonging not only suggests which types of places can be posited as home (e.g. houses, neighbourhoods, nations), but also valorises some social relations and embodied identities as homely and others as unhomely (Blunt and Dowling; Gorman-Murray). The dominant ideology of home in the Anglophonic West revolves around the imaginary ‘ideal’ of white, middle-class, heterosexual nuclear family households in suburban dwellings (Blunt and Dowling). In our lead paper, Melissa Gregg explores how the ongoing normalisation of this particular conception of home in Australian politico-cultural discourse affects two marginalised social groups – sexual minorities and indigenous Australians. Her analysis is timely, responding to recent political attention to the domestic lives of both groups. Scrutinising the disciplinary power of ‘normal homes’, Gregg explores how unhomely (queer and indigenous) subjects and relationships unsettle the links between homely bodies, ideal household forms and national belonging in politico-cultural rhetoric. Importantly, she draws attention to the common experiences of these marginalised groups, urging “queer and black activists to join forces against wider tendencies that affect both communities”. Our first few papers then continue to investigate intersections between bodies, houses and neighbourhoods. Moving to the American context – but quite recognisable in Australia – Lisa Roney examines the connection between bodies and houses on the US lifestyle program, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, in which families with disabled members are over-represented as subjects in need of home renovations. Like Gregg, Roney demonstrates that the rhetoric of home is haunted by the issue of ‘normalisation’ – in this case, EMHE ‘corrects’ and normalises disabled bodies through providing ‘ideal’ houses. In doing so, there is often a disjuncture between the homely ideal and what would be most helpful for the everyday domestic lives of these subjects. From an architectural perspective, Marian Macken also considers the disjuncture between bodily practices, inhabitation and ideal houses. While traditional documentation of house designs in working drawings capture “the house at an ideal moment in time”, Macken argues for post factum documentation of the house, a more dynamic form of architectural recording produced ‘after-the-event’ which interprets ‘the existing’ rather than the ideal. This type of documentation responds to the needs of the body in the inhabited space of domestic architecture, representing the flurry of occupancy, “the changes and traces the inhabitants make upon” the space of the house. Gilbert Caluya also explores the links between bodies and ideal houses, but from a different viewpoint – that of the perceived need for heightened home security in contemporary suburban Australia. With the rise of electronic home security systems, our houses have become extensions of our bodies – ‘architectural nervous systems’ which extend our eyes, ears and senses through modern security technologies. The desire for home security is predicated on controlling the interplay between the house and wider scales – the need to create a private and secure defensible space in hostile suburbia. But at the same time, heightened home security measures ironically connect the mediated home into a global network of electronic grids and military technologies. Thus, new forms of electronic home security stretch home from the body to the globe. Irmi Karl also considers the connections between technologies and subjectivities in domestic space. Her UK-based ethnographic analysis of lesbians’ techo-practices at home also considers, like Gregg, tactics of resistance to the normalisation of the heterosexual nuclear family home. Karl focuses on the TV set as a ‘straightening device’ – both through its presence as a key marker of ‘family homes’ and through the heteronormative content of programming – while at the same time investigating how her lesbian respondents renegotiated the domestic through practices which resisted the hetero-regulation of the TV – through watching certain videos, for instance, or even hiding the TV set away. Susan Thompson employs a similar ethnographic approach to understanding domestic practices which challenge normative meanings of home, but her subject is quite different. In an Australian-based study, Thompson explores meanings of home in the wake of relationship breakdown of heterosexual couples. For her respondents, their houses embodied their relationships in profoundly symbolic and physical ways. The deterioration and end of their relationships was mirrored in the material state of the house. The end of a relationship also affected homely, familiar connections to the wider neighbourhood. But there was also hope: new houses became sources of empowerment for former partners, and new meanings of home were created in the transition to a new life. Brett Mills also explores meanings of home at different scales – the house, neighbourhood and city – but returns to the focus on television and media technologies. His is a personal, but scholarly, response to seeing his own home on the television program Torchwood, filmed in Cardiff, UK. Mills thus puts a new twist on autobiographical narratives of home and identity: he uses this approach to examine the link between home and media portrayals, and how personal reactions to “seeing your home on television” change everyday perceptions of home at the scales of the house, neighbourhood and city. His reflection on “what happens when your home is on television” is solidly but unobtrusively interwoven with scholarly work on home and media, and speaks to the productive tension of home as material and imaginative. As the above suggests, especially with Mills’s paper, we have begun to move from the homely connections between bodies and houses to focus on those between houses, neighbourhoods and beyond. The next few papers extend these wider connections. Peter Pugsley provides a critical analysis of the meaning of domestic settings in three highly-successful Singaporean sitcoms. He argues that the domestic setting in these sitcoms has a crucial function in the Singaporean nation-state, linking the domestic home and national homeland: it is “a valuable site for national identities to be played out” in terms of the dominant modes of culture and language. Thus, in these domestic spaces, national values are normalised and disseminated – including the valorisation of multiculturalism, the dominance of Chinese cultural norms, benign patriarchy, and ‘proper’ educated English. Donna Lee Brien, Leonie Rutherford and Rosemary Williamson also demonstrate the interplay between ‘private’ and ‘public’ spaces and values in their case studies of the domestic sphere in cyberspace, examining three online communities which revolve around normatively domestic activities – pet-keeping, crafting and cooking. Their compelling case studies provide new ways to understand the space of the home. Home can be ‘stretched’ across public and private, virtual and physical spaces, so that “online communities can be seen to be domesticated, but, equally … the activities and relationships that have traditionally defined the home are not limited to the physical space of the house”. Furthermore, as they contend in their conclusion, these extra-domestic networks “can significantly modify practices and routines in the physical home”. Jennifer Gamble also considers the interplay of the virtual and the physical, and how home is not confined to the physical house. Indeed, the domestic is almost completely absent from the new configurations of home she offers: she conceptualises home as a ‘holding environment’ which services our needs and provides care, support and ontological security. Gamble speculates