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February 1, 2012

Making History: Antiquaries in Britain

Whilst a resident scholar at the YCBA in New Haven, I've had the privilege over the past few weeks of working in the reading room of Louis Kahn's brilliantly designed space which houses Yale University’s British Art Center. On the same floor, not 10 yards away from the library entrance is the exhibition space for what will soon be the Making History: Antiquaries in Britain exhibition. Pretty much every day on the way to the staff kitchen, I've managed to sneak a peek at the curatorial progress of this forthcoming exhibition which shall be inaugurated at the YCBA by an opening lecture from the current President of the Society of Antiquaries of London.

Wednesday February 1, 5:30 - 6:30pm

Opening Lecture, "Antiquaries and the British Past:
Locating and Recording Buildings"

Professor Maurice Howard (University of Sussex)
YCBA Lecture Hall, 1080 Chapel St. New Haven, CT


Making History from February 2 to May 27, 2012 at the YCBA has been put together to celebrate the achievement of the Society of Antiquaries of London, Britain’s oldest independent learned society concerned with the study of the past. It was established in 1707 with the aim of encouraging the pursuit of “the ingenious and curious” in the field of British antiquities.

Roll%20chronicle.jpg

Roll Chronicle, showing descent of Henry VI (1422–71) from Adam and Eve, later carried forward to reign of Charles II (detail), mid-fifteenth century with additions of ca. 1665, illumination with colored inks and tints on vellum rolls.
© the Society of Antiquaries of London

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December 10, 2011

Secret communication systems in Facebook

“Tell the truth. Uncover a few secrets"

Giustina Trevisi, Digital Anthropology MSc, UCL

My MA was a study of emerging Colombian communication systems, specifically Facebook. I employed a variety of online and offline ethnographic methods followed by the analysis of mediated content/output. It was discovered that youths in Columbia are implementing quite elaborate secret communication systems in Facebook. Through this research I have exposed three types of strategically crafted secret messaging systems. The first type of secret communication is Fake relationship status or untrue information regarding their relationship status that has a particular meaning to their social group. The second, Secret codes or “encrypted” communications are public posts that have a secret meaning that deliver a precise message that leads to a particular action and can only be deciphered by a particular person, and third, Indirect messaging system, or public posts understood by most of their Facebook Friends but have a special meaning to the targeted receiver/receivers.

These elaborate practices regarding secrecy have an impact on how youths relate to their social groups, how they manifest intimacy, strengthen their friendships and manage their romantic sphere. For example, in Fake relationship status girls are falsely “married” to other girls in Facebook. Thought this they are communicating to their social group that the relationship is very close and the indexed meaning is that they are best friends. But people outside their circle could misinterpret relationship updated as real a same sex marriage because they are unfamiliar with young people’s idioms of practice (Gershon, 2010). These practices in Facebook are ways in which young use secrecy as a strategy of inclusion and exclusion. Young people code messages and attribute secret significances to their Facebook posts or status updates as a way to communicate with a small group of people or a particular person (Simmel, 1950) they are narrowcasting or diffusing information to exclusive audiences (Walher et al, 2010).

On the other hand, Secret codes or “encrypted” communications in forbidden relationships help couples acquire a sense of “bond” or “we” through the sharing secrets or codes and simultaneously achieve a greater scene of privacy. For example, a couple that is involved in a forbidden unofficial parallel relationship has developed a secret messaging system around the Facebook profile pictures. Whenever the young man changes his Facebook profile picture, in which he appears with his official girlfriend, to a picture where is alone this means that he is available. The concrete message is that they will arrange a date with his unofficial girlfriend; it is a cue for her to prepare herself for the date. Youths have developed encoded communication to deliver specific information to others and so strengthening their relationships. In this case, changing a profile picture is public to everyone in the network, but the significance is closed and exclusive. Through being private in a very public media they have found a method to regain their privacy and control precisely that which many people regard as lost when they commit to social communication through Facebook.

It is important to take note that these strategic encrypted communications in Facebook are about one fourth of all the information collected during the fieldwork. However, this research focused on this particular aspect of the data because this particular genre of usage has not been previous acknowledged in anthropological and other academic studies of SNS. These secret or encrypted communications in Facebook have dual significance in that they are differentially understood by a specifics person or group of people. Therefore, these communications question the extent of transparency and truthfulness that is usually associated to Facebook (Miller, 2011). It has also been evident that young people in Colombia are developing different idioms of practice and media ideologies regarding Facebook, which are challenging Mark Zuckerberg’s perception of this network as a intrinsically a truthful extension of identity. This study shows a new facet of how people are producing content and re-appropriating idioms of practice within secrecy.


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October 30, 2011

Notes from the Romanian Peasant Museum...

Anamaria IUGA (ethnologist, Romanian Peasant Museum)

Carpets and the feminine (hi)story of a village

In the northern part or Romania, in Maramures, there is an official history that is telling, for centuries, about the brave deeds of the rulers and the peasants. Since the 1300, the Middle Ages documents, the “Maramures Diplomas” tell about rights that the locals have. But there is an “un-official” history of each village, told by the told by the textiles that are present in the houses, especially in the “good room”, the festive space of the peasant household. It is a feminine story of the village, told by the wool-threads.

Objects made by women have always been considered as representative for the community: the traditional clothes have particularities in every village, details in ornamentation, and colors, that the locals recognize as different from their own. For example, women wear, in front of their dresses, wool-aprons with black stripes that alternate with the ones in different colors. In each village, there are other colors that alternate, according to the community rules; and in every village, each age group has different variations of colors. Another example is the one of the woven bags, that are different, too, from village to village. This is how, when there are fairs, people, if they do not recognize the person, they can at least tell from which community he/she comes, by looking at his/her bag.

Objects, especially textiles, are representative for the family: in the festive room there are carpets and rugs everywhere, but mainly on the “ruda” (a wooden beam where textiles are exposed in a special order that differs from village to village). Richer in textiles the “ruda” is, the richer the family and well situated socially, too.

The same carpets, though, tell also the story of the family: objects are intertwined with the life of their creators and users. The stories that women tell when talking about the dowry they created themselves give an impression about the importance of all these textiles. Firstly, carpets are inherited; they are transmitted from generation to generation with the dowry. Mainly, the first girl to marry takes the “ruda” that her mother has received from her parents. And sometimes, there are carpets on the “ruda” that have been transmitted on a feminine side for several generations, even from grand-mothers. In one room, one can find the story of two or even three generations of women. Their memory is continued with the dowry and the objects that it contains. Some women start their own history “written” in the carpets: they weave and prepare their own dowry before they get married, without any other help than the one of their mothers or sisters, who is waving together with them.

Also, textiles tell the (hi)story of the native village: women that marry in other villages, in their new “good room” they have the “ruda” exposed with all the textiles that they have brought from their village, often completely different from the way the “ruda” is “dressed” in the community where they live in now.

Although it is an important way feminine story is told from one generation to another, the way it is told and “written” in textiles show a quite ephemeral way of transmitting: when the carpets are considered to be old and when the threads get apart, or they become old-fashioned, they end up on the floors. The objects created by the hands of the peasants are not thrown away, they just simply live their own life and by the end, they die, quietly.

[Ed note: we've had some trouble with our slideshow technology - please click on the following image to be taken to the photo album]

Carpets

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October 15, 2011

When the object and the cultural meet to shape the SMS. Incorporating and ex-corporating a media of communication

Moise Raluca, Dept of Anthropology, Univ. of Bucharest

The study of the discourses which characterize the youngsters’ culture, pinpointing the way they elaborate certain strategies to overcome the restraints imposed by the objective limitations of the technical object and the analysis of the way in which the young users construct their self image through the text message are indispensable for understanding the relation between the subject (the individual) and the object (the SMS). I discuss apparently contradictory realities, inscribed within the paradigm of the teenage praxis; the implicit rules of the usage of the message by teenagers (the collective norm) are opposite, in practice, to the differentiation strategies between individuals (individual practices).

Starting from an individual level... Between adults’ fear and the norm of integration within the group

In the phase of adopting the SMS to a collective level, I talked about two contradictory attitudes appeared once with the cell phone: idealization and fear. The first paradox is the adoption „in silence” of cell phone to teenagers. Confronted with really negative and even aggressive representations from parents, teachers and media channels, they continued their „work” on cell phone, adopting this form of communication. I found the explanation by retracing the individual line of adopting it: the logic of being integrated. It seems that the tyranny of majority is stronger than any warning.

Besides the logics of use described so far in the sociological litterature (meaning utility, autonomy, integration), I think there is another logic of adoption which could be the most important to teenagers and that reinforces the use of SMS. We talk about the the logic of entertainment and playfulness. This value is not determined by the emergency of a new language, but it constitutes a youth attitute that, in this case, is expressed specifically within the textual communication (Machado Pais, 1993, Yaguello, 1993). What is therefore the reason for which the SMS is being perceived as amusing? It allows make the time passes; being in classes, during breaks or in the bus, teens send text messages and initiate a communication or simply establish a contact with another person who is available. “Even it is something important and I have to answer immediately, or the class is not so interesting, we cannot help ourselves not to text as it is a way to talk to someone else; you can send a stupid thing like are you free Friday night?, we can say that, but, as we get bored to a class, we feel like doing that in that specific moment”, says a girl.

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September 28, 2011

Creating a Home from Home: Russian Communities in the UK

Dr Anna Pechurina, Teesside Univ.

This study examines the idea of home and homemaking as complex and elusive phenomena that involve multiple social relationships, meanings and practices. By looking at the organisation of the domestic life and interiors of the homes of Russian migrants in the UK, this research explores the ways in which both Russian identity and the feeling of belonging to a homeland are created and maintained. The concept of ‘imagined communities’ (Anderson 1983; Appadurai 1996) deployed in the study provides an insight into the research of identity as imagined and flexible rather than solid and fixed. In particular, the material possessions of migrants are considered as the visible representations and manifestations of their imaginings of, and personal relationship to, their homeland, helping migrants to maintain connections with their cultures and home countries alive or, in fact, “to create themselves through the medium of stuff” (Miller 2009: 99).

To explain this relationship, the category of ‘Russian-ness’ has been developed, linking together the meanings of material possessions and the processes of creating and representing Russian identity. I define Russian-ness as the collection of elements of Russian culture that make a home Russian for its inhabitants. The category of Russian-ness also enables us to explain intangible but significant elements which permeate these homes such as memories and associations that specifically create a homely atmosphere and the feeling of being at home and belonging.

I conducted 30 in-depth interviews in people’s homes. All participants were Russian migrants who came to the UK in three migration waves of 20th century. These are: the first wave that commenced after the Second World War; the second wave that occurred from the 1950 until the mid 1980s, and the third wave that started in the late 1980s onwards. A major part of the interview was devoted to the discussion of their material possessions, the homemaking strategies and the significance of those to their border experiences of living in the UK. In addition, I have taken photographs of some of the possessions and interior details.

The research revealed variations in the meanings of home possessions and participants’ sense of Russian-ness. Two types emerged from the data. The first type, which I call ‘refusers’, reflected the identity and experiences of those who had an ambivalent attachment towards UK. ‘Refusers’ were generally unhappy with British culture, resisted all British influence, and tended to consider their home as an ‘escape’ into a familiar and comfortable environment where their possessions had a great deal of personal significance. The second, which I call ‘acceptors,’ related to those who had a positive image of the UK and used various means to integrate themselves into the receiving culture. They typically do not take their Russian possessions seriously and have a flexible stylistic approach to their home décor. There is a further dimension that is added to this dichotomy of ‘refusers’ and ‘acceptors’. This dimension concerns the way in which possessions may carry with them 2 sets of meanings. The first I refer to as ‘personal’ meaning and the second I refer to as ‘objective’ meaning. The first refers to items that are subjectively defined by participants as Russian, because they remind them of particular experiences and/or loved ones; while the latter refers to traditional Russian items and styles that look visibly Russian.


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August 10, 2011

When does the digital make a difference? Digital media practices and identity negotiations at a New York City middle school

Christo Sims
University of California, Berkeley


One afternoon in the fall of 2009, I attended an after-school workshop on “remixing” videos. The workshop was being sponsored by The Downtown School for Design and Technology, an innovative public middle school that had just opened in Manhattan. I was following the lives of 75 11- and 12-year-olds that made up the school’s first class. The Downtown School publicized itself as tailored to fit the interests and needs of a generation of “21st century learners,” who, the school’s founders argued, were being uniquely shaped by fundamental changes to media and technology. One of the ways the school hoped to meet the needs of this new generation was by weaving the latest digital media technologies, and especially tools for media production, throughout the curriculum.

As a lead into his workshop, the instructor showed the students a section of a talk Lawrence Lessig gave on “remix culture” at the 2007 TED conference. For those who don’t know of him, Lessig is a professor at Harvard Law School and an eloquent public champion of digital media’s potential to democratize cultural production. The instructor was showing a portion of Lessig’s talk that included the following quote:

“It is now anybody with access to a $1,500 computer, who can take sounds and images from the culture around us and use it to say things differently. These tools of creativity have become tools of speech. It is a literacy for this generation. This is how our kids speak. It is how our kids think. It is what your kids are as they increasingly understand digital technologies and their relationship to themselves.”

The section of the TED talk quoted above was shown as a video during an after-school workshop on remixing videos. In the moment after Lessig said, “This is how our kids speak,” the visiting instructor briefly paused the video to tell the class, “That’s you,” before resuming the clip. After the video ended he told the students it was their civic duty to remix media. Schooling is filled with such didactic moments. What surprised me about this moment was that the instructor’s assertion that the students already had the sensibility he was calling on them to develop. I read that paradox as indicative of some of the limiting assumptions that Lessig, and many others (Palfrey & Gasser, 2008; Prensky, 2001; Tapscott, 1998), have made in their portrayal of young people’s relationship to digital media, and in particular their relationship to what Jenkins (1992; 2006) has called “participatory culture.” These accounts tend to portray today’s generation of youth as monolithically interested in digital media, glossing almost all other forms of social difference. In this post I want to complicate these accounts by looking at how young people’s uses of digital media, what I’m calling their “media practices,” are often bound up in peer negotiations over school-based identities.