on the possibility of a holding environment which spans the real and virtual worlds, encompassing email, chatrooms and digital social networks. Importantly, she also considers what happens when there are ruptures and breaks in the holding environment, and how physical or virtual dimensions can compensate for these instances. Also rescaling home beyond the domestic, Alexandra Ludewig investigates concepts of home at the scale of the nation-state or ‘homeland’. She focuses on the example of Germany since World War II, and especially since re-unification, and provides an engaging discussion of the articulation between home and the German concept of ‘Heimat’. She shows how Heimat is ambivalent – it is hard to grasp the sense of longing for homeland until it is gone. Thus, Heimat is something that must be constantly reconfigured and maintained. Taken up in a critical manner, it also attains positive values, and Ludewig suggests how Heimat can be employed to address the Australian context of homeland (in)security and questions of indigenous belonging in the contemporary nation-state. Indeed, the next couple of papers focus on the vexed issue of building a sense home and belonging at the scale of the nation-state for non-indigenous Australians. Lisa Slater’s powerful autobiographical reflection considers how non-indigenous Australians might find a sense of home and belonging while recognising prior indigenous ownership of the land. She critically reflects upon “how non-indigenous subjects are positioned in relation to the original owners not through migrancy but through possession”. Slater urges us to “know our place” – we need not despair, but use such remorse in a productive manner to remake our sense of home in Australia – a sense of home sensitive to and respectful of indigenous rights. Nahid Kabir also provides an evocative and powerful autobiographical narrative about finding a sense of home and belonging in Australia for another group ‘beyond the pale’ – Muslim Australians. Hers is a first-hand account of learning to ‘feel at home’ in Australia. She asks some tough questions of both Muslim and non-Muslim Australians about how to accommodate difference in this country. Moreover, her account shows the homing processes of diasporic subjects – transnational homemaking practices which span several countries, and which enable individuals and social groups to generate senses of belonging which cross multiple borders simultaneously. Our final paper also contemplates the homing desires of diasporic subjects and the call of homelands – at the same time bringing our attention back to home at the scales of the house, neighbourhood, city and nation. As such, Wendy Varney’s paper brings us full circle, lucidly invoking home as a multi-scalar spatial imaginary by exploring the diverse and complex themes of home in popular music. Given the prevalence of yearnings about home in music, it is surprising so little work has explored the powerful conceptions of home disseminated in and through this widespread and highly mobile media form. Varney’s analysis thus makes an important contribution to our understandings of home presented in media discourses in the contemporary world, and its multi-scalar range is a fitting way to bring this issue to a close. Finally, we want to draw attention to the cover art by Rohan Tate that opens our issue. A Sydney-based photographer, Tate is interested in the design of house, home and the domestic form, both in terms of exteriors and interiors. This image from suburban Sydney captures the shifting styles of home in suburban Australia, giving us a crisp juxtaposition between modern and (re-valued) traditional housing forms. Bringing this issue together has been quite a task. We received 60 high quality submissions, and selecting the final 14 papers was a difficult process. Due to limits on the size of the issue, several good papers were left out. We thank the reviewers for taking the time to provide such thorough and useful reports, and encourage those authors who did not make it into this issue to keep seeking outlets for their work. The number of excellent submissions shows that home continues to be a growing and engaging theme in social and cultural inquiry. As editors, we hope that this issue of M/C Journal will make a vital contribution to this important range of scholarship, bringing together 14 new and innovative perspectives on the experience, location, creation and meaning of home in the contemporary world. References Blunt, Alison. “Home and Identity: Life Stories in Text and in Person.” Cultural Geography in Practice. Eds. Alison Blunt, Pyrs Gruffudd, Jon May, Miles Ogborn, and David Pinder. London: Arnold, 2003. 71-87. ———. Domicile and Diaspora: Anglo-Indian Women and the Spatial Politics of Home. Malden: Blackwell, 2005. ———. “Cultural Geographies of Home.” Progress in Human Geography 29.4 (2005): 505-515. ———, and Robyn Dowling. Home. London: Routledge, 2006. Brown, Michael. Closet Space: Geographies of Metaphor from the Body to the Globe. London: Routledge, 2000. Chapman, Tony. Gender and Domestic Life: Changing Practices in Families and Households. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004. ———, and Jenny Hockey, eds. Ideal Homes? Social Change and Domestic Life. London: Routledge, 1999. Cieraad, Irene, ed. At Home: An Anthropology of Domestic Space. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1999. Dupuis, Ann, and David Thorns. “Home, Home Ownership and the Search for Ontological Security.” The Sociological Review 46.1 (1998): 24-47. Gorman-Murray, Andrew. “Homeboys: Uses of Home by Gay Australian Men.” Social and Cultural Geography 7.1 (2006): 53-69. Hage, Ghassan. “At Home in the Entrails of the West: Multiculturalism, Ethnic Food and Migrant Home-Building.” Home/world: Space, Community and Marginality in Sydney’s West. Eds. Helen Grace, Ghassan Hage, Lesley Johnson, Julie Langsworth and Michael Symonds. Annandale: Pluto, 1997. 99-153. Mallett, Shelley. “Understanding Home: A Critical Review of the Literature.” The Sociological Review 52.1 (2004): 62-88. Marcoux, Jean-Sébastien. “The Refurbishment of Memory.” Home Possessions: Material Culture Behind Closed Doors. Ed. Daniel Miller. Oxford: Berg, 2001. 69-86. Marston, Sally. “A Long Way From Home: Domesticating the Social Production of Scale.” Scale and Geographic Inquiry: Nature, Society and Method. Eds. Eric Sheppard and Robert McMaster. Oxford: Blackwell, 2004. 170-191. Massey, Doreen. “A Place Called Home.” New Formations 17 (1992): 3-15. McDowell, Linda. Gender, Identity and Place: Understanding Feminist Geographies. Cambridge: Polity, 1999. Miller, Daniel, ed. Home Possessions: Material Culture Behind Closed Doors. Oxford: Berg, 2001. Moss, Pamela. “Negotiating Space in Home Environments: Older Women Living with Arthritis.” Social Science and Medicine 45.1 (1997): 23-33. Noble, Greg. “Comfortable and Relaxed: Furnishing the Home and Nation.” Continuum: Journal of Media and Cultural Studies 16.1 (2002): 53-66. ———. “Accumulating Being.” International Journal of Cultural Studies 7.2 (2004): 233-256. Pink, Sarah. Home Truths: Gender, Domestic Objects and Everyday Life. Oxford: Berg, 2004. Wise, J. Macgregor. “Home: Territory and Identity.” Cultural Studies 14.2 (2000): 295-310. Young, Iris Marion. “House and Home: Feminist Variations on a Theme.” On Female Body Experience: ‘Throwing Like a Girl’ and Other Essays. New York: Oxford University Press, 2005. 123-154. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Gorman-Murray, Andrew, and Robyn Dowling. "Home." M/C Journal 10.4 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/01-editorial.php>. APA Style Gorman-Murray, A., and R. Dowling. (Aug. 2007) "Home," M/C Journal, 10(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/01-editorial.php>.