“Media Practices” and Identities
For most young people in the U.S., much of their identity work remains strongly conditioned by compulsory schooling. This remains true even in our digitally-saturated age. Schools remain the primary places where young people routinely assemble and establish social relations with other youth. In keeping with the work of Paul Willis (1981), Penny Eckert (1989), and William Corsaro (1992), I see participation in informal peer groups as the main social process by which these school-based identities get negotiated. These informal groups tend to originate at school but the work that sustains and shapes them carries over into out-of-school spheres, including those that materialize in networked media.

While individual membership in these social groups always remained in-flux, a rather stable social order emerged at The Downtown School over the course of the first year. In sociological terms, the social formation articulated divisions in gender and, more complexly, racialized ethnicities that were intertwined with differences in social class. The graphic below illustrates this social formation in sociological terms. This social organization consisted of two main groups of boys – the “Geeky, Nerdy, Gamer Boys” (The “Geeky Boys” for short), and the “Cool Boys”– and two main groups of girls – the “Goody Two Shoes,” and the “Cool Girls.” The labels I’m using for each clique are the most frequent terms that non-members used when describing the cliques during interviews. The racial-ethnic and class divisions were somewhat more porous although each group tended to skew significantly towards either privilege or poverty and the highly correlated Department of Education racial and ethnic categories of White and Asian American, on the privileged side of the division, and Black or African American and Latino or Hispanic on the less privileged side.

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Sociological description of the main cliques at The Downtown School.

The “Goody Two Shoes” were primarily recognized for their studious and obedient orientation towards school. When asked why she called them “Goody Two Shoes,” Star, who rarely hung out with this group, explained to me, “You know like the coupons,” which were a reward for good behavior handed out by one of the teachers, “they’re always in a rush to get them. And they’re always the same people who win them.”

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Display in the main hallway of The Downtown School. A teacher awarded coupons for good behavior and whichever student had the most coupons at the end of the week was named student of the week. The winners were mostly Goody Two Shoes, several of whom won numerous times.

In terms of media practices, most of the girls in the Goody Two Shoes clique defied gender stereotypes and got deeply engaged in the media production projects that the school assigned. These included building two- and three-dimensional video games, making podcasts, short videos, and various other forms of media production with and without digital media. This is an encouraging finding. However, media production in and for itself was not central to the identity of the group. None of the girls pursued deeper engagements with media production outside of school assignments. Instead they participated in private classes for dance, music, foreign language, swimming, ice-skating, tennis, and horseback riding. When asked to name their hobbies and interests, many noted a similar list of activities. Importantly, nobody referred to this group in media-specific terms despite their substantial engagement with media production for school.

In terms of media practices beyond school, this group engaged in a collection of activities but none especially fanatically. Like many girls in the school, they participated in simulation games such as Farmville and The Sims much more than their boy counterparts. However, the most distinctive characteristic about their media practices was that their communications-based practices were more regulated by parents than for any other group. Many weren’t allowed to have Facebook accounts and several weren’t allowed to have AIM accounts. Similarly, many didn’t have phones, despite their generally affluent status.

The Geeky Boys clique was primarily recognized for their distinctive interest in media and technology, and especially video games. This group was the largest group at the school and the only group whose distinct interests corresponded with the school’s unique approach. The main media practice that the boys shared was gaming, especially hyper-masculine first-person-shooter games like Modern Warfare II. The most committed of these players self-identified as, “hardcore gamers,” and had nuanced tastes for gaming consoles and specific games. These media-centric identifications were also used in online self-presentations on social network sites, such as by using images of characters from a game as their profile photos, or by uploading an image from a game’s promotional website and tagging friends in it.

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Facebook photo uploaded by one of the Geeky Boys. He has tagged the various game characters with the names of his friends. The album title mentions “the brotherhood,” which is both the subtitle for the game and a reference to the friends he has tagged. Their comments are below.


Like the Goody Two Shoes, most of this group was also deeply engaged in the school’s media production projects, especially game-design. Unlike the Goody Two Shoes, though, many of these Geeky Boys also pursued digital media production projects outside of school assignments. They were the only group at the school to do so in a routine way. The Downtown School offered a collection of after-school programs based on media production and almost all of those who attended were from this clique. A smaller collection of these boys also pursued media-production in less adult-managed settings, including a duo that filmed and edited a series of digital videos that were widely circulated and celebrated amongst the students and staff.

The main alternatives to these two groups were two groups of youth that were often referred to as the “cool” or “popular” kids. While being cool and popular was widely recognized as an exclusive status, most Geeky Boys and Goodie Two Shoe girls didn’t covet membership. If anything, non-cool kids referred to the desire for popularity as a shortcoming.

The Cool Kids were best known for their precocious practices, and especially playing with, and at times antagonistically challenging, the rules, norms, and directives of the school’s adult authorities. While this precociousness initially won them cred from some of their peers, as the year wore on the Cool Kids gradually came to be seen as “troublemakers,” “bad kids,” “bullies,” or, at the very least, “disruptive” and “annoying.” These labels were often intermixed with racial readings of difference, often expressed in terms that referenced racialized geographies, such as “the hood,” “the ghetto kids,” or “the kids from Brooklyn and the Bronx.” In keeping with these precocious and racialized stereotypes, the Cool Boys were distinguished from all the other groups on the basis of physical accomplishments, especially in relation to sports and heterosexuality, whereas the Cool Girls were often characterized as caring about appearances and gossip.

In terms of media practices, the Cool Boys were similar to the Geeky Boys in that their main media interest was video games. Yet while some played first-person shooter games, their collective favorites tended to be sports games like 2K10 and Madden. Interestingly, the Cool Boys had their communications practices regulated by their families more than any other clique except the Goody Two Shoes. Several weren’t allowed to have Facebook profiles or email accounts and some weren’t yet allowed to have a phone. Importantly, none of these boys pursued media-production for its own sake outside of school. When I asked one of the boys, Jamal, about this he replied, “I don’t really do stuff like that outside of school, because, really, my family, like on my mom’s side and on my dad’s side, our talent is in sports. So usually I’m playing sports, or I’m playing sports games.” Many of the boys were deeply involved in basketball and football programs outside of school. When not attending sports practice, the Cool Boys either spent their afternoons at community-based organizations, such as the Boys Club, or at a relative’s house.

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Facebook photo uploaded by one of the Cool Boys. He played basketball on teams outside of school and his brother, a scholarship student at a private NYC high school, was a star player for his high school basketball team.

Finally, the Cool Girls were the earliest adopters and heaviest users of communications media. They tended to use a combination of Facebook, AIM, MySpace, email, and a program called ooVoo for group video chat. They would connect with friends from The Downtown School, friends from their neighborhood-based elementary schools, and family members, both immediate and extended. Like the Goody Two Shoes, they played simulation games, often through Facebook, such as Happy Habitat and Petville. Some also used virtual worlds such as Meez and Zwinky. Only one pursued media production outside of school, and most were apathetic to the school’s assigned media-production projects.

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Facebook photo uploaded by one of the Cool Girls. The photo is a screenshot of an ooVoo session between two of the Cool Girls. ooVoo is a free software program for group video chats. I’ve blurred the image to protect the identity of the students.

Conclusion
This quick sketch of the students’ digital media practices raises doubts about the generational claims that Lessig and others have made in their celebration of digital media production. In my case, media production mostly appealed to boys from more privileged backgrounds who tended to organize socially as the Geeky Boys clique. The most encouraging feature of the Geeky Boys clique was that it had more social class and ethnic diversity than any of the other main cliques. While dominated by wealthier White boys, several less well off boys who identified as Puerto Rican, African-American, and Caribbean-American, also participated in this group. Each earned cred within the group for his excellence at gaming. This suggests that gaming may offer less privileged boys a way to participate in social formations from which they’d otherwise likely be excluded. It also suggests that some gaming practices may offer an alternative form of masculine group life for adolescents who don’t want to or can’t participate in masculine groups that are more stereotypically concerned with playing sports and getting girls. That said, a shared interest in gaming only offered less privileged boys partial access to the practices of the Geeky Boys clique. When it came to distinguishing themselves academically and participating in more resource-dependent practices, such as media-production, the less privileged members of the Geeky Boys remained at a significant disadvantage to their friends.

These findings also suggest that while most youth routinely produced media, few were recognized for, or identified with, media production in and of itself. For most young people, media production was more incidental, subsumed under activities whose valued purpose was something other than the production of media or technology. The Goody Two Shoes’ engagement with media production for school, and the Cool Girls’ sophisticated uses of communications media with friends and family are two such examples. Such findings suggest that educators and other adults who want to tailor their services to be “relevant” to young people’s lives need to look beyond digital media as the guarantor of pertinence.

Finally, digital media practices were often aspects of, rather than alternatives to, participation in the peer groups that assembled at school. Participation in these peer groups, in turn, inflected different classed and racialized ways of doing, learning, and assembling gendered identities. Ethnographers of schooling have repeatedly shown that middle school students are often deeply concerned with finding and making a gendered place for themselves in the social organization of their peers. By and large, digital media practices at The Downtown School didn’t escape those concerns.


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May 12, 2011

Everybody Goes: Designing Age-Friendly Public Toilet Solutions

Jo-Anne Bichard & Gail Knight
Helen Hamlyn Centre for Design, Royal College of Art


The design and provision of toilet facilities for people with disabilities has been covered in great depth by research (see Feeney, 2003), that in the UK, helped develop the ‘British Standard BS8300: Design of buildings and their approaches to meet the needs of disabled people’ and ‘Approved Document M of the Building Regulations’. However, research undertaken by Hanson et al (2007) has found that many older people do not think they are ‘entitled’ to use the accessible (disabled) toilet and therefore feel their needs are not being met, both in design and provision of lavatory facilities they may need when ‘away from home’. [1,2]

Current research being undertaken at the Royal College of Art Helen Hamlyn Centre (RCAHHC) is aiming to address the issue of older peoples access to ‘away from home’ toilet facilities. The research is focusing on the environmental barriers our ageing society faces when attempting to access a toilet away from home. Access to toilet facilities is one of the primary issues faced by many people who manage continence conditions, either as a temporary situation or more long-term chronic health concern. Examination of the issue of continence is being carried out by the RCAHHC in conjunction with a consortium of other researchers [3] on a project called 'Tackling Ageing Continence through Theory Tools and Technology' (TACT3). This is a three-year study that is specifically focused on age related continence, and is funded by the New Dynamics of Ageing (http://www.newdynamics.group.shef.ac.uk/) a unique collaborative research programme that is investigating the needs and issues of an ageing population and funded by all five of the UK’s research councils.

This posting specifically discusses the work package ‘Challenging Environmental Barriers to Continence’. It highlights current innovations in the design of non-domestic lavatory facilities and interventions, as well as demonstrates how these may not be suitable for an ageing population. The provision of toilets used by members of the public will be presented as a case study of how design needs to negotiate the physical and cognitive needs of a population to meet needs across the life course.

Toilet Provision for an Ageing Population

Besides dementia, which will be discussed in more detail in the next section, nothing is more feared by many older people than incontinence. Whilst the condition is not directly a consequence of ageing, urinary incontinence affects between 30-60% of women over the age of 40, and around 15-30% of men. Studies have shown that whilst urinary function does diminish with age, this can be exasperated by medication taken to counteract other chronic illnesses associated with the ageing process including; heart failure, some forms of cancer, Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s disease. Even for many older people who are not managing health conditions, the general effects of ageing on the body may result in the need to use the lavatory urgently and with more frequency. Ageing amongst the oldest old, those aged eighty, ninety and even centenarians, may make physical mobility more difficult and affects continence simply because an older person may find it harder to transfer on and off the WC pan or even reach lavatory facilities in time.

After climate change, the second most pressing issue for many of today’s societies is the global ageing population. It is currently estimated by the World Health Organisation that there are 6000 million people in the world aged 60 and over, and this figure is predicted to double by 2025 (WHO 2004). In the European Union it is estimated that 20% of the population are aged 60 and over, and like the global phenomenon this figure is also expected to double.

With a global ageing population, the issue of accessing appropriate lavatory facilities will be seen to be more pressing for independent living, well being and quality of life issues for older people. In 2007 it was estimated that half of the global population now lives in cities. The course of the twentieth century saw the mega city, with populations over 10 million people, extend from two to twenty. It is estimated that by 2030, 3 out of 5 people in the world will live in a city (WHO, 2007). With the growing ageing population and the move to more urban centres, The World Health Organisation has identified the provision of public toilets as essential to its ‘Age Friendly Cities’ programme.

Due to difficulties accessing toilets when away from home, many older people have been known to limit the time and the distances they leave their homes for. Yet, in contrast to a growing ageing population in the UK, the charity Help The Aged (2007) has found that the number of available public toilet facilities has dramatically declined.

In the United Kingdom, local authorities generally operate public toilet facilities. Provision is discretionary and there is no legislative enforcement that ensures an area has public toilet provision. Estimates suggest that current toilet provision operated by local authorities has dropped from approximately 10,000 in 1999 (Audit Commission, 1999) to 4423 in 2008 (Value Office Agency, 2008). With the UK population estimated by the World Bank to currently stand at 61,399,118, there is approximately one public toilet for every 13,882 people.

Help the Aged’s research has found that the reduction in provision especially at the local neighbourhood level can severely limit people’s activity’s of daily living such as going to the shops for food. Such restriction on movement can result in social isolation and avoidance of travelling to visit family and friends and going to work. The larger consequence of such access concerns has been found to be greater instances of low self-esteem, depression and loneliness, all of which draw on the resources of the local health authorities and social services.

We therefore have a need for facilities to be placed in the built environment that can be accessed by all but especially an ageing population. Yet for successful toileting a number of supporting interventions need to also be considered as part of the wider spectrum of toilet provision.


toilet.jpg
Figure 1. An Automatic Public Convenience (APC)


Design Innovation for Toilet Provision.

Despite the closure of many of the UK’s public toilets, there have been a number of innovative designs that attempt to address the issue of toilet provision with innovative and technology inspired designs. The Automatic Public Convenience (APC) also known as the ‘Superloo’ or ‘Tardis’ (Fig. 1) began appearing on UK streets in the early 1990’s, but has not found favour with the toileting needs of the public (Bichard & Hanson, 2009). Previous research undertaken by Hanson et al (2007) found that many people would prefer to travel to the top floor of a department store then use an Automatic Public Convenience. In addition, their case studies of provision found that women over the age of 65 would not use this type of toilet provision. One user commented that the reason they avoided this form of provision was because it was too unfamiliar and perceived as complicated:

"I don’t know how to use one (APC)… I’m not standing outside reading instructions on how to use a toilet".

A more recent innovation has seen the needs of evening toilet provision addressed by the ‘Urilift’ (Fig. 2a, 2b). This ‘pop-up’ urinal is raised by remote control at dusk and set back in the ground at dawn. Designed primarily to counteract the effects of street urination (both the unsightly behaviour associated with this practice and the environmental distress caused by uric acid in urine), the Urilift has become a popular option amongst local authorities seeking to address the need for evening toilet provision. Noticeably the Urilift (and other temporary urinal solutions) only addresses the needs of the male population, and within this sector is not a toileting solution for men who have Paruresis (shy bladder syndrome); men who observe faith and hygiene practices with regards to toileting, and older men who find such urinals still somewhat exposed.


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Figures 2a, 2b: ‘Urilift’


A more recent design incorporates a urinal into a ‘wheelie bin’ (Bischof, 2009) and like most recent design solutions; this only meets the need of one small segment of the population (Fig. 3). In addition, such design interventions do nothing to challenge and discourage street urination. Indeed, it can be argued that such solutions continue to indulge the practice of street urination, which in general is considered anti-social behaviour.

Given that these current innovations do not meet the wider public preference and therefore needs, especially those of the ageing population, the researchers at the RCAHHC are investigating how provision can be best maximised to offer toileting facilities that are well designed for hygiene, access, comfort and dignity, and that will be welcomed by the majority of users.

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Figure 3: Wheelie Bin Urinal (Bischof, 2009).


Thinking about the needs of an ageing society

Whilst not exclusively a consequence of ageing, many older people do develop some form of cognitive impairment, and it is currently estimated that over 800,000 people in the UK have some degree of cognitive impairment associated with dementia. This number is expected to rise to over one million in the next 30 years (Matthews et al 2005).
 
Dementia is a degenerative impairment, and therefore the cognitive functions of people with dementia are unlikely to improve. Current and future medical advances are likely to increase the survival of older people, and thus it can be surmised that the populations of people with cognitive impairments are likely to increase. Globally, over 35 million people are currently estimated to have dementia, and 4.6 million new cases are diagnosed each year. There is a myth that diseases like Alzheimer’s are only associated with living in developed economies with the rate of dementia expected to double between 2001 and 2040. Yet 60 percent of people with dementia live in developing countries and it is forecast to increase by more than 300 percent in India and China (Ferri et al, 2005).
 

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April 16, 2011

Photographic Traditions in South African Popular Modernities

Sophie Feyder, Christoph Rippe and Tamsyn Adams (Leiden Univ.)


South African Visual Economies
The spread of photography in South Africa - as in many other colonial societies - reflects to a certain extent the parallel histories of colonialism and anthropology. Introduced to South Africa’s major cities in the 1840s, the camera progressively reached out into the countryside in the hands of white explorers, administrators, traders, anthropologists, missionaries and settlers (Bensusan 1966). Given this control over the camera, white subjects initially occupied a different range of photographic genres than did Black subjects – personal portraits, family photographs, etc. Black Africans were more often treated as anthropological “types” within scientific genres and racial taxonomies, emphasising their tribal classifications and reinforcing colonial stereotyping in the pursuit of the production of anthropological knowledge (Edwards 1992, Faris 1996, Ryan 1997). Where they appear in other contexts, such as family snapshots, it is usually in a more marginal role – as servants, nurses and grooms in South Africa’s racialised hierarchical society (c.f. Schoeman 1996).

Based on this history, it is not surprising, as Edwards and Morton have pointed out (2009) that for a long time the study of colonial photography, and particularly photography from Africa, was dominated by the analytical idea that control over the shutter ensured control over the image, and especially over the ways in which Africans and African society were represented. However, as valid as this approach has been, it can only provide a narrow vision of the diverse photographic practices that have multiplied in South Africa since the early 20th century. Limiting the reading of a photograph to power relationships and discourses leaves little room for the different personal memories and subjectivities with which an image can be simultaneously loaded. Perhaps more worryingly, it also risks perpetuating a view of black subjects as lacking agency – forever locked in the viewfinder of power.

A Foucauldian reading of the I.D. picture, for example, would underline the complicity of photography in systems of domination and control (Tagg 1988). Undeniably, the I.D. photograph required for the obligatory passbook under Apartheid reinforced the power of the State to limit and control black people’s displacements. Yet it was also very popular in black communities to transform I.D. pictures into airbrushed idealised wedding portraits or individual portraits bearing fictional uniforms. This tradition began in the 1930s, when various forms of popular photography were starting to develop in the streets of the city and the township. By the 1950s Black South Africans had actively taken the question of self-representation into their own hands (Appadurai 1997, Feyder 2009, Ranger 2001, Werner 2001).

As a research group, we hence intend to complicate the field of power between the camera and subject, by building on the argument that the vision of the camera as a tool of colonial and apartheid domination is only partial. Recent studies have sought to nuance the relationship between ideology and representation, showing for instance how contemporary vernacular practices of photography can recode colonial heritage within a new framework, adding new layers of meaning to the image (Pinney 1997, Hartman et al 1998, Strassler 2010). It then becomes possible to comprehend how for example photographs produced as “ethnographic” images by missionaries could appear on the living room walls of black South African homes, or how photographs of black domestic workers, appearing initially in a white family album, subsequently appear in black albums. Here, the stereotype is personalised and reclaimed as an ancestor, entering the domain of family photography and accordingly embedded in private narratives and histories.

The questions of multiple trajectories and contemporary readings of photographic archives are central to all three projects, though focusing on very diverse archival situations. The three different archives cover a wide geographical and temporal scope, ranging from early settler and missionary photography (1880s onwards) in rural KwaZulu-Natal (KZN) to urban township photography of the 1950s in Johannesburg. In these collections, an understanding of South African photographic practices starts to emerge that complicates the view of white control over photographic production and use, and black photographic disempowerment.


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April 3, 2011

THE CULTURAL ROLE OF STIGMATIZED YOUTH GROUPS: The Case of the Partille Johnnys of Sweden

Emma Lindblad, PhD Student, Jacob Ostberg, Associate Professor
Centre for Fashion Studies, Stockholm University

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One of the most frequently reproduced images of the PJs online. Image borrowed from http://bloggfrossa.blogspot.com/2009/04/partille-johnny.html.

Recent theoretical accounts of youth cultures have conceptualized youth as a global ideology that takes on specific forms in different local contexts following the logic of glocalization (Kjeldgaard and Askegaard 2006). As such, there appears to be a number of more or less stable stylistic expressions that belong to a virtual canon of “classic” and thereby “authentic” youth subcultures (Kjeldgaard 2009). The origins of these youth subcultures are conceptualized as distant in either space or time from the everyday lives of most teenagers across the globe, especially those living in places experienced as peripheral. Nevertheless, appropriating the stylistic expressions of these “classic” youth subcultures – by mimicking or by reconfiguring – in ways that are experienced as authentic seems to be part and parcel of what it means to be a teenager today.

We have been interested in analyzing the stylistic expressions of one particular youth group – the so-called Partille Johnnys (PJs) of Sweden – that breaks with this convention of how to relate to the globally available canon of culturally sanctioned styles. This transgression of the codes of “normal” youth behavior places them in a position as stigmatized and they seem to serve an important cultural role in the Swedish youth landscape as the Other from which other youth groups, particularly those self-identifying as mainstream, can distance themselves. We thus wish to add to discussions of identity construction by discussing an aspect of identity-not (cf. Freitas, Kaiser, Chandler, Hall, Kim, Hammidi 1997), i.e. how identity is largely formed by delimitations of what one does not identify with. Furthermore, we are interested in the discussion of consumer stigma, in which Sandikci and Ger (2010) recently asked the question of why some consumers chose to engage in consumption practices that are stigmatized. At this point we have not sought to answer the question of why consumers or consumer groups engage in stigmatized practices, rather we have wished to further the understanding of how stigma gets orchestrated in consumer culture and what cultural role stigmatized groups might play.

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March 29, 2011

Objects of Exchange: A New Approach to Exhibiting Material Culture from the Northwest Coast

OBJECTS OF EXCHANGE:
SOCIAL AND MATERIAL TRANSFORMATION ON THE LATE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NORTHWEST COAST

Selections from the American Museum of Natural History
Curated by Professor Aaron Glass and graduate students at the Bard Graduate Center

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Detail of mask attributed to Sdiihldaa/Simeon Stilthda (ca. 1799–1889), Haida
Courtesy Division of Anthropology, American Museum of Natural History, 16/396

January 26 - April 17, 2011
BGC Focus Gallery
18 West 86th St, New York, NY
For more information on the exhibit: http://www.bgc.bard.edu/gallery/gallery-at-bgc/focus-gallery.html

Fully illustrated catalogue, published by the BGC and distributed by Yale University Press

Half-Day Symposium
April 1, 2011
1:30 -5:30
Free and open to the public.
For more information on the symposium and RSVP

A recent story on the exhibit in the New York Times

Exhibit Description:
The late nineteenth century brought dramatic change to the First Nations inhabiting the Northwest Coast of North America. Increasing colonial settlement, commerce, and governance interfered with existing ways of life. In response, Native people revised earlier cultural practices and forms of artistic production to accommodate these new historical and political conditions. Meanwhile, thousands of objects left the coast in this era of rampant museum collecting. Yet exhibitions often dehistoricize these materials in order to reconstruct precolonial cultural patterns or to classify tribal aesthetic styles. While old museum collections are typically seen to provide touchstones of “classic” or “traditional” art, they are rather repositories of objects that were products of—and witness to— significant cultural upheaval.

Objects of Exchange examines the material culture of the period for visual evidence of historical flux and shifting social relations within Native groups as well as between them and the surrounding settler nations of Canada and the United States. It focuses on objects— variously construed as art, artifact, and commodity—that challenge well-established stylistic or cultural categories and that reflect patterns of intercultural exchange and transformation. Drawing on the remarkable collections at the American Museum of Natural History, this exhibition reveals the artistic traces of dynamic indigenous activity whereby objects were altered, repurposed, and adapted to keep up with changing times.

Rather than approach the late nineteenth century as the culmination of some purportedly traditional moment in indigenous life, Objects of Exchange suggests that the particular contexts of colonialism demanded the rapid entry of Native people into modernity. Although some aspects of colonial culture were certainly imposed upon the First Nations, they also demonstrated considerable agency in adapting and transforming others. New options for identity drew selectively on multiple material cultures as artists set out to strike a balance between constructions of self and other, between ceremonialism and commerce, and between the various values attached to the past, present, and future—decisions that still reverberate for indigenous peoples today. The voices of contemporary First Nations artists and scholars—available in the exhibition and website through audio and video recordings—reflect both the current cultural vitality on the coast and the intercultural histories embodied in these complex objects.

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Objects of Exchange catalogue cover. Detail of a photograph of Newitti, British Columbia, by Edward Dossetter (1881)
Courtesy American Museum of Natural History Library, 42298

Curatorial Reflections
by Aaron Glass

From the image on the opening title wall of the exhibition, repeated on the cover of the catalogue, visitors should sense that they are in for a different type of experience. Two words relevant to the material are conspicuously absent from the title: “Indian” and “art.” Rather, particular themes, historical periods and geographical places are signaled. The image complements rather than illustrates the title, presenting not objects per se (especially not the trademark Northwest Coast art object) but rather people—indigenous people dressed in Euro-American fashions, draped in Hudson’s Bay Company trade blankets, directly addressing the camera and thus the exhibition visitor and catalogue reader. Mounted on massive cedar plank bighouses, adorned with family crest motifs and heraldic poles, are signs written in English as well as a Union Jack hanging limp from a flagpole. The image was taken in 1881 at a Kwakwaka’wakw village, known to outsiders as Newitti, by a commercial photographer, Edward Dossetter, to illustrate the administrative report of the first Superintendent of Indian Affairs for British Columbia, Israel Powell, who conducted a tour of provincial reserves that year and who also collected many of the objects on exhibit. The photograph captures social as well as material and political transactions and serves to introduce an exhibition that hopes to reframe the material culture of the place and period in order to convey such convergent themes.

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March 5, 2011

Feminist Technologies Are Assistive Technologies: What the Feminist Technology Movement Can Learn from the Disability Rights Movement

By Linda L. Layne, Hale Professor of Humanities and Social Sciences, Dept. of Science and Technology Studies, Rensselaer

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One of the issues raised in Feminist Technology (Layne, Vostral, Boyer 2010) is the extent to which changes in the built environment brought about bydisability rights activists inadvertently benefited women who have mobility challenges when caring for small children, whether their own or others. In the Introduction to that volume I noted that an unintended consequence of the ramps, curb cuts, elevators, and larger public toilets that were installed as a result of the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 was that women (and men) who care for small children also benefited. Why, I asked, had feminists not called for these changes themselves?

Untitled.jpg Photo of Helen Grace taken by Photographer Sandy Edwards in 1982. Reproduced with permission in Feminist Technology.