Abstract:

Introduction In the wake of the disaster of World War I, the Surrealists formulated a hostile critique of the novel that identified its limitations in expressing the depth of the mind's faculties and the fragmentation of the psyche after catastrophic events. From this position of crisis, the Surrealists undertook a series of experimental innovations in form, structure, and style in an attempt to renew the genre. This article examines how the praxis of shock is deployed in a number of Surrealist city novels as a conduit for revolt against a society that grew increasingly mechanised in the climate of post-war regeneration. It seeks to counter the contemporary view that Surrealist city dérives (drifts) represent an intriguing yet ultimately benign method of urban research. By reconsidering its origins in response to a world catastrophe, this article emphasises the Surrealist novel’s binding of the affective properties of shock to the dream-awakening dialectic at the heart of the political position of Surrealism. The Surrealist City Novel Today it has almost become a truism to assert that there is a causal link between the catastrophic devastation wrought by the events of the two World Wars and the ideology of rupture that characterised the iconoclasms of the Modernist avant-gardes. Yet, as we progress into the twenty-first century, it is timely to recognise that new generations are rediscovering canonical and peripheral texts of this era and refracting them through a prism of contemporary preoccupations. In many ways, the revisions of today’s encounters with that past era suggest we have travelled some distance from the rawness of such catastrophic events. One post-war body of work recently subjected to view via an unexpected route is the remarkable array of Surrealist city novels set in Paris in the 1920s and 1930s, representing a spectrum of experimental texts by such authors as André Breton, Louis Aragon, Robert Desnos, Philippe Soupault, and Michel Leiris. Over the past decade, these works have become recuperated in the Anglophone context as exemplary instances of ludic engagement with the city. This is due in large part to the growing surge of interest in psychogeography, an urban research method concerned with the influence that geographical environments exert over the emotions and behaviours of individuals, and a concern for tracing the literary genealogies of walking and writing in broad sweeping encyclopaedic histories and guidebook style accounts (for prominent examples see Rebecca Solnit’s Wanderlust and Merlin Coverley’s Psychogeography). Yet as Surrealist novels continue to garner renewed interest for their erotic intrigue, their strolling encounters with the unconscious or hidden facets of the city, and as precursors to the apparently more radical practice of Situationist psychogeography, this article suggests that something vital is missing. By neglecting the revolutionary significance that the Surrealists placed upon the street and its inextricable connection to the shock of the marvellous, I suggest that we have arrived at a point of diminished appreciation of the praxis of the dream-awakening dialectic at the heart of Surrealist politics. With the movement firmly lodged in the popular imagination as concerned merely with the art of play and surprise, the Surrealists’ sensorial conception of the city as embedded within a much larger critique of the creators of “a sterile and dead world” (Rasmussen 372) is lost. This calls into question to what extent we can now relate to the urgency with which avant-gardes like the Surrealists responded to the disaster of war in their call for “the revolution of the subject, a revolution that destroyed identity and released the fantastic” (372). At the same time, a re-evaluation of the Surrealist city novel as a significant precursor to the psychogeograhical dérive (drift) can prove instructive in locating the potential of walking, in order to function as a form of praxis (defined here as lived practice in opposition to theory) that goes beyond its more benign construction as the “gentle art” of getting lost. The Great Shock To return to the origins of Surrealism is to illuminate the radical intentions of the movement. The enormous shock that followed the Great War represented, according to Roger Shattuck, “a profound organic reaction that convulsed the entire system with vomiting, manic attacks, and semi-collapse” (9). David Gascoyne considers 1919, the inaugural year of Surrealist activity, as “a year of liquidation, the end of everything but also of paroxysmic death-birth, incubating seeds of renewal” (17). It was at this time that André Breton and his collaborator Philippe Soupault came together at the Hôtel des Grands Hommes in Paris to conduct their early experimental research. As the authors took poetic license with the psychoanalytical method of automatic writing, their desire to unsettle the latent content of the unconscious as it manifests in the spontaneous outpourings of dream-like recollections resulted in the first collection of Surrealist texts, The Magnetic Fields (1920). As Breton recalls: Completely occupied as I still was with Freud at that time, and familiar with his methods of examination which I had had some slight occasion to use on some patients during the war, I resolved to obtain from myself what we were trying to obtain from them, namely, a monologue spoken as rapidly as possible without any intervention on the part of critical faculties, a monologue consequently unencumbered by the slightest inhibition and which was, as closely as possible, akin to spoken thought. (Breton, Manifesto 22–23) Despite their debts to psychoanalytical methods, the Surrealists sought radically different ends from therapeutic goals in their application. Rather than using analysis to mitigate the pathologies of the psyche, Breton argued that such methods should instead be employed to liberate consciousness in ways that released the individual from “the reign of logic” (Breton, Manifesto 11) and the alienating forces of a mechanised society. In the same manifesto, Breton links his critique to a denunciation of the novel, principally the realist novel which dominated the literary landscape of the nineteenth-century, for its limitations in conveying the power of the imagination and the depths of the mind’s faculties. Despite these protestations, the Surrealists were unable to completely jettison the novel and instead launched a series of innovations in form, structure, and style in an attempt to renew the genre. As J.H. Matthews suggests, “Being then, as all creative surrealism must be, the expression of a mood of experimentation, the Surrealist novel probes not only the potentialities of feeling and imagination, but also those of novelistic form” (Matthews 6). When Nadja appeared in 1928, Breton was not the first Surrealist to publish a novel. However, this work remains the most well-known example of its type in the Anglophone context. Largely drawn from the author’s autobiographical experiences, it recounts the narrator’s (André’s) obsessive infatuation with a mysterious, impoverished and unstable young woman who goes by the name of Nadja. The pair’s haunted and uncanny romance unfolds during their undirected walks, or dérives, through the streets of Paris, the city acting as an affective register of their encounters. The “intellectual seduction” comes to an abrupt halt (Breton, Nadja 108), however, when Nadja does in fact go truly mad, disappearing from the narrator’s life when she is committed to an asylum. André makes no effort to seek her out and after launching into a diatribe vehemently attacking the institutions that administer psychiatric treatment, nonchalantly resumes the usual concerns of his everyday life. At a formal level, Breton’s unconventional prose indeed stirs many minor shocks and tremors in the reader. The insertion of temporally off-kilter photographs and surreal drawings are intended to supersede naturalistic description. However, their effect is to create a form of “negative indexicality” (Masschelein) that subtly undermines the truth claims of the novel. Random coincidences charged through with the attractive force of desire determine the plot while the compressed dream-like narrative strives to recount only those facts of “violently fortuitous character” (Breton, Nadja 19). Strikingly candid revelations perpetually catch the reader off guard. But it is in the novel’s treatment of the city, most specifically, in which we can recognise the evolution of Surrealism’s initial concern for the radically subversive and liberatory potential of the dream into a form of praxis that binds the shock of the marvellous to the historical materialism of Marx and Engels. This praxis unfolds in the novel on a number of levels. By placing its events firmly at the level of the street, Breton privileges the anti-heroic realm of everyday life over the socially hierarchical domain of the bourgeois domestic interior favoured in realist literature. More significantly, the sites of the city encountered in the novel act as repositories of collective memory with the power to rupture the present. As Margaret Cohen comprehensively demonstrates in her impressive study Profane Illumination, the great majority of sites that the narrator traverses in Nadja reveal connections in previous centuries to instances of bohemian activity, violent insurrection or revolutionary events. The enigmatic statue of Étienne Dolet, for example, to which André is inexplicably drawn on his city walks and which produces a sensation of “unbearable discomfort” (25), commemorates a sixteenth-century scholar and writer of love poetry condemned as a heretic and burned at the Place Maubert for his non-conformist attitudes. When Nadja is suddenly gripped by hallucinations and imagines herself among the entourage of Marie-Antoinette, “multiple ghosts of revolutionary violence descend on the Place Dauphine from all sides” (Cohen 101). Similarly, a critique of capitalism emerges in the traversal of those marginal and derelict zones of the city, such as the Saint-Ouen flea market, which become revelatory of the historical cycles of decay and ruination that modernity seeks to repress through its faith in progress. It was this poetic intuition of the machinations of historical materialism, in particular, that captured the attention of Walter Benjamin in his 1929 “Surrealism” essay, in which he says of Breton that: He can boast an extraordinary discovery: he was the first to perceive the revolutionary energies that appear in the “outmoded”—in the first iron constructions, the first factory buildings, the earliest photos, objects that have begun to be extinct, grand pianos, the dresses of five years ago, fashionable restaurants when the vogue has begun to ebb from them. The relation of these things to revolution—no one can have a more exact concept of it than these authors. (210) In the same passage, Benjamin makes passing reference to the Passage de l’Opéra, the nineteenth-century Parisian arcade threatened with demolition and eulogised by Louis Aragon in his Surrealist anti-novel Paris Peasant (published in 1926, two years earlier than Nadja). Loosely structured around a series of walks, Aragon’s book subverts the popular guidebook literature of the period by inventorying the arcade’s quotidian attractions in highly lyrical and imagistic prose. As in Nadja, a concern for the “outmoded” underpins the praxis which informs the politics of the novel although here it functions somewhat differently. As transitional zones on the cusp of redevelopment, the disappearing arcades attract Aragon for their liminal status, becoming malleable dreamscapes where an ontological instability renders them ripe for eruptions of the marvellous. Such sites emerge as “secret repositories of several modern myths,” and “the true sanctuaries of a cult of the ephemeral”. (Aragon 14) City as Dreamscape Contemporary literature increasingly reads Paris Peasant through the lens of psychogeography, and not unproblematically. In his brief guide to psychogeography, British writer Merlin Coverley stresses Aragon’s apparent documentary or ethnographical intentions in describing the arcades. He suggests that the author “rails against the destruction of the city” (75), positing the novel as “a handbook for today’s breed of psychogeographer” (76). The nuances of Aragon’s dream-awakening dialectic, however, are too easily effaced in such an assessment which overlooks the novel’s vertiginous and hyperbolic prose as it consistently approaches an unreality in its ambivalent treatment of the arcades. What is arguably more significant than any documentary concern is Aragon’s commitment to the broader Surrealist quest to transform reality by undermining binary oppositions between waking life and the realm of dreams. As Hal Foster’s reading of the arcades in Surrealism insists: This gaze is not melancholic; the surrealists do not cling obsessively to the relics of the nineteenth-century. Rather it uncovers them for the purposes of resistance through re-enchantment. If we can grasp this dialectic of ruination, recovery, and resistance, we will grasp the intimated ambition of the surrealist practice of history. (166) Unlike Aragon, Breton defended the political position of Surrealism throughout the ebbs and flows of the movement. This notion of “resistance through re-enchantment” retained its significance for Breton as he clung to the radical importance of dreams and the imagination, creative autonomy, and individual freedom over blind obedience to revolutionary parties. Aragon’s allegiance to communism led him to surrender the poetic intoxications of Surrealist prose in favour of the more sombre and austere tone of social realism. By contrast, other early Surrealists like Philippe Soupault contributed novels which deployed the praxis of shock in a less explicitly dialectical fashion. Soupault’s Last Nights of Paris (1928), in particular, responds to the influence of the war in producing a crisis of identity among a generation of young men, a crisis projected or transferred onto the city streets in ways that are revelatory of the author’s attunement to how “places and environment have a profound influence on memory and imagination” (Soupault 91). All the early Surrealists served in the war in varying capacities. In Soupault’s case, the writer “was called up in 1916, used as a guinea pig for a new typhoid vaccine, and spent the rest of the war in and out of hospital. His close friend and cousin, René Deschamps, was killed in action” (Read 22). Memories of the disaster of war assume a submerged presence in Soupault’s novel, buried deep in the psyche of the narrator. Typically, it is the places and sites of the city that act as revenants, stimulating disturbing memories to drift back to the surface which then suffuse the narrator in an atmosphere of melancholy. During the novel’s numerous