In this post I examine a number of accommodations for people with disabilities traveling on public transportation that have been extended to women if they are pregnant and/or traveling with small children. A comparison of the same material artifacts offered to different classes of riders, and of the social movements that advocate for them, helps explain why feminists have not been more assertive about transforming the material world to suit women’s needs. My hope is that by explicating the source of this reluctance and presenting an alternative model, feminists will more readily explore the potential of feminist technology to reshape the material world in ways that enhance and extend women’s capacities and improve women’s lives.

The accommodations examined here include technologies to assist passengers to reach and board vehicles, space for parking assistive mobility devices on board, and priority seating. The first challenge for those who use mobility devices is getting to the vehicle. Oftentimes trains or subways are located above or below the station and require the use of stairs. Buses, likewise, are not at ground level and typically require the use of stairs. In addition, turnstiles, a standard way to channel riders and collect fares, pose problems for people using mobility devices, whether for themselves or for young children. Turnstiles may also be difficult for very pregnant women. Thanks to the efforts of disability rights activists, bus, subway, and train stations now have elevators for reaching the platform and gates that are wide enough to permit passage, not only of wheelchairs, but also strollers and prams. Actually boarding is also difficult if the vehicle is not the same level as the platform. Technologies such as kneeling buses, low-floor buses, and lift ramps designed to make public transport accessible to wheelchair users also benefit riders who use strollers. In Canada, for instance, the Edmonton Transit System website provides instructions for boarding with strollers on either their low-floor buses which have no steps and are able to “kneel,” or on their trains where riders “can use the ramp to make it easier to board and exit with a stroller. The ramp is activated with the blue button with the wheelchair symbol.”

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http://www.edmonton.ca/transportation/ets/using-strollers-on-ets.aspx
Accessed January 1, 2010


Once aboard, space is sometimes reserved not only for wheelchairs, but also for baby strollers and prams.

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Photo by Layne, London 2010

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Photo by Layne, California 2008

The needs of wheelchair- and stroller-users are not always seen as synergistic, however. In such cases, wheelchair users are given priority as, for instance, on this train from Santa Cruz to San Francisco, where, evidently, strollers are not considered mobility devices. Guidelines for stroller use on the Washington, DC Circulator lines specify that wheelchairs and scooters have first priority, followed by “people with disabilities, seniors, and people with walkers,” then children in strollers. They explain this ranking is based on ability to stand and to fold the equipment (Stroller guidelines for the DC Circulator).

Likewise, people “needing special assistance” because of a physical impairment or because they are traveling with young children have often been given identical accommodations when boarding commercial airlines: both types of passengers typically are allowed to pre-board and offered assistance. Sometimes, however, these classes of riders are treated differently (from each other and from other passengers). For example, until October 2007, Southwest Airlines, which does not give assigned seats but rather assigns the order in which passengers board and select a seat of their choosing, allowed persons travelling with children under four years of age to pre-board along with those having a physical impairment. Now parents of young children are allowed to board after the pre-boarders and the A group (30 passengers) have boarded, but before the remaining passengers board.

Many public transport systems also now reserve seats near the doors for passengers who are elderly, disabled, pregnant, or traveling with young children. For each of these categories of rider, moving through a crowded, moving vehicle to look for a seat, or having to stand on a surface that may lurch or tilt from side to side, is difficult. Keiōa, a private railway company in Japan, was one of the first to introduce priority seating and they did so for elderly passengers. These special "Silver Seats" were inaugurated on Respect for the Aged Day on September 15, 1973. In 1993 reserved seats were extended to others with special needs including “the physically challenged, expectant mothers, and passengers carrying infants” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Keio_Corporation).

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Photo Accessed December 16, 2010.

In Vienna, as in Japan, pregnant women and women travelling with infants are given priority to seats nearest the doors, along with those with mobility impairments, and the elderly.

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Photo by Layne, Vienna 2010

In a post on the Feminist Technology book website I address the graphics used to convey this policy. Here I focus on the question of whether these innovations should be considered feminist technologies. I believe they should. One definition of “technology” is “aids for doing things” (Cockburn and Ormrod 1993:154), hence one definition of feminist technology would be “aids for doing things that benefit women.” Being able to travel through public spaces while very pregnant or while caring for young children (whether male or female) benefits women.

Some may object. Indeed, my own reaction when seeing these images of apparently able-bodied women grouped with disabled men was to cringe. After centuries of combating the idea that women are constitutionally disabled by their reproductive biology, and that as a result, women should be protected by excluding them from public life, it is no wonder that feminists may object to lumping women together with “the disabled” and may shy away from asking for special treatment based on these reproductive roles. The issue of differential treatment for women because of their reproductive roles has been a source of tension in the feminist movement for at least a century. In the US, the Mueller v Oregon Supreme Court Decision of 1908 ruled that a state law restricting women’s working hours to no more than ten hours a day was justified based on “woman's physical structure and the performance of maternal functions” because “healthy mothers are essential to vigorous offspring, the physical well-being of woman becomes an object of public interest and care in order to preserve the strength and vigor of the race" (Woloch 1996:148). There is no doubt that this piece of “protective legislation” and other progressive reforms benefited women and, eventually, men too. It is also the case, however, that protective legislation and policies have been used systematically to deny women equal access to educational and occupational opportunities. “By 1968, twenty-six states barred women from mining, bartending, or other jobs deemed hazardous to health or morals; eleven states imposed limits on the weight women could lift; nineteen states prohibited or regulated night work; and seven states prohibited work for periods before or after childbirth” (Woloch 1996:66). The Muller case was also used in 1961 to justify continuing to exclude women from serving on juries (Woloch 1996:66).

Although at the time, most women’s organisations opposed the Amendment of Title VII of the 1964 Civil Rights Act, prohibiting discrimination in employment based on sex, which effectively dismantled protective legislation for women, American women benefited so much from this law, most liberal second wave feminists have tended to support “strict egalitarianism” or “equal treatment” vs “special treatment” (Woloch 1996:71). Women have preferred to assert that they are equal to men, and to shun the identity of being “the weaker sex,” in need of special accommodations.

The Disabilities Rights Movement which came about during the same period as Second Wave Feminism has fascinating commonalities and differences. Unlike women, who were considered to be of “public interest” because of their “abilities to preserve the strength and vigor of the race," people with disabilities were considered to have little social value, often because they were perceived to be unable to work and to support themselves. In other words, unlike women, they were not excluded from public life “for their own good,” or the good of the state, but because there was no perceived value to be gained from including them. Even if at one time in their lives they had had something to offer, once they were injured on the job or wounded in war, the assumption was they were no longer capable of contributing to the public good. In the 1950’s, vocational rehabilitation advocates had to make the case for providing services, arguing “that the financial benefits of assisting people with disabilities to enter the paid, taxpaying workforce far exceeded the costs of VR services” (Scotch 2001: 382).

This is the social backdrop against which disability rights activists worked. The “civil rights model” or “social model” of disability, developed in the 1960s, argued that it was not physical impairment which disabled people but social discrimination which did (Landsman 2009:182). The Union of the Physically Impaired Against Segregation (UPIAS) articulated this in 1976, stating that disability comes from, among other things, “the reality of building codes,” and helped change the goal from “cure” to “removal of barriers to full inclusion and citizenship” (Landsman 2009:183). From the start, changes in the material world were high on the agenda. Between 1968 and 1990, when the Americans with Disabilities Act was passed, Disability Rights Activists in the US successfully lobbied for laws to outlaw discrimination including “some fifty acts passed by Congress” (Longmore and Umansky 2001:10). It is noteworthy that the first of these was the federal Architectural Barriers Act of 1968 which mandated “access to facilities designed, built, altered, or leased with Federal funds” ABA www.access-board.gov/about/laws/aba.htm

Access to public transit was also an early goal. An early militant organization, American Disabled for Accessible Public Transit (ADAPT) which started in Colorado in the early 1980s, gained national recognition for their acts of civil disobedience aimed at getting wheelchair accessible lifts on city and interstate buses. “Wheelchair users would stop a bus in front and back, and others would get out of their chairs and crawl up the steps of an inaccessible bus to dramatize the issue” (Wikipedia). Even after passage of the ADA, ADAPT kept up the pressure to make sure buses were made accessible. In 1997, when “Greyhound snuck in an amendment onto the ADA to give themselves even more” than the initial seven-year extension they had been granted to come into compliance, ADAPT staged successful protests at over 40 Greyhound stations and occupied “the executive offices of Greyhound Bus corporate headquarters for more than seven hours”
http://www.adapt.org/oldcontent/greyhound.htm

As the Federal Transit Administration recognizes, the purpose of these policies is “enhancing the social and economic quality of life for people with disabilities.” http://www.fta.dot.gov/civil_rights.html Surely women, too, have a right to have the material world built in ways that enhance the social and economic quality of their lives. The feminist movement and disability rights movement have been slow to embrace each other. As recently as 2002 scholars had to assert that “disability studies can benefit from feminist theory and feminist theory can benefit from disability studies” (Garland-Thompson 2002: 2). The potential benefit is not just in the area of more ample theory, however.

Feminists can learn from the disability rights movement that there is no shame in asking for the material world to be structured in ways that facilitates our lives and makes full participation in all areas of public and private life more easily attainable. There is no shame is asking for assistance. As men have long understood, that is the purpose of technology. “Assistive technology” is defined as “any item, piece of equipment, or system, whether acquired commercially, modified, or customized, that is … used to increase, maintain, or improve functional capabilities of individuals with disabilities” (US Dept. Commerce). If one simply substitutes “women” for “individuals with disabilities” one has the definition of feminist technology. Men have designed the world to suit their needs. It’s time for women to do the same.

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February 18, 2011

Digital Kinship

Penni Fu
MSc in Digital Anthropology at UCL

Domestic daily practice in urban families has been increasingly infused with digital technology. Digital is powerful not only in its capacity to cross the geographic boundary but also in its potentiality for constructing locality and particularity. In my two-month research on one-child families whose children study in the same public school located in central Shanghai China, I investigate the process of objectification between the digital realm and families, and how it informs an understanding of kinship.

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In many cases, interaction between parent and child is not necessarily through mediated communication but through negotiations regarding digital issues. For example, how a parent and child find ways to limit computer usage, as well as how parents organize domestic timing according to a child’s digital habit. Even in the case of mediated communication through mobile phones, it is still closely linked to off-the-screen domestic life, such as phone topping up, that objectifies the immediate connection between child and parent regardless of whether calls are made or not.

Not only is digital and family intertwined, but they are also in a dialectical process of making and shaping each other through daily digital practice. Firstly, families shape their own digital practice to culturally specific purposes and forms, which in turn represents the family. For example, phone topping-up is not merely a supply of credits, but a way of nurturing that is similar to how parents prepare food for their children. Secondly, digital practice objectified families by offering what Miller coined ‘expansive realization’ and ‘expansive potential’ (2001:10-14) [1]. These two terms respectively showcase digital practice as a means to enact an idealized form of family, or a never thought-of form that shows what a family can be. At one extreme, some observed evidence confirmed elements of the traditional model of Chinese kinship: decision of purchasing digital products is made by parent and child as a role sector upon the consideration of family as a unit with unanimous benefits. For instance, disciplining children’s computer usage fulfills parents’ roles of maintaining family harmony. These constitute an ideal parent-child relationship that echoes traditional values. On the other extreme, the ideal family is also juxtaposed with a heretofore unimagined form of family. For instance, through texting, parents do not have to be stern and feared as stereotypes governed by tradition, nor are children too shy to express care and love toward their parents. Such a two-way, emotionally expressive form of parent-child relations might not ever have been thought of before.

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The paradox rises in this process: in order to close the ‘digital generation gap’ (Papert 1996) [2] and get closer to children, parents try to know more about digital media and devices by using them. On the other hand, parents need the ‘digital generation gap’ to differentiate the generations so that the less they know about it the more they can exert control over their children. As one of my informant’s mum said, the 'one-child generation does not know beifen (seniority) because they don’t have siblings at home where they will follow rules together.' Rather, one child can easily challenge the rules, and get parents to compromise in the end. The point here is not to stress the digital generation gap, as the generation gap exists anyway, but to reiterate that digital itself is the conflict as well as the conflict solver – that is to say, digital can create generational ideas while still standing as the promise toward removing the perceived gap in between.

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What underlines the paradox seems to be the flexibility within kinship relations. However, such a flexible practiced kinship role is rather inflexible in that it is keyed in normative expectations about a particular kinship role (Miller 2007) [3]. But the expectation itself is subject to cultural and social transformation. The discrepancies between the practiced role and the normative kinship role can be understood as a process of transforming kinship relations, in which new boundary between kin and non-kin may emerge and forms of sociality may come about.


Notes
[1] Miller, D, and D. Slater. 2001. The Internet: An Ethnographic Approach. Oxford: Berg
[2] Papert, S. 1996. The Connected Family: Bridging the Digital Generation Gap.
Atlanta: Longstreet Press.
[3] Miller, D. 2007. What is a Relationship? Ethnos 72: 535-54.

January 13, 2011

Rock as a Self-Evolving Commodity

E. Taçlı Yazıcıoğlu, Bogazici University, Istanbul, Turkey.

Among musical genres, rock music is particularly important due to its ideological strength [1]. The ideology of rock involves a rejection of those aspects of mass-distributed music, which are believed to be soft, safe, or trivial, those things that may be dismissed as worthless ‘‘pop’’—the very opposite of rock (Keightley 2001)[2]. Although the idea/hypocrisy of rock rejects mass-consumed or mass-produced music, millions of people purchase rock music products which produce feelings of freedom, rebellion, opposition, authenticity, and uniqueness in different geographies and cultures. Thus, one can think that this illustrates an evidence for the global consumption ethos. Yet, my research has illustrates different findings and insights.