dérives, the narrator’s detective-like pursuit of his elusive love-object, the young streetwalker Georgette, the tracking of her near-mute artist brother Octave, and the following of the ringleader of a criminal gang, all appear as instances of compensation. Each chase invokes a desire to recover a more significant earlier loss that persistently eludes the narrator. When Soupault’s narrator shadows Octave on a walk that ventures into the city’s industrial zone, recollections of the disaster of war gradually impinge upon his aleatory perambulations. His description evokes two men moving through the trenches together: The least noise was a catastrophe, the least breath a great terror. We walked in the eternal mud. Step by step we sank into the thickness of night, lost as if forever. I turned around several times to look at the way we had come but night alone was behind us. (80) In an article published in 2012, Catherine Howell identifies Last Nights of Paris as “a lyric celebration of the city as spectacle” (67). At times, the narrator indeed surrenders himself to the ocular pleasures of modernity. Observing the Eiffel Tower, he finds delight in “indefinitely varying her silhouette as if I were examining her through a kaleidoscope” (Soupault 30). Yet it is important to stress the role that shock plays in fissuring this veneer of spectacle, especially those evocations of the city that reveal an unnerving desensitisation to the more violent manifestations of the metropolis. Reading a newspaper, the narrator remarks that “the discovery of bags full of limbs, carefully sawed and chopped up” (23) signifies little more than “a commonplace crime” (22). Passing the banks of the Seine provokes “recollection of an evening I had spent lying on the parapet of the Pont Marie watching several lifesavers trying in vain to recover the body of an unfortunate suicide” (10). In his sensitivity to the unassimilable nature of trauma, Soupault intuits a phenomenon which literary trauma theory argues profoundly limits the text’s claim to representation, knowledge, and an autonomous subject. In this sense, Soupault appears less committed than Breton to the idea that the after-effects of shock might be consciously distilled into a form of praxis. Yet this prolongation of an unintegrated trauma still posits shock as a powerful vehicle to critique a society attempting to heal its wounds without addressing their underlying causes. This is typical of Surrealism’s efforts to “dramatize the physical and psychological trauma of a war that everyone wanted to forget so that it would not be swept away too quickly” (Lyford 4). Woman and Radical Madness In her 2007 study, Surrealist Masculinities, Amy Lyford focuses upon the regeneration and nation building project that characterised post-war France and argues that Surrealist tactics sought to dismantle an official discourse that promoted ideals of “robust manhood and female maternity” (4). Viewed against this backdrop, the trope of madness in Surrealism is central to the movement’s disruptive strategies. In Last Nights of Paris, a lingering madness simmers beneath the surface of the text like an undertow, while in other Surrealist texts the lauding of madness, specifically female hysteria, is much more explicit. Indeed, the objectification of the madwoman in Surrealism is among the most problematic aspects of its praxis of shock and one that raises questions over to what extent, if at all, Surrealism and feminism can be reconciled, leading some critics to define the movement as inherently misogynistic. While certainly not unfounded, this critique fails to answer why a broad spectrum of women artists have been drawn to the movement. By contrast, a growing body of work nuances the complexities of the “blinds spots” (Lusty 2) in Surrealism’s relationship with women. Contemporary studies like Natalya Lusty’s Surrealism, Feminism, Psychoanalysis and Katharine Conley’s earlier Automatic Woman both afford greater credit to Surrealism’s female practitioners in redefining their subject position in ways that trouble and unsettle the conventional understanding of women’s role in the movement. The creative and self-reflexive manipulation of madness, for example, proved pivotal to the achievements of Surrealist women. In her short autobiographical novella, Down Below (1944), Leonora Carrington recounts the disturbing true experience of her voyage into madness sparked by the internment of her partner and muse, fellow Surrealist Max Ernst, in a concentration camp in 1940. Committed to a sanatorium in Santander, Spain, Carrington was treated with the seizure inducing drug Cardiazol. Her text presents a startling case study of therapeutic maltreatment that is consistent with Bretonian Surrealism’s critique of the use of psycho-medical methods for the purposes of regulating and disciplining the individual. As well as vividly recalling her intense and frightening hallucinations, Down Below details the author’s descent into a highly paranoid state which, somewhat perversely, heightens her sense of agency and control over her environment. Unable to discern boundaries between her internal reality and that of the external world, Carrington develops a delusional and inflated sense of her ability to influence the city of Madrid: In the political confusion and the torrid heat, I convinced myself that Madrid was the world’s stomach and that I had been chosen for the task of restoring that digestive organ to health […] I believed that I was capable of bearing that dreadful weight and of drawing from it a solution for the world. The dysentery I suffered from later was nothing but the illness of Madrid taking shape in my intestinal tract. (12–13) In this way, Carrington’s extraordinarily visceral memoir embodies what can be described as the Surrealist woman’s “double allegiance” (Suleiman 5) to the praxis of shock. On the one hand, Down Below subversively harnesses the affective qualities of madness in order to manifest textual disturbances and to convey the author’s fierce rebellion against societal constraints. At the same time, the work reveals a more complex and often painful representational struggle inherent in occupying the position of both the subject experiencing madness and the narrator objectively recalling its events, displaying a tension not present in the work of the male Surrealists. The memoir concludes on an ambivalent note as Carrington describes finally becoming “disoccultized” of her madness, awakening to “the mystery with which I was surrounded and which they all seemed to take pleasure in deepening around me” (53). Notwithstanding its ambivalence, Down Below typifies the political and historical dimensions of Surrealism’s struggle against internal and external limits. Yet as early as 1966, Surrealist scholar J.H. Matthews was already cautioning against reaching that point where the term Surrealist “loses any meaning and becomes, as it is for too many, synonymous with ‘strange,’ ‘weird,’ or even ‘fanciful’” (5–6). To re-evaluate the praxis of shock in the Surrealist novel, then, is to seek to reinstate Surrealism as a movement that cannot be reduced to vague adjectives or to mere aesthetic principles. It is to view it as an active force passionately engaged with the pressing social, cultural, and political problems of its time. While the frequent nods to Surrealist methods in contemporary literary genealogies and creative urban research practices such as psychogeography are a testament to its continued allure, the growing failure to read Surrealism as political is one of the more contradictory symptoms of the expanding temporal distance from the catastrophic events from which the movement emerged. As it becomes increasingly common to draw links between disaster, creativity, and renewal, the shifting sands of the reception of Surrealism are a reminder of the need to resist domesticating movements born from such circ*mstances in ways that blunt their critical faculties and dull the awakening power of their praxis of shock. To do otherwise is to be left with little more than cheap thrills. References Aragon, Louis. Paris Peasant (1926). Trans. Simon Watson Taylor. Boston: Exact Change, 1994. Benjamin, Walter. “Surrealism: The Last Snapshot of the European Intelligentsia” (1929). Trans. Edmund Jephcott. Walter Benjamin Selected Writings, Volume 2, Part I, 1927–1930. Eds. Michael W. Jennings, Howard Eiland, and Gary Smith. Cambridge, MA: The Belknap P, 2005. Breton, André. “Manifesto of Surrealism” (1924). Manifestoes of Surrealism. Trans. Richard Seaver and Helen R. Lane. Ann Arbor, MI: U of Michigan P, 1990. ———. Nadja (1928). Trans. Richard Howard. New York: Grove P, 1960. Breton, André, and Philippe Soupault. The Magnetic Fields (1920). Trans. David Gascoyne. London: Atlas P, 1985. Carrington, Leonora. Down Below (1944). Chicago: Black Swan P, 1983. Cohen, Margaret. Profane Illumination: Walter Benjamin and the Paris of Surrealist Revolution. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 1993. Conley, Katharine. Automatic Woman: The Representation of Woman in Surrealism. Lincoln, NE: U of Nebraska P, 1996. Coverley, Merlin. Psychogeography. Harpenden: Pocket Essentials, 2010. Foster, Hal. Compulsive Beauty. Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 1993. Gascoyne, David. “Introduction.” The Magnetic Fields (1920) by André Breton and Philippe Soupault. Trans. David Gascoyne. London: Atlas P, 1985. Howell, Catherine. “City of Night: Parisian Explorations.” Public: Civic Spectacle 45 (2012): 64–77. Lusty, Natalya. Surrealism, Feminism, Psychoanalysis. Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2007. Lyford, Amy. Surrealist Masculinities: Gender Anxiety and the Aesthetics of Post-World War I Reconstruction in France. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 2007. Masschelein, Anneleen. “Hand in Glove: Negative Indexicality in André Breton’s Nadja and W.G. Sebald’s Austerlitz.” Searching for Sebald: Photography after W.G. Sebald. Ed. Lise Patt. Los Angeles, CA: ICI P, 2007. 360–87. Matthews, J.H. Surrealism and the Novel. Ann Arbor, MI: U of Michigan P, 1996. Rasmussen, Mikkel Bolt. “The Situationist International, Surrealism and the Difficult Fusion of Art and Politics.” Oxford Art Journal 27.3 (2004): 365–87. Read, Peter. “Poets out of Uniform.” Book Review. The Times Literary Supplement. 15 Mar. 2002: 22. Shattuck, Roger. “Love and Laughter: Surrealism Reappraised.” The History of Surrealism. Ed. Maurice Nadeau. Trans. Richard Howard. New York: Penguin Books, 1978. 11–34. Solnit, Rebecca. Wanderlust: A History of Walking. London: Verso, 2002. Soupault, Philippe. Last Nights of Paris (1928). Trans. William Carlos Williams. Boston: Exact Change, 1992. Suleiman, Susan Robin. “Surrealist Black Humour: Masculine/Feminine.” Papers of Surrealism 1 (2003): 1–11. 20 Feb. 2013 ‹http://www.surrealismcentre.ac.uk/papersofsurrealism/journal1›.

Abstract:

IntroductionCroquembouche, blast chillers, and plating up—these terms have become normal to ordinary Australians despite Adriano Zumbo’s croquembouche recipe taking more than two hours to complete and blast chillers costing thousands of dollars. Network Ten’s reality talent quest MasterChef Australia (MCA) has brought fine dining and “foodie” culture to a mass audience who have responded enthusiastically. Vicariously “tasting” this once niche lifestyle is empowering viewers to integrate aspects of “foodie” culture into their everyday lives. It helps them become “everyday foodies.” “Everyday foodies” are individuals who embrace and incorporate an appreciation of gourmet food culture into their existing lifestyles, but feel limited by time, money, health, or confidence. So while a croquembouche and blast chiller may be beyond a MCA viewer’s reach, these aspects of “foodie” culture can still be enjoyed via the program. The rise of the “everyday foodie” challenges criticisms of vicarious consumption and negative discourses about reality and lifestyle television. Examining the very different and specific ways in which three MCA-viewing households vicariously experience gourmet food in their adoption of the “everyday foodie” lifestyle will demonstrate the positive value of vicarious consumption through reality and lifestyle programming. A brief background on the MCA phenomenon will be provided before a review of existing literature regarding vicarious consumption and tensions in the reality and lifestyle television field. Three case studies of MCA-viewing households who use vicarious consumption to satisfy “foodie” cravings and broaden their cultural tastes will be presented. Adapted from the United Kingdom’s MasterChef, which has aired since 1990, MCA has proven to be a catalyst for the “cheffing up” of the nation’s food culture. Twenty-odd amateur cooks compete in a series of challenges, guided, and critiqued by judges George Calombaris, Gary Mehigan, and Matt Preston. Contestants are eliminated as they move through a series of challenges, until one cook remains and is crowned the Master Chef of that series. Network Ten’s launch of MCA in 2009 capitalised on the popularity of reality talent quests that grew throughout the 2000s with programs such as Popstars (2000–2002), Australian Idol (2003–2009), X Factor (2005, 2010–) and Australia’s Got Talent (2007–). MCA also captures Australian viewers’ penchant for lifestyle shows including Better Homes and Gardens (1995–), Burke’s Backyard (1987-2004), The Living Room (2012–) and The Block (2003–2004, 2010–). The popularity of these shows, however, does not match the heights of MCA, which has transformed the normal cooking show audience of 200,000 into millions (Greenwood). MCA’s 2010 finale is Australia’s highest rating non-sporting program since OzTAM ratings were introduced in 2001 (Vickery). Anticipating this episode’s popularity, the 2010 Federal Election debate was moved to 6.30pm from its traditional Sunday 7.30pm timeslot (Coorey; Malkin). As well as attracting extensive press coverage and attention in opinion pieces and blogs, the level of academic attention MCA has already received underscores the show’s significance. So far, Lewis (Labours) and Seale have critiqued the involvement of ordinary people as contestants on the show while Phillipov (Communicating, Mastering) explores tensions within the show from a public health angle. While de Solier (TV Dinners, Making the Self, Foodie Makeovers) and Rousseau’s research does not focus on MCA itself, their investigation of Australian foodies and the impact of food media respectively provide relevant discussion about audience relationships with food media and food culture. This article focuses on how audiences use MCA and related programs. Vicarious consumption is presented as a negative practice where the leisure class benefit from another’s productivity (Veblen). Belk presents the simple example that “if our friend lives in an extravagant house or drives an extravagant car, we feel just a bit