In my study, I explored the evolution of rock in Turkey that occurred two decades earlier and was different than in other non-Western countries. It was never banned nor did it emerge as a counterculture, as in the cases of China or Russia. Rock in Turkey neither became subservient to a state ideology, as in the cases of Mexico and Quebec in the early 1960s, nor became as influential as was the case in East Germany where rock musicians acted as catalysts in the actual course of events which led to the destruction of the Berlin Wall nor played an important role in the formation of national culture as happened in Israel. Türkçe Rock was also never a blatant imitation of its Anglo-American counterparts.

In Turkey, the evolution of rock has started in the late 1950s. When the Beatles arrived in 1962 with ‘‘Love Me Do’’ and broke the American dominance, the first Turkish rock‘n’roll single, ‘‘Bir Eylül Akşamı/It’s So Long’’ by Erkin Koray was launched almost at the same time. None of the bands in the country sing in English today. Cover bands used to perform popular songs from both foreign (as used in the daily language) and Türkçe Rock, that is, rock in Turkish. Among friends, rock is no longer in English. It is only rock and it’s in Turkish.

Interviewee: I listen to those who make rock, I mean Türkçe Rock.
Researcher: How about foreign rock?
Interviewee: I don’t listen to foreign music (M, 24).

In the clubs, the audience no longer wants listening to the foreign rock covers. Türkçe or ‘‘Turkish’’ signifies both the language and the nationality in English. The name ‘‘Turkish Rock-Türkçe Rock’’ refers only to the language. The shelves of the music retailers also illustrate this distinction.

It is often suggested that both transnational companies (TNCs) and the internet act as catalysts in the globalization process. When the rock boom in the mid 90s happened, there was no Internet and widespread consumption of rock music in Turkey has been through local production as if it were a local genre, that is, without the marketing efforts of TNCs. Global record companies were not able to enter the music market, but Coca-Cola, have started sponsoring the largest rock festival of the time, ‘‘Rock’n Coke’’ in 2003. Its rival ‘‘Rock for Peace,’’ was organized by activists and local rock bands became an equally popular festival in 2006 with more than 60,000 participants. Today, many rock festivals are held in the country. Even small towns organize rock festivals that are called ‘‘Türkçe Rock Festival’’ so as to attract tourists from big cities [3]. Turkey has joined the Eurovision Song contest by rock bands (e.g., Mor ve Ötesi became the 7th runner in 2008 and Manga 2nd in 2009) – the public complains when the lyrics are in English, but never about the genre.

The evolution of rock in Turkey can illuminate the future of globalization. Arguably, no other commodity in the world, except football (soccer), has evolved dialogically to that extent. It no longer symbolizes Americanization. In local culture, different forms merge and Türkçe Rock becomes an internalized and different experience. It is clear that the local rockers have discovered ways to create their own modes of both producing and consuming rock music. This Western genre has self-evolved and become a part of a culture often deemed ‘‘non-Western’’.

Following the school of Attali (1985)[4] who says that music is a practice that is capable of prefiguring changes in the political economy and in social developments, there arises an important question for future research: Are there other self-evolving commodities in the world?


Notes

[1] A full-length version of this paper is published in September, 2010 in Journal of Macromarketing, p. 238.
[2] Keightley, Keir (2001), Reconsidering rock. In The Cambridge companion to pop and rock, ed. S. Frith, W. Straw, and J. Street, 109-42. Cambridge: Univ. Press.
[3] Please see a detailed study on the rock festivals in Turkey in Yazicioglu and Firat (2007), “Glocal Rock Festivals as Mirrors to the Future of Culture(s),” in Consumer Culture Theory, Research in Consumer Behavior, R. W. Belk and J. Sherry (eds), Vol. 11: 85-102. Oxford: Elsevier. The place of rock music and identity formation is explored in Yazıcıoğlu and Fırat (2008), “Musical effects: Glocal identities and consumer activism” http://www.acrwebsite.org/volumes/v35/naacr_vol35_306.pdf
[4] Attali, J. 1985. Noise: The political economy of music. Manchester: Univ. Press.


E. Taçlı Yazıcıoğlu is a lecturer at Bogazici University, Istanbul, Turkey. She researches material culture specifically from the point of music, fashion and social movements.

January 7, 2011

The material ecologies of culture

Fernando Dominguez, The Open University and NYU

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Have a look at the picture above and take a guess. Upon first impression, the building on the picture can appear to be a disused factory, a high-security intelligence facility or even a nuclear bunker. And although it could well be any of those things, it is none of them. This building is, in fact, a storage facility for artworks. It is part of the Celeste Bartos Center, the film preservation center the Museum of Modern Art of New York (MoMA) built about a decade ago in a small rural community in Pennsylvania to store the museum’s film and video art collection, one of the largest and most important in the world. Behind the thick concrete walls, CCTV cameras and metal blinds, there are tens of thousand of old cellulose nitrate films, including some of the first silent films ever made as well as original copies of some of the finest Hollywood classics of the 30s and 40s.

I first encountered this building as part of the ethnography I’m currently conducing at MoMA studying contemporary practices of art conservation. One of the main interests of this project is to explore what I’d like to call the ‘material ecologies’ of culture, that is, the different infrastructures, technologies, practices and forms of containment that operate (often behind the curtains) to produce, and crucially, sustain different cultural forms, values and meanings. The reason why I’d like to draw your attention to the Celeste Bartos Center is because it constitutes a good illustration of the type of material ecologies that are typically required to contain and stabilize contemporary (Western) art.

Broadly defined, the mission of the Center is to maintain the intelligibility of artworks qua meaningful and valuable cultural objects. In spite of the illusion of fixity and timelessness that typically surround these artifacts, artworks are never still. They are always ‘on the move’ as parts of the complex and ever-changing field of forces emerging from the interactions between the material components of these artifacts and the changing environments in which they are placed. As temperature, humidity and light vary, artworks move and evolve: their colors change and whither, their materials expand and contract, and the original identity between material form and artist’s intention is eroded. As this process of change and transformation unfolds over time, forms corrode, meanings fade away and these artifacts risk losing their ‘art’ status to become valueless ‘natural’ objects. Contrary to what one might expect, this risk is nowhere more evident than in contemporary cultural artifacts. Indeed, while it is possible to successfully store, preserve and display valuable cultural artifacts produced centuries and even millennia ago, preserving cultural artifacts produced just a few decades ago, like video art, photography or film, poses formidable challenges. One of the reasons for this is that a large part of contemporary culture is dependent on very ephemeral and unstable materials. For example, the average life span of the VHS tapes that were so popular just over a decade ago is of just 10 years and that of CDs and DVDs upon which much of contemporary culture is stored right now, is of just over 15 years in normal room conditions. The case of film is even more dramatic. It only takes 10 years for early color prints to lose their dyes, and between 30 and 50 years for contemporary color prints. According to different estimates, around 85% of the silent films and around 50% of the sound films made in the US before 1950 are believed to be irremediably lost.


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On the left, an example of dye fading in color prints. On the right, an example of acetate decomposition.

The stabilization of these artifacts demands the construction of specially designed ‘material ecologies’ capable of preserving their status as meaningful and valuable cultural objects. This, however, not only requires engineering environments that are able to preserve the physical integrity of these artifacts but also, and more importantly, that are capable of producing and sustaining specific forms of evidence and value. In the case of Western art systems, where artworks are typically seen as materialization of the artist’s unique self and creative agency, this means creating environments in which artifacts remain truthful indexes of their author’s original intentions. In other words, if these videos and films are to retain their cultural (and economic) value, they must remain legible as the original products of a subjective agency. The production of this specific form of legibility requires a rather complex, and expensive, set of infrastructural and technological devices, like the Celeste Bartos Center. The building has been explicitly designed to prevent natural processes (like oxidation, emulsion, UV radiations or acetate decomposition) from altering the original connection between material form and intention. To accomplish this, the building is built following a Russian-doll structure containing an ‘outer’ building and, within it, a self-contained ‘inner’ building storing the different films, videos and tapes. The ‘outer building’ works as a technological skin that regulates the interaction between inside and outside and protects the environment enveloping the ‘inner’ building.

fPic4.JPG On the left, some of the devices that regulate the exchange between external and internal environments. Below, part of the Humidity, Ventilation and Air Condition (HAVC) system that stabilizes the climatic conditions of the internal environment. And, a view of the buffer zone between the ‘outer’ and ‘inner’ buildings.

The ‘inner building’ is structured as a giant technological beehive containing dozes of micro-ecologies especially designed to stabilize each specific type of material. For example, black and white prints are stored in flat-shelving units at 45ºF (7ºC) and 30% RH to prevent acetate decomposition. Pic5.jpgfPic6.jpg

The stabilization of dyes in color prints not only requires specific temperature and humidity conditions, but also especially designed shelving structure that sustains a constant air-flow.

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January 2, 2011

Contesting Human Remains in Museum Collections: The Contribution of a Crisis of Cultural Authority

Tiffany Jenkins (London School of Economics)

In May 2008, 3 Egyptian mummies on display at Manchester University Museum, in Britain, were covered with a white sheet in the name of respect.

Without being requested to do so by the present day Egyptians, or the public; with whom the display is popular, professionals at the institution took it upon themselves to place a sheet over the unwrapped mummy of Asru, partially-wrapped Khary, and a child mummy.

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“Asru covered”. Source:http://egyptmanchester.wordpress.com/2008/05/06/covering-the-mummies/

After protests from local audiences and the media, the museum uncovered the mummies but stated it wished to continue to conversation about how to respect the human remains.

This sensitivity, by professionals, about the display of ancient bodies is not an isolated case. Over the last thirty years, human remains in museum collections have become the focus of various claims and campaigns. My monograph, Contesting Human Remains in Museum Collections: The Crisis of Cultural Authority, examines the social construction of the contestation over human remains in Britain with a weak social constructionist method. It explores the symbolic meanings and strategic use of human remains, and how the body becomes a locale for cultural, political, and ethical debates.

The controversy over human remains in collections in Britain became prominent in the late 1990s. After high-profile campaigns, and despite fierce opposition, the Human Tissue Act 2004 was passed, amending the 1963 British Museum Act, and consequently permitted, and encouraged, the removal of human remains material from specific (and previously resistant) museums.

Notably, the emergence of the issue in Britain is different to elsewhere in two important respects. Firstly, there was significantly weaker external pressure on institutions compared to Australasia, America and Canada, which responded to claims for repatriation from indigenous groups. A survey conducted for Human Remains Working Group characterised claims from overseas indigenous groups on institutions as ‘low’ (DCMS 2003b: 16) and found only 33 requests on English institutions, seven of which had already been agreed to, and some of which were repeat claims from the same group.

Secondly, while elsewhere the focus of attention has been human remains associated with indigenous groups who suffered under colonisation, the problem has been extended by professionals in Britain who argue that all human remains require special attention. Whilst certain material is more difficult, now, to retain in museums due to historical associations - particularly Aboriginal remains - some professionals promote the claim that all human remains should be subject to new codes and attention and have removed human remains from display or changed how they are exhibited.

Bristol City Museum & Art Gallery, for example, has changed their display of Egyptian human remains. Instead of the previous display of mummies in open coffins, it now exhibits the mummies with the lids half closed, which it considers more respectful. See, also, papers from this conference on respecting all human remains, held at Manchester University Museum.

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December 29, 2010

Practising Display: Window Shopping and Window Dressing

Carla Banks, PhD Student
Lancaster University, Sociology Department

How can a window sell goods? By placing them before the public in such a manner that the observer has a desire for them and enters the store to make the purchase. Once in, the customer may see other things she wants, and no matter how much she purchases under these conditions the credit of the sale belongs to the window

L. Frank Baum (1900) The Art of Decorating Dry Goods Windows


selfridges%20desire.jpg Selfridges Window Display, Oxford Street, London

In 1900, L. Frank Baum, better known for his novel The Wizard of Oz, published a treatise on the art of window dressing. In this he writes forcefully about the ways in which displaying commodities in interesting ways encourages the passerby to enter the store and purchase goods. Baum was writing at the dawn of the twentieth century, when the department store was beginning to change the face of retail, spectacularising shopping and taking advantage of the technological innovations of the era. But window display and window shopping are not just historical phenomena; they are practices which remain central to retailing and to the contemporary shopping experience.

Despite this, academic studies of the associated phenomena of window shopping and window dressing are usually located within the context of nineteenth century modernity and changing consumption practices and consumer attitudes (Parker, 2003). More specifically, they are often associated with the transformation and experience of urban public space that is understood to be embodied by the observing flâneur (Baudelaire, 1964; Benjamin, 1999; Friedberg, 1993; Gluck, 2003) and framed by the ‘society of the spectacle’ (Debord 1977). Indeed, these phenomena have often been seen as emblematic of - and as an important point of entry for analysing - that moment of capitalism. However, the significance of contemporary practices of window dressing and window shopping for understanding contemporary consumer capitalism and today’s urban space is mostly overlooked.

While there have been many developments in the shopping environment and shopping practices, such as large indoor shopping malls, online browsing and consumption practices in cyberspace (Rowley, 2001), it is significant that the long-established practices of window dressing in department stores and window shopping still take a central place in the contemporary city and its shopping environment.

In terms of window dressing, there is a significant lack of empirical research which seeks to understand the design and implementation of contemporary window displays. My research seeks to address this gap and focus on an area of retail which has largely been neglected by sociologists. My research seeks to understand how the practitioners of shop display operate and on a simple level, look at how they ‘do’ display. Shop display is more commonly referred to as ‘visual merchandising’ in the retail sector and the participants in my research include visual merchandising designers who develop ideas and create the displays as well as the in-store visual merchandisers who implement the displays. Visual merchandising is a difficult term to define, not least because every retail company treats the role differently. Some have even speculated that the reason it is a neglected topic is that it covers so many categories of research. Gaynor Lea-Greenwood asks, “Is it part of promotion, image, brand communication or design?” and remarks that, “Perhaps it is all of these” (1998: 325). My own research has so far found that visual merchandising encompasses all of these things and more. If we think about visual merchandising in isolation it can broadly be defined as a set of practices which focus on the overall store environment. It involves creating what one of my participants described as “isolated moments” of display – in the shop window or on the shop-floor mannequin – but it is also about creating a sense of cohesion between these moments which communicates a positive retail environment. Most importantly though, visual merchandising is about selling goods and presenting the commodity in a setting which increases sales. Indeed, visual merchandising is often referred to as ‘silent selling’ because of the way that it uses visual stimuli to prompt buying.