more extravagant ourselves” (157). Therefore, consuming through another is viewed as a passive activity. In the context of vicariously consuming through MCA, it could be argued that audiences are gaining satisfaction from watching others develop culinary skills and produce gourmet meals. What this article will reveal is that while MCA viewers do gain this satisfaction, they use it in a productive way to discipline their own eating and spending habits, and to allow them to engage with “foodie” culture when it may not otherwise be possible. Rather than embrace the opportunity to understand a new culture or lifestyle, critics of reality and lifestyle television dismiss the empowering qualities of these programs for two reasons. The practice of “advertainment” (Deery 1)—fusing selling and entertainment—puts pressure on, or excludes, the aspirational classes who want, but lack the resources to adopt, the depicted lifestyle (Ouellette and Hay). Furthermore, such programs are criticised for forcing bourgeois consumption habits on its viewers (Lewis, Smart Living) Both arguments have been directed at British celebrity chef Jamie Oliver. Oliver’s latest cookbook Save with Jamie has been criticised as it promotes austerity cooking, but costs £26 (approx. 48AUD) and encourages readers to purchase staple ingredients and equipment that total more than £500 (approx. 919AUD) (Ellis-Petersen). Ellis-Petersen adds that the £500 cost uses the cheapest available options, not Oliver’s line of Tefal cooking equipment, “which come at a hefty premium” (7). In 2005, Oliver’s television series Jamie’s School Dinners, which follows his campaign for policy reform in the provision of food to students was met with resistance. 2008 reports claim students preferred to leave school to buy junk food rather than eat healthier fare at school (Rousseau). Parents supported this, providing money to their children rather than packing healthy lunches that would pass school inspections (Rousseau). Like the framing of vicarious consumption, these criticisms dismiss the potential benefits of engaging with different lifestyles and cultures. These arguments do not recognise audiences as active media consumers who use programs like MCA to enhance their lifestyles through the acquisition of cultural capital. Ouellette and Hay highlight that audiences take advantage of a multitude of viewing strategies. One such strategy is playing the role of “vicarious expert” (Ouellette and Hay 117) who judges participants and has their consumption practices reinforced through the show. While audiences are invited to learn, they can do this from a distance and are not obliged to feel as though they must be educated (Ouellette and Hay). Viewers are simply able to enjoy the fantasy and spectacle of food shows as escapes from everyday routines (Lewis, Smart Living). In cases like Emeril Live where the host and chef, Emeril Lagasse “favors [sic] showmanship over instruction” (Adema 115–116) the vicarious consumption of viewing a cooking show is more satisfying than cooking and eating. Another reason vicarious consumption provides pleasure for audiences is because “culinary television aestheticises food,” transforming it “into a delectable image, a form of ‘gastro-p*rn’ […] designed to be consumed with the eyes” (de Solier, TV Dinners 467). Audiences take advantage of these viewing strategies, using a balance of actual and vicarious consumption in order to integrate gourmet food culture into their pre-existing lifestyle, budget, and cooking ability. The following case studies emerged from research conducted to understand MCA’s impact on households. After shopping with, and interviewing, seven households, the integration of vicarious and actual food consumption habits was evident across three households. Enjoying food images onscreen or in cookbooks is a suitable substitute when actual consumption is unhealthy, too expensive, time consuming, or daunting. It is this balance between adopting consumption habits of a conventional “foodie” and using vicarious consumption in contexts where the viewer sees actual consumption as unreasonable or uncomfortable that makes the “everyday foodie.” Melanie—Health Melanie is 38 years old and works in the childcare industry. She enjoys the “gastro-p*rn” of MCA and other food media. Interestingly she says food media actually helps her resist eating sumptuous and rich foods: Yeah, like my house is just overrun by cookbooks, cooking magazines. I have Foxtel primarily for the Food Network […] But I know if I cooked it or baked it, I would eat it and I’ve worked too hard to get where I am physically to do that. So I just, I read about it and I watch it, I just don’t do it. This behaviour supports Boulos et al.’s finding that while the Food Network promotes irresponsible consumption habits, these programs are considered a “window into a wider social and cultural world” rather than food preparation guides (150). Using vicarious consumption in this way means Melanie feels she does not “cook as much as what a true foodie would cook,” but she will “have low fat and healthy [options] whenever I can so I can go out and try all the fancy stuff cooked by fancy people.” MCA and food media for Melanie serves a double purpose in that she uses it to restrict, but also aid in her consumption of gourmet food. In choosing a chef or restaurant for the occasions where Melanie wants to enjoy a “fancy” dining experience, she claims food media serves as an educational resource to influence her consumption of gourmet food: I looked up when I was in Sydney where Adriano Zumbo’s shop was to go and try macarons there […] It [MCA] makes me aware of chefs that I may not have been aware of and I may go and … seek that [their restaurants/establishments] out […] Would Adriano Zumbo be as big as he is without MasterChef? No. And I’m a sucker, I want to go and try, I want to know what everyone’s talking about. Melanie’s attitudes and behaviour with regards to food media and consumption illustrates audiences’ selective nature. MCA and other food media influence her to consume, but also control, her consumption. Curtis and Samantha—Broadening Horizons Time and money is a key concern for many “everyday foodies” including Curtis’ family. Along with his wife Samantha they are raising a one-year-old daughter, Amelia. Curtis expressed a fondness for food that he ate while on holiday in the United States: I guess in the last few weeks I’ve been craving the food that we had when we were in America, in particular stuff like pulled pork, ribs, stuff like that. So I’ve replicated or made our own because you can’t get it anywhere around Brisbane like from a restaurant. When talking about cooking shows more generally, Curtis speaks primarily about cooking shows he watches on Foxtel that have a food tourism angle. Curtis mentions programs including Cheese Slices, The Layover and Man v. Food. The latter of these shows follows Adam Richman around the United States attempting to conquer eating challenges set at famous local establishments. Curtis describes his reaction to the program: I say woah that looks good and then I just want to go back to America. But instead of paying thousands of dollars to go, it’s cheaper to look up a recipe and give it a go at home. Cookbooks and food television provide their viewers not only with a window through which they can escape their everyday routines but, as Curtis points out, inspiration or education to cook new dishes themselves. For