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December 6, 2010

Playing @ Being Social: A Case Study of Social Media and Online Games in Shanghai, China

Larissa Hjorth (RMIT)


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For anyone that has ever subscribed to a social networking site (SNS), it is impossible to deny the significance of online games. Last year thousands of non-game players on Facebook got caught up in the Mafia Wars phenomenon. This situation highlighted that the nature of online games, like games in general, was changing. As smartphones become more ubiquitous, so too does the deployment of social media and online gaming. This current situation has led Jesper Juul to argue that there has been a ‘casual revolution’ of games — particularly apparent in the all-pervasiveness of social media. Once the preoccupation of ‘hardcore’ gamers, MMOGs (massively multi-player online games) have now become casualised and part of the daily diet of many millions of SNS users. In each different place, the types of games played and social media deployed are reflective of the locality. A locality is a sum of various factors such as linguistic, socio-cultural, technological and the economic. One region demonstrating a variety of game play is the Asia-Pacific region. Locations such as Japan, South Korea and China are indicative of this diversity.

In China, we can see two very different but interrelated phenomena evolving around online gaming communities — one highly political, the other exceeding social. On the one hand, there has been such phenomenon such as in-game protesting that have highlighted the role of the internet as a form of public sphere for political agency (especially apparent in the blogging culture). On the other hand, the rise of simple, child-like games such as Happy Farm, played through SNS such as Renren and Kaixin, have seen millions of young and old participating in their attendant communities of practice.

This latter phenomenon, whilst highly social, also demonstrates changing attitudes to both the online and gaming. The main aim of Happy Farm uses a quasi-101 model of capitalism whereby the player acquires, raises, and sells produce, and one of the key — albeit subversive — factors of the game is to steal other people’s produce when they are offline. A slightly damning condemnation of the morals (or lack thereof) of capitalism, Happy Farm sees many having the game open on their desktop whilst doing other activities (such as work) to avoid being robbed. Some have been known to set their alarms for the dead of night so that they can go online when everyone is asleep in order to steal. Stealing is part of the gameplay. Those who are stolen from gain ‘pious’ points. The success of the game in China is very much to do with China’s own recent embrace of capitalism. With the backdrop of communism and the works of Karl Marx (vis-à-vis Mao) still part of core educational material, this game reflects a specifically mainland Chinese love for games, and a healthy understanding of the pitfalls of capitalism. Moreover, in locations such as Shanghai, where spiralling real-estate has meant that many cannot afford to purchase their own home, Happy Farm provides a place for nostalgia in which you can own your own farm and build capital through working hard (synonymous with the amount of time you spend online).

According to iResearch, a consulting group specialising in internet research, around 50 percent of the 26 million daily users of one of the main SNS, renren.com, play online games. These games generate around half of the website’s yearly income. ‘In terms of user groups, SNS games are totally different from traditional network games,’ says iResearch senior analyst Zhao Xufeng. Whilst the number of traditional network games (like MMOGs) has remained relatively constant at 50 million, SNS users have burgeoned from nothing to tens of millions in a few years. One of the key priorities for SNS users is communication, especially more novel and innovative ways of communicating — something that SNS games provide. Unlike their predecessors that were characterised as ‘hardcore’, SNS games are much more casual in their demands on engagement. However, behind this casualness is a play architecture that is often just as time-consuming — but just in the form of distracted, micro-engagement. Often users have the game sitting ambiently on their desktop behind other screens like word documents, email, IM etc.

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November 8, 2010

A Reluctant Locality: Place Politics in a Santo Domingo Barrio

Erin B. Taylor is a lecturer at The University of Sydney, Australia. She researches material culture and social stratification in Santo Domingo and on the Dominican Republic-Haiti border.

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Control over the production of locality is often touted as desirable for poor urban communities. But what happens to the politics of place when residents have formed a community reluctantly and their aspirations lie elsewhere? Drawing on material from my ethnographic research in La Ciénaga, a squatter settlement in Santo Domingo, I explore what is at stake, and who has a stake, in strategies of localization. Community activists, ordinary residents, and the Catholic church are all engaged in the production of locality in different ways and for different reasons.

In Santo Domingo’s informal barrios, residents invest a great deal of time and energy constructing physical and social space, often over decades. They plan street layouts, build houses, cover alleyways with concrete, construct schools, and display fashions. Their control over their immediate material environment has permitted them – mostly rural migrants – to construct tight-knit communities of a kind that they claim are disappearing elsewhere in Santo Domingo. Yet Santo Domingo’s barrios are far from being ideal places to live: they are isolated, under-serviced, polluted, and carry the kind of social stigma that so often accompanies inner-city poverty.

As a result, despite investing a great deal of time into constructing the barrio – especially their houses – the vast majority of residents would prefer to leave. In August 2005 I was designing survey in La Ciénaga and asked one of my neighbours for advice. He took issue with one particular question I had framed: ‘Would you move away from La Ciénaga if you had the opportunity?’ My neighbour argued that this question was redundant, because every single resident would answer ‘Yes’. If they answered ‘No’ they were lying, because no sane person would choose to reside in La Ciénaga voluntarily. Indeed, when I collated the results of the survey, 96% of residents (300 surveyed) reported that they would leave La Ciénaga if they had a choice.

From the time they arrived in the 1970s, La Ciénaga’s settlers made significant strides in constructing place within the confinement of the barrio. The original residents came mostly from the central region of Cibao. Their presence was illegal, and they took it upon themselves to plan their new barrio’s layout, divide up land between them, and obtain basic services. In the early years, these cooperative activities encouraged a spirit of hope and possibility, cementing the social bonds that would eventually forment a range of community organisations. The construction of the barrio’s first school, Virgen del Carmen, in 1987 was one of the first major communal actions achieved by the Catholic congregation. It was organized by a nun called Maria Blanca and carried out in conjunction with the community, with men supplying labour and women carting materials to the site and preparing food. Every house donated a block towards the building of the school and their labour according to their capabilities. Soledad, a middle-aged community activist, remembers that she had a bad leg and was ordered to rest by her doctor but ‘God gave me the strength to go on working’. The thought of God watching her and judging her kept her going back every day.

A range of community organisations and local NGOs work in the barrio today. Their vision is to modernise the barrio so that existing residents can live there comfortably. The leader of the community’s sports organisation explained to me,

We want to llevar mas adelante [take ourselves forward]. As they say, a diamond is made of carbon but once you polish it, it shines. That is, you bring out the value. As an institution we could prepare a fertile terrain, that is, the seed that we plant today will turn the barrio into fertile terrain for development (Gabriel).

However, the overall number of residents who take place in community activism is small. Most residents have trouble believing that it possible to transform the barrio into somewhere that is truly liveable: the barrio’s extensive problems, its stigma, and the fact that creating enough space would require the mass eviction of potentially half of the barrio’s residents means that few people are motivated to become involved in community activism.

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As a result, people’s primary place-making activity remains the one that brought them to the barrio in the first place. La Ciénaga exists precisely because the illegal nature of the settlement provided poor migrants with the opportunity to live in the city in proximity to their family and friends, and to attain some measure of progress through transforming their house over time from a rural-style, wooden ranchito into a modern concrete house. Throughout the Dominican Republic, the ideal house is made of concrete block with a tiled concrete floor and a concrete slab roof, a model that provides much greater protection from hurricanes than the wood-and-tin shack. It has white metal shutters, bars on the windows and air conditioning in the main bedroom. Residents of the barrios as much as elsewhere in this city aspire to this ideal, although it may take them decades to achieve or be left for the next generation to complete.

Residents’ ability to construct the right house in the right place is the key to who would remain in a transformed community and who would be evicted. These judgements are dependent upon geographic features and interpretations of the moral value of the people who live in different parts of the barrio. The barrio has two definitive spatial sections: the high ground in the centre of the barrio (arriba), and the low ground that surrounds it (abajo). Most houses arriba are built of concrete block and a large number of its original residents still live there, maintaining a community feel. This is the most desirable area of the barrio to live in because it does not flood and it houses the school and the Catholic church. It also has the highest rate of church attendance out of the barrio’s six sectors. In short, it offers domesticity and institutions of the sort that Peter Wilson (1973)[3] associated with ‘respectability’ on the island of Providencia, Colombia.

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Abajo is the old swampland that was settled in the 1980s. It is the worst part of the barrio to live in due to seasonal flooding, open drains carrying black waste water, and poor housing. A network of alleys rather than streets conveys a sense of inaccessibility and alienation. Abajo’s geography is moralised in a strikingly similar way to how the barrio in its entirety is stigmatized by outsiders. Its greater material poverty and dominance of people from the south (closer to Haiti) rather than the central region (settled by Europeans) impacts upon popular perceptions of residents’ capacity for respectability. There is also a popular perception that residents live in shacks because they spend all their excess cash on conspicuous consumption and entertainment rather than investing it in creating an ideal house. Every weekend, the sounds of partying float up to La Clarín from abajo. Often they activity was still audible on the following morning. ‘Listen to the tígueres! [tigers]’ residents regularly exclaimed, ‘Listen to the state of desorden [disorder] that this country is in!’ For residents arriba, the partying abajo is indicative of a disintegration of the Dominican people, who have fallen into corrupción [corruption, or immorality] in hard times, rather than persevering with traditional peasant values of hard work and austerity.

This moralization of place demonstrates how the problems of barrio life are conceptualised in relation to a much geographically wider and historically deeper set of issues. This is indicative of how residents’ lives and livelihoods depend upon forces outside the locality, despite the fact that it is these very forces that have localised them so thoroughly. Understanding people’s engagement in place politics – individual and collective – requires examination of their relationships and positioning beyond the locality upon which that action is centred. This is not to argue that locality has no agency of its own, but rather that people are never merely local: ‘Everyone can relate themselves (or is allocated) to a multiplicity of spaces – phenomenal and conceptual – whose extensions are variously defined, and whose limits are variously imposed, transgressed, and reset’ (Asad 1993: 8). [4] Whether the politics of place concerns staying or going, its reference points will continue to be located outside the community as much as its strategies are enacted on the inside.

Notes

[1] A full-length version of this paper will be published in January 2011 in Bönisch-Brednich. B. and Trundle, C. (eds.) Local Lives: Migration and the Politics of Place. Ashgate. The research was carried out with a Carlyle Greenwell Fieldwork Scholarship at The University of Sydney, Australia.
[2] Bourdieu, P. 1984. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
[3] Wilson, P. J. 1973. Crab Antics: The Social Anthropology of English-Speaking Negro Societies of the Caribbean. New Haven and London: Yale University Press.
[4] Asad, T. 1993. Introduction. Iin Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam, edited by T. Asad. Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press, 1-24.

October 25, 2010

Digitized mourning

Anna Haverinen, PhD student
University of Turku, Digital culture
anna.haverinen@utu.fi


In the 21st century the Internet has taken a permanent place in social and cultural interactions, commerce, searching information and distributing data (see e.g. Boellstorff 2008; Markham 1998; Reid 1994; Uotinen 2005). Virtual memorials have also developed immensly with Web 2.0, which means more user-centered, collective intelligence utilization, and faster and lighter information transfer (O'Reilly 2005). Faster and cheaper broadband services and comprehensive virtual technology (e.g. mobile phones, wireless networks, portable computers) have also helped the virtual world to take its place in the (global) communication cultures including practices of mourning.

In my PhD study I examine the various ways of expressing loss, sorrow and honoring the memory of the deceased in virtual environments. My geographical focus is in Finland, however, I have already studied this matter in my master's thesis in which I collected international ethnographic material. I use this material as completentary to my PhD thesis, since this phenomena is – as many other cultural and technological innovations – transferred to Finland through the Web. The results so far indicate that the virtual nature of the memorial site has a similar significance as an actual memorial, e.g. gravesite (Haverinen 2009). The creators of these websites are either family or friends, and reasons of keeping the sites open for public can be for practicality (no passwords needed), or as one informant claimed “--to announce to the world how great a man my husband was (to friends and strangers)” - Yolanda (Haverinen 2009: 54). Using websites to cope with loss and sorrow seems to help in the mourning process, especially if the physical resting place of the deceased is either non-existent or too far away: “I would love to create a physical memorial for my sister, since she was cremated, per her wishes, I feel kind of lost because there is no place I can go to grieve for her (for example there is not gravesite) I think that is why the website has been so healing for me” -Sandy (Haverinen 2009: 55).


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Memory-Of.com frontpage, screencaptured 1.10.2010, Anna Haverinen

Since the mid 1990's, virtual cemeteries and virtual memorial sites have increased tremendously in popularity and size, especially in the United States (Haverinen 2009). However, the Finnish public has been reluctant to adopt this new practise of mourning, since there is no to date a Finnish virtual memorial website, althought one is currently in the designing process by the Finnish Funeral Association. Regardless of this, during the past three years (2007-2010) memorial groups and pages in the Finnish Facebook network have increased in number. This might be a result of our cultural habit of keeping loss and sorrow as private and, at best, “matters of the family”. Finland used to be the top in adapting mobile technology, but after the burst of the IT-bubble Finland seemed to have dropped from the international comparisons. For example, compared to Americans Finns do not utilize social media and virtual communications as comprehensive as given the current technological infrastructure, and so it seems worth asking whether this slowness of adapting technology has to do with anthropologically interesting rules of social interaction in this country, for instance the idea that the culture is very strict about individual's “personal space”.

Memorial services and mourning in online-games seems to be also a popular way to mourn the loss of a co-player. World of Warcraft and Second Life have taken in a practise of virtual reminiscing, since the game-developer's integrate whole memorial parks (e.g. Linden Lab for Second Life) or as Blizzard Entertainment (WoW) has created virtual memorials which are either integrated in the game as part of “quests”, or as individual parts of the game scenery. However, there has also been incidents of “fake deaths” where a player fakes his or hers death in real-life to create sensation. These fakers are seen very unpleasant and adolescent.


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World of Warcraft integrated memorial for Michel Koiter, 'Shrine of the Fallen Warrior', screencaptured 4.11.2009, Heidi Similä.


General attitudes towards virtual mourning and memorialized profiles in Finland seem to vary immensly, especially between different age groups where the young seem to adapt this conduct more easily and the elders are more reluctant and are clinging to old customs. Also being accustomed to virtual technology seems to determine if virtual mourning is accepted or not. Negative attitudes are usually explained and justified by how virtual memorials are perceived as disrespectful and/or harmful for the family of the deceased. Positive attitudes claim how other parts of lives are already in the Web, thus death should be included as well. Reasons such as accessibility, speed and easiness are some key reasons to mourn virtually.

Nevertheless, some virtual mourning forms are already part of normative every(virtual) mourning day practises, such as lighting a virtual candle at the most popular Finnish site www.sytytakynttila.fi (eng. 'light a candle'), which was launched in 2001. To date it has approximately 59 000 candles with condolences to both public and private figures, tragedic events and anything that should be honored and mourned.

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Finnish website for virtual candles, www.sytytakynttila.fi, (eng. 'light a candle'), screencaptured 1.10.2010, Anna Haverinen.

Mortuary rituals are universal and part of rites of passage (van Gennepp 1977), where the persona of the decesed is transferred to another social status and conceptual place: the afterworld. In different rituals the afterworld can be seen as actively affecting the affairs of the living (e.g. Hinduism), or these rituals deal more with memory and loss (e.g. Christianity).

These imaginations of the afterworld are relative and personal, but also seem to be analogical with the virtual “world”. Blogs, profile pages in social media, avatars and other virtual expressions seem to preserve the indentity of a person, which leads to similar phenomenas as bringing flowers and candles infront of the decead's home or place of death, such as virtual candles.However, it remains to be seen and for antrhopologists to examine how this phenomena will develop. Merely making a technology available will not determine its future, rather, the new possibilities offered by the Web will build on cultural and social aspects, issues of great interest also to anthropology.


Continue reading "Digitized mourning" »

September 20, 2010

Dialogues between suburbs: the globalization of the hip-hop movement

Angela Maria de Souza, PhD

Research Group in Visual Anthropology and Studies of Image Federal Univ. of Santa Catarina

The hip-hop movement takes shape in a context of globalization in the urban spaces of middle and big cities. Even though it started in the United States, this movement was born from an encounter of cultures, of aesthetic-musical practices of black and Latino communities in suburban spaces. Given that it is more than art or a manifestation of youth, the hip-hop movement has become an important arena of socio- political debate on the lives and experiences of black young men and women, immigrants of many different countries, who question the social problems that surround them. Having at its core the purpose of discussing social inequalities among black and immigrant populations in the United States, rap becomes, in a global level, the music to be associated with the lifestyle of marginalized populations, such as the Mexican and Asian immigrants (USA), the Arabs and berberes (France), Cape-verdians and Angolans (Portugal), youths of Turkish origin (Germany), dwellers of the banlieues in Paris, Marseille and Lyon (France), young dwellers of the Brazilian suburbs, etc. Even in such diverse sociocultural contexts, the hip-hop movement has become an important way of expression, directing networks and “flows” (Hannerz, 1994)2 which reconfigure social practices in a “time-space compression” (Harvey, 1994)3 context.

Those are cultural-socio-political experiences that take an aesthetic form in the debate of ordinary problems, such as the ones encountered in the suburbs of Great Lisbon, for instance Cova da Moura (Amadora) and Arrentela (Seixal) and in the Great Florianopolis Area (Brazil), in the neighbourhoods of Monte Cristo, Chico Mendes and Jardim Atlântico (São José)4. In these urban spaces, young men and women, mostly black, reconsider their social practices and elaborate other means of expression. What characterizes them are the flows that take shape between national suburbs which, in their turn, become transnational flows. These are musical partnerships that are established between countries and overcome linguistic barriers towards the establishment of rap groups communication networks. Those networks rely chiefly on technology use.

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DJ using the pick-ups

Songs circulate intensely through channels which would be considered unconventional some time ago. Blogs, social networks such as My Space and Orkut, as well as virtual radio stations, considerably amplify the reach of rap musical production, allowing for new and original musical partnerships. This was the case for Grupo Reverso, a rap band from Florianopolis, in Southern Brazil, which has a page on My Space. Through this webpage, a rap group from Romenia accessed one of Reverso ́s songs, produced a totally new version and resent it to the original band. The dialogue between bands was very peculiar. As Reverso ́s band members did not speak any English, nor did the Romenian group speak any Portuguese, the Brazilian band members asked for the help of a friend who “spoke some English”.

With the help of a dictionary, communication was established. One of the criteria adopted by Reverso to accept the partnership was that the Romanian band could not include in the new version of the lyrics either any form of offense to God nor any swearwords, as Reverso does gospel rap. Conditions accepted, the virtual musical partnership ensued. I had the opportunity of witnessing this partnership in one of the BRC (Brazilian for “Christian Rap Panel”) rap meetings in Florianopolis. This musical production speaks out or, rather, experiences the “adventure” (Simmel, 2004)5 through town in order to be able to circulate in it. However, it doesn ́t limit itself to the city; rather, transcends it, as Reverso and many other rap bands are showing.

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Graffiti in the Cova da Moura neighbourhood.


Technological advances, in the case of rap, not only create new circulation channels for this musical production, but also allow for reduced costs, easier and faster musical recording. With a computer and appropriate software, a rapper can record his or her songs at home. Besides that, the possibility of creation or implementation of musical channels is increased, even though it does not always include financial rewards. Even so, access to technology is something that still generates significant distancing in terms of a digital divide in the hip-hop movement, given that many rappers, in Brazil, do not have home computers. In many cases, virtual communication is established via cybercafés.

Continue reading "Dialogues between suburbs: the globalization of the hip-hop movement" »

August 23, 2010

Beginning with Breaking Up

Ilana Gershon (Dept. of Communication and Culture, Indiana Univ.)

In the United States, there is a lot of talk about how people are able to communicate and connect in new ways because of innovations in communicative technologies. So what happens when people start using these technologies built for connection for a purpose they weren’t designed for – disconnecting from people? To answer this question, I decided to interview people at my home institution about how they use new media when they are breaking up. This turned out to be a very productive starting point for asking questions about how people cobble together solutions to the social dilemmas new media can offer. For example, I was able to find out how wide a range of practices there are for finding out information about your ex-lover on Facebook that you might want to know, but don’t want to let your ex-lover know you want to know. Beginning with breaking up is a methodological starting point. I want to discuss some methodological implications of starting with breaking up when analyzing new media.

I quickly realized that participant observation would be impossible. No one was going to say in the middle of a breakup conversation: “Wait a minute, are we breaking up? Because if we are, I know this researcher who would like to observe and take notes.” Sometimes people would voluntarily send me the conversations in which they broke up with someone over IM or by texting. (And I should admit that I couldn’t always tell without interviewing them why this particular conversational snippet was The Breakup Conversation.) I had to ask people to talk about their breakups after many of their disentangling conversations were over. Almost everything I learned I found out by interviewing people face-to-face. And in these interviews, people would tell me breakup stories that they had clearly already told their friends. I was collecting well-rehearsed narratives.

Not only couldn’t I observe breakups, I also discovered I was not being told many stories about hooking up. I can think of only two accounts of hooking up, that is, accounts of people who would not claim to be in a relationship and yet were sleeping together occasionally. However, I know that people were hooking up all the time because of research my colleague Elizabeth Armstrong has conducted on IU undergraduates’ romantic lives. I think few people told me these stories because one of the benefits of hooking up is that while you might hook up, you never break up. Hooking up is understood to be ephemeral enough that you are not obligated to have a break up conversation. Instead, you can just let things drift apart when you want to stop sleeping with someone. So when I asked people if I could interview them about their breakups, they tended to assume that I was only talking about “real” romantic relationships. I don’t think that this seriously affected my analysis, but it is one of the methodological consequences of how I framed my research.

There were clear benefits to my starting point. By asking about breaking up, I learned a tremendous amount about how people used a wide range of communicative technologies. I also learned how they understood each medium in relationship to all the other media that they used. I don’t only know about how people at Indiana University used Facebook throughout the course of a break up, I also know about how they used texting, voicemail and any other medium. If I had asked people about their texting practices, I might not have gotten the same insight into how their understandings of one medium affected their understandings of all the other media they used, or refused to use. By starting with a social practice and not a medium, I was able to find out about people’s complex practices of remediation. That is, beginning with breaking up encouraged people to reflect on their media ecologies.


Ilana Gershon is an anthropologist who teaches in the Department of Communication and Culture at Indiana University. Her book, The Breakup 2.0: Disconnecting Over New Media, has just been published by Cornell University Press.

August 3, 2010

Bhopal: Blueprint:Endplan

Christopher Pinney, Dept of Anthropology, University College London

1. Bhopal: capital of Madhya Pradesh, India, population 1,800,000. ‘City of Lakes’, location of Asia’s largest mosque and the Union Carbide India Limited pesticide plant, cause of the world’s worst industrial disaster.

2. Blueprint: cyanotype process used in duplication of engineering and architectural plans.

The Madhya Pradesh Government official number of fatalites was 3,787. Other Indian Government agencies have since calculated the total at more than 15,000. Perhaps between 100,000 and 200,000 people still live with gas-related disabilities. The rickshaw driver who drove me to the plant (in a densely populated area, just north of the railway station) was eight on that night – 2nd/3rd December 1984 when 28 tonnes of lethal gas rolled across the centre of Bhopal. He recalled waking with excruciating pain in his eyes and being rushed to a chaotic hospital by relatives. Countless family members still live with the effects of that night.

Tank 610 - containing 42 tons of methyl isocyanate (MIC) – was rapidly filled by water late on December 2nd, causing the temperature of the tank to rise to more than 200°C.

Union Carbide downplayed the incidents of phosgene leaks (some involving fatalies) in 1981, 1982 and multiple MIC leaks in 1982, 1983 and early 1984. Indian authorities warned of the probability of a major incident from 1979 onwards. Visiting US experts in 1981 warned Union Carbide of the potential for a ‘runaway reaction’ in the MIC plant.

The MIC tank alarms had not worked for four years and there was only one manual back-up system as opposed to the four relied on in US plants. The flare tower and gas scrubber had been inoperable for five months prior to the disaster but in any event the scrubber was designed to handle only one quarter of the pressure which had built up in the tank and the tower one quarter of the volume of gas. Carbon steel valves, which corrode when in contact with acid were used to save money. Water sprays were set too low and could not reach the gas.

The US parent company (Union Carbide) argued that this was a Badiouan ‘event’ or ‘rupture’, without precedent, not easily anticipated and certainly not planned. But perhaps it had more the quality of an ‘endplan’, - a destiny born of contempt for the poor, distant, and unknown - an outcome written in the blueprints, recoverable after the event through these digital cyanotypes made in 2010.

3. Endplan. Evidence recoverable after the event and which reveals the event to be immanent in the blueprint.

July 23, 2010

The Art of Theft: Creativity and Property on deviantART

Dan Perkel is a PhD Candidate at the School of Information, University of California, Berkeley. His research examines new literacies and cultural practices that have accompanied the development of new social and technical infrastructure for the creation, distribution, and use of digital media.

As work on new media production has recently shown, the web enables media creators to bring the artifacts of what Paul Wills and colleagues (1990) describes as “symbolic creativity” or what Jean Burgess (2007) refers to as “vernacular creativity” out from their homes, schools, and small social groups into contact with wider audiences. It also enables others to find this content, view it, easily download it, and repurpose it. It is this kind of activity that Palfrey and Gasser argues provides both the upside and the downside in this “brave new world of digital media.” Specifically, John Palfrey and Urs Gasser write that, "Creativity is the upside of this brave new world of digital media (2008). The downside is law-breaking."

Over the past two and half years, I have been studying this phenomenon, as it plays out online and offline. My commitment to an ethnographic approach to research has limited most of my attention to one website--albeit a rather large one--and also to comic and anime conventions, both of which feature the new generations of creators that have been taken up in the discourse of copyright law. In particular, I focus upon the real and not historically new concerns of many young artists and media producers as they post their work to the internet.

deviantART is one of the most prominent sites for the distribution of digital media and art in almost all forms. deviantART features visual art work in a wide range of genres, media, and subject matter (This includes literature, poetry, sculpture, and craft as well. Spend a few minutes just looking at the 1000s of categories and sub-categories and the diversity of the work will be come clear).

Pinning down the exact numbers of active individual users has been difficult--as it is with comparable studies of other sites--but as of this writing it boasts over 12 million members (which may just mean accounts) and over 100 million pieces of individual art work. According to QuantCast, an internet measurement company that has partnered with the site, deviantART receives just over 20 million global visitors per month (one-third from the United States).[1] The site is approaching its tenth birthday and is often ranked highly amongst all visited social network sites in many countries (according to companies like comScore).

Members of deviantART have userpages that are analogous to a profile on a social network site. Userpages act as galleries and message boards through which artists can display their work and communicate with other members and those who watch their work. They give and receive comments on art work, as well as engage in conversations about art and about their social lives on their journals (like blogs), on forums, and in chat rooms. From what I have seen through online participant observation, discussions and interviews, posting work to deviantART provides all kinds of opportunities for its members to show off their work, meet like-minded people, collaborate, and improve.