money conscious “everyday foodies”, the cooking demonstration or mere introduction of a dish broadens viewers’ culinary knowledge. Curtis highlights the importance of this: Otherwise [without food media] you’d be stuck cooking the same things your mum and dad taught you, or your home economics teacher taught you in high school. You’d just be doing the same thing every day. Unless you went out to a restaurant and fell in love with something, but because you don’t go out to restaurants every day, you wouldn’t have that experience every day […] TV gives you the ability—we could flick over to the food channel right now and watch something completely amazing that we’ve never done before. His wife Samantha does not consider herself an adventurous eater. While she is interested in food, her passion lies in cakes and desserts and she jokes that ordering Nando’s with the medium basting is adventurous for her. Vicarious consumption through food media allows Samantha to experience a wider range of cuisines without consuming these foods herself: I would watch a lot more variety than I would actually try. There’s a lot of things that I would happily watch, but if it was put in front of me I probably wouldn’t eat it. Like with MasterChef, I’m quite interested in cooking and stuff, but the range of things [ingredients and cuisines] […] I wouldn’t go there. Rose and Andrew—Set in Their Ways Rose and her husband Andrew are a “basically retired” couple and the parents of Samantha. While they both enjoy MCA and feel it has given them a new insight on food, they find it easier to have a mediated engagement with gourmet food in some instances. Andrew believes MCA is: Taking food out of this sort of very conservative, meat, and three vegetables thing into […] something that is more exotic, for the want of a better word. And I guess that’s where we’ve—we follow it, I follow it. And saying, ‘Oh, geez it’d be nice to do that or to be able to do that,’ and enjoy a bit of creativity in that, but I think it’s just we’re probably pretty set in our ways probably and it’s a bit hard to put that into action sometimes. Andrew goes on to suggest that a generational gap makes their daughters, Samantha and Elle more likely to cook MCA-inspired meals than they are: See Samantha and Elle probably cook with that sort of thing [herbs] more and I always enjoy when they do it, but we probably don’t […] We don’t think about it when we go shopping. We probably shop and buy the basic things and don’t think about the nicer things. Andrew describes himself as “an extremely lazy reader” who finds following a recipe “boring.” Andrew says if he were tempted to cook an MCA-inspired dish, it is unlikely that the required ingredients would be on-hand and that he would not shop for one meal. Rose says she does buy the herbs, or “nicer things” as Andrew refers to them, but is hesitant to use them. She says the primary barrier is lacking confidence in her cooking ability, but also that she finds cooking tiring and is not used to cooking with the gas stove in her new home: Rose: I also think that I probably leave my run late and by night time I’m really tired and my feet are hurting and I tend to think ‘Oh I’ll just get something ready’ […] I know that probably sounds like a lame excuse, but yeah, it’s probably more the confidence thing I think. I often even buy the things [ingredients] to do it and then don’t make it. I’m not confident with my stovetop either. Researcher: Oh why—can you please explain more about that?Rose: Well it’s a gas stovetop and I used to have the electric. I felt like I could main—I could control the setting—the heat—better on it. Rose, in particular, does not let her lack of confidence and time stop her from engaging with gourmet food. Cookbooks and cooking shows like MCA are a valuable channel for her to appreciate “foodie” culture. Rose talks about her interest in MCA: Rose: I’m not a keen cook, but I do enjoy buying recipe books and looking at lovely food and watching—and I enjoyed watching how they did these beautiful dishes. As for the desserts, yes they probably were very fancy, but it was sort of nice to think if you had a really special occasion, you know […] and I would actually get on the computer afterwards and look for some of the recipes. I did subscribe to their magazine […] because I’m a bit of a magazine junkie.Researcher: What do you get out of the recipe books and magazines if you say you’re not a keen cook?Rose: I’d just dream about cooking them probably. That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? But, and also probably inspire my daughters […] I like to show them “oh, look at this and this” or, you know, and probably quite often they will try it or—and one day I think I will try it, but whether I ever do or not, I don’t know. Rose’s response also treats the generation gap as a perceived barrier to actual consumption. But while the couple feel unable to use the knowledge they have gained through MCA in their kitchen, they credit the show with broadening the range of cuisines they would eat when dining out: Andrew: You know, even when we’ve been to—I like Asian food in Australia, you know, Chinese, Thai, any of those sorts of foods.Rose: Indian. Andrew: Indian, yeah I like that in Australia.Rose: Which we have probably tried more of since the likes of MasterChef.Andrew: Yeah.Rose: You know, you—and even sushi, like you would never have ever […]Andrew: Gone to sushi previously. And I won’t eat sashimi, but the sushi bar is all right. Um […] but [I] did not enjoy Chinese food in places like Hong Kong or Singapore. As the couple does not seek educational information from the show in terms of cooking demonstration, they appear more invested in the progress of the contestants of the show and how they respond to challenges set by the judges. The involvement of amateur cooks makes the show relatable as they identify with contestants who they see as potential extensions of themselves. Rose identifies with season one winner, Julie Goodwin who entered the program as a 38-year-old mother of three and owner of an IT consulting business: Rose: Well Julie of course is a—I don’t like to use the word square, but she’s sort of like a bit of an old fashioned lady, but you know, more like basic grandma cooking. But […]Andrew: She did it well though.Rose: Yes, yeah. Andrew: And she, she probably—she progressed dramatically, you know, from the comments from when she first started […] to winning. In how she presented, how she did things. She must have learnt a lot in the process is the way I would look at it anyway. Rose: And I’ve seen her sort of on things since then and she is very good at like […] talking about and telling you what she’s doing and—for basic sort of cook—you know what I mean, not basic, but […] for a basic person like me. Although Rose and Andrew feel that their life stage prevents has them from changing long established consumption habits in relation to food, their choices while dining out coupled with a keen interest in food and food media still exemplifies the “everyday foodie” lifestyle. Programs like MCA, especially with its focus on the development of amateur cooks, have allowed Rose and Andrew to experience gourmet food more than they would have otherwise. Conclusion Each viewer is empowered to live their version of the “everyday foodie” lifestyle through adopting a balance of actual and vicarious consumption practices. 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