However, at the same time, I have also observed that a dominant concern amongst those who post and share their work on deviantART is a concern over what they describe as “art theft.”

The discourse and morality of theft

Over the course of my field work, I have seen discourse on theft come up repeatedly throughout the site giving evidence to the fact that concern about the protection of one’s art is a pervasive concern. The specter of theft comes up in journals deviantART members write, news articles they post to the site, in digital stamps that they post on their pages, in tutorials they make to help each prevent theft, as well as in everyday conversation.

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Headlines from news articles and journal entries reporting incidents of theft

I interviewed one young creator, at the time a 16 year old girl who is into Japanese animation and is considering a career in character design for video games or animation, who told me that “[Theft] is definitely a very hot topic. Like, people talk about it all the time. … Every artist that I watch on deviantART … every single one of them has had their work stolen and used by someone else.”

“Theft" was a problem because of its unfairness and its immorality:

“It’s disturbing…artists work really hard to come up with what they come up with. … it’s a cheat, a taboo when someone steals someone else’s work or ideas. Because we put all this time into it. And then someone is just going to take it and pretend that they did it; that they put all the effort in. For nothing. And other people get praised for something they didn’t even do. It’s just … it’s not right.”

An older and more experienced artist echoed this point about fairness and emphasized the emotional impact, calling theft “soul destroying” when the products of “hard work” can be “just taken in the blink of an eye” and ”made almost irrelevant by somebody who just doesn't really give a damn.”

Finally, another artist in his mid twenties explained to me in a conversation that that "real damage of art theft isn't how it cheats the artist," as the previous quotes suggested, "but rather how it demoralizes the artist" and "keeps people from sharing their art or making more, or putting the effort in…"

So clearly there is something that is labeled as "theft" that presents a significant problem for so many artists for different reasons. Issues of morality and demoralization are central. But what actually makes something theft?

What is "art theft"?

What I have learned is that even amongst the artist and activity I have observed, there is a great deal of diversity as to what constitutes theft. This diversity is reflected in a conversation that unfolded on the userpage of a member who had already become well recognized on the site, which had eventually led her to getting a job at a major animation studio (which in turn made her even more famous and popular on the site).

Someone had come across her page and left a comment expressing considerably excitement about her being "THAT PERSON I SAW IN THE NEWSPAPER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" But this was followed up by a note of concern, when the commenter noted that she had scanned the picture and had used it as a "personal display picture." "If I continue to use," the person concluded, "that's stealing … mmmm…"

Thus, the comment concludes with both a statement on the topic of theft, but perhaps also an unstated request for permission to continue to do something that the might be seen as wrong.

Later that day, however, the artist replied to this comment and noted that she did not think that this was stealing. In fact, she continued, there was a whole list of things that she had seen people called "stealing" that she didn't feel were stealing at all, such as taking her work and turning it into icons, or banners, or personal prints, and others. She concluded that she wished people on deviantART would “would stop thinking everything is 'art theft.'” In contrast, she argued:

“Stealing is when someone makes profit from my art without permission, or claims to have drawn my picture, or sneaks into my room at night and swipes the hard copies, and that's IT. This is not directed at you; it's something I've been wanting to say for a long time."

There are a number of important things worth mentioning here. Perhaps most important is the fact that the artist felt compelled to say anything at all. Her listing of different examples of things that specifically are not art theft her exasperation at all of the reports of art theft, and her point about wanting to have said this for a long time reveals her impression of the general sentiment on the site as perhaps being different.

But a day later, she added a slight caveat. In her journal, while she pointed to the conversation and re-iterated the main points, she also tacked on a message that this was all just her opinion, that there was no clear definition of theft, and that she knew that many other artists would describe as theft things that she doesn't. This point was echoed by some of the commenters who followed up on the discussions. One in particular reiterated the idea that he agreed, but that it was all up to the artist:

“If you personally have no problem with someone posting your art on a forum or blog without permission…then it's all hunk dory. But you are within your rights to request someone to stop using your intellectual property in any way."

The commenter here was referring to an interpretation of copyright law. Throughout my research I have seen many people use copyright as a way of supporting their claim of theft. In fact, site policy actually equates art theft with copyright infringement. However, I have observed that there is much discussion, and sometimes disagreement, as to what copyright does and does not allow, made particularly complicated by the global dimension of the site. While “copyright” is often invoked, it has been clear there is a moral issue at stake.

What I see here is an emphasis on what’s known in the legal discourse as moral rights. Moral rights posit a strong connection between an artist and his or her work such that to violate the work is to violate the artist. My sense is that the viewpoint is a dominant one on the site. In the end it’s the artist’s right to decide what is and is not okay with respect to his or her own work. It is the transgression of the artist’s rules that makes something theft.

Dimensions of transgression: Permission, credit and money

So what are some of the issues that affect people's sense of being violated, of having their rules transgressed, and thus some action turning into theft? The previous story has pointed to several of the key issues. Here, I will touch on three of the central concerns that resonate with debates about intellectual property before the web.

First, there is the issue of permission. Whereas the artist in the previous story elaborated a wide variety of scenarios where she didn't require permission, many others have argued the opposite point: that permission was critical in every situation. For these, using someone else's work in some way without their permission was the very definition of theft.

Second, there is the issue of credit. Rebecca Tushnet (2007) has noted in her discussion of fan-fiction writers, attribution is central to notions of authorship, even amongst writers whose works is proudly appropriative. For some, asking for credit is a defining part of their practice. Stock photographers on deviantART, for example, provide work explicitly to be used and transformed in others' work. Some post without any kind of restrictions, but more typically they have elaborate sets of rules with asking for credit being a central one. "It's the only thing we ask for," one leader amongst the site's stock photographers told me.

Finally, there is the issue of making money. Even for the artist I mentioned in the previous section, who was untypical in her permissiveness with others' use of her work, felt that the use of her work in a way that generated money for someone else without her permission was theft. In fact, later in my study, she had to confront this scenario directly when a major American retailer began selling one of her tattoo designs at a store. This type of scenario was also something that members of deviantART saw as a real threat as people’s work has been used in commercial products and sold in various online sites, such as eBay, and retail stores.

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Reports of stores, online and offline, selling deviantART members’ work is common.

But the issue of money is, perhaps unsurprisingly, even more complicated. Money is often not the central issue in defining theft, though it might exacerbate it. Some even see money as a distraction because there are others ways to profit off theft besides money. As one person put it, an art thief can gain tremendously without making money, through "attention, fame, recognition in the art world, connections, and people requesting and possibly offering to buy work." These can all "LEAD to monetary gain."

Traditional claims and asserting control

Looking at a current major site where digital copies of art is distributed, talked about, and circulated, many who are building expertise with the tools and technologies of the production, manipulation, and distribution of media in digital forms do not necessarily have new notions of property nor, as I would argue, new notions of creativity as implied by much of the rhetoric around new media.[2]

In fact, their notions of property might seem very traditional. In order to account for what they might see as the materiality of digital products, they are asserting and claiming a wide range of property rights in order to account for both the new opportunities and risks that come with posting their work online. And they are doing so on similar grounds if one compares this to historical investigations of copyright law.[3] Like the participants in Don Slater's (2002) study of the trading of sexually explicit material in digital form, participants on deviantART are trying to assert control and define a measure of scarcity around their work particularly with a media form that seems to defy any ideas of material scarcity.

Moreover, I am arguing that they are trying to assert some notion of control over their identities as artists--their creative authorship. If there are differences between some views of property and others, it cannot be reduced to age or technology. Both may matter and the question for me is how this might be the case. However, the way this conversation is typically framed leaves no space for historically produced practice, or perhaps assumes that practice is homogenous and ahistorical.

Here, I have argued that art theft as it is commonly deployed on deviantART means to violate the creator’s terms of how their work is to be used. I suspect that for some, theft is seen as a threat to their very identities as creators. Wrestling with the boundaries between legitimate uses and theft then helps constitute what it means to have one’s sense of self closely linked to creative practice. But as I am discovering in my research, deviantART is constituted by a variety of people, with different aspirational trajectories, engaged in multiple practices, supported by different spheres of social activity. Thus, notions of material property in seemingly immaterial work are both diverse and conflicted.

Continue reading "The Art of Theft: Creativity and Property on deviantART" »

July 5, 2010

MP3 Players, Music, and Children's Material Culture

Tyler Bickford is a PhD candidate in Ethnomusicology at Columbia University. His dissertation research examines the media ecology of K–8 schoolchildren at a small, rural, public school in New England.

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Despite an explosion of recent attention to children and new media - and despite the iconic status of objects like the iPod - kids' uses of music devices haven't received the same sort of attention as mobile phones and video games. Especially from a material culture perspective, I think this is a key oversight. Like communications technologies, where the specter of disembodiment and virtual separation from a physical world looms large in popular discussions, sound, too, is understood as a uniquely immaterial medium - which makes it an especially rich subject for studying the (im)materiality of digital media. My research suggests that kids see both the interactive and the musical affordances of MP3 players not as ephemeral at all, but rather as particularly material, immediate, and embodied.

My dissertation research involves long-term ethnographic study of about eighty K-8 schoolchildren at the elementary school of a small town in southern Vermont, which I call Heartsboro. The first day of my fieldwork at Heartsboro Central School in September 2007, I noticed two eighth-grade girls, Amber and Daisy, sitting side-by-side on the swings, talking in a group of friends while listening to Amber's iPod, the earbud cables stretched across the eighteen inches between the swings. I was impressed that they so easily shared the earbuds even as they swayed back and forth, so I walked over and asked if they would ever listen together and swing at the same time. They took my question as a challenge, and Daisy turned to Amber with a mischievous look as they began to pump their legs, almost hitting their friends who scrambled out of the way. They laughed and cheered each other on as they swung higher and higher, coordinating their leg pumps to stay connected by the precariously balanced iPod earbuds in their ears. They swung together like that until they couldn't go any higher, and the earbud only dropped out of Daisy's ear when they finally fell out of sync while slowing down from the peak of their swing. When they came to a stop Daisy looked at me, pleased and defiant, demanding acknowledgment of their physical accomplishment: "See?"

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Sharing earbuds - one for me, one for you - was perhaps the most common way kids at HCS listened to music, and listening together like that presented everyday physical challenges less spectacular than Amber and Daisy on the swings. Walking together while sharing earbuds involved careful coordination of two bodies, and friends would even spend time practicing especially difficult tasks like walking through doors together. In groups pairs of friends would listen with one ear as they participated in the dense overlap of talk, touch, and gesture that characterized their unmonitored peer interactions. Wires literally tethered kids to one another, and headphone cables suspended from ear to ear traced out the intersecting nodes of social networks stratified by overlapping hierarchies of age, gender, kinship and friendship, status, and taste. By sharing earbuds kids activated and delineated these relationships, excluding some children from listening even while expanding access for others who might be limited by parental resources or restrictions.

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Compact little objects, MP3 players were ever-present throughout the school day, slipped into pockets, threaded under clothing, and handled until worn. MP3 players bundled with headphone cables circulated among lockers, desks, pockets, and backpacks. Wires threaded under clothing and tangled across crowded lunchroom tables. Hanging from a shoulder or shirt collar, maxed-out earbuds strained to liven up group spaces with portable, lo-fi background music. In class, students listened surreptitiously to earbuds concealed in sleeves and under the hoods of sweatshirts.

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Kids tinkered constantly with their MP3 players, decorating them with decals, markers, tape, and nail polish, trading unsalvageable ones to save for spare parts, and seeking out charged batteries, in a never ending process of "enlivening" their fragile devices.

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When they broke, as they often did, kids repaired them or lived with malfunctions. Stories about failed devices were told enthusiastically, and the reasons for their failure were often shrouded in mystery. In these ways, children's MP3 players were thoroughly domesticated within a "childish" material culture already characterized by playful physical interaction and portable objects such as toys, trading cards, and dolls that can be shared, manipulated, and held close.

None of these practices is characteristically "digital." Discussions of MP3 players as new media tend to foreground connections to the Internet and users' practices of sorting, selecting, and sharing songs in playlists, emphasizing the intertextual, rather than interpersonal, affordances of portable music devices. Users of MP3 players can share playlists online, download cheap or pirated music easily, and transport large amounts of music with them on their devices. But that isn't what happens at HCS, where only occasionally downloaded songs from services such as iTunes or from questionably legal peer-to-peer networks using software like Limewire. In most cases their music was purchased on CDs at discount stores like Walmart. While their music devices could hold many songs (even relatively inexpensive devices had 512MB of storage, which would store about a hundred songs), with only a few exceptions kids' devices had songs numbering in the dozens rather than the hundreds. With so few songs, these kids did not construct playlists for themselves or for friends; they scrolled through their players' songlists to find one song after another in lists full of misspelled and incomplete metadata. The scale of these portable music practices was far from the vast Web 2.0 repositories of instantly accessible tagged and linked songs that commentators emphasize as characterizing music in a digital era. Rather, with the small number of songs, the relative portability, the importance of physical stores, and face-to-face sharing, HCS kids used MP3 players on a smaller scale, much the way they might use portable CD or cassette players. MP3 players were preferable to older technologies for immediate and practical reasons: they were smaller than CD players and, for the most part, hardier. They fit in pockets and would not skip when jarred - necessary traits for objects constantly handled, squeezed, tugged, and tangled in children's active and sociable school lives.

Kids' "file-sharing," especially, involved interesting deviations from normatively digital expectations. The kids at HCS did share music with one another, but this usually meant an older sibling creating a CD compilation or transferring songs to a younger sibling's MP3 player, or simply swapping music devices with one another when a friend would like to hear a certain song. Sometimes, to get new songs, they'd put the microphone up to their television or to computer speakers to record music from a music video, rather than searching for a song on the Internet, downloading it (possibly paying for it with a parent's credit card), and transferring it to their MP3 player. And frequently they'd place the earbud of one device up to the microphone of another, and transfer music to their friends that way.

In a digital media environment where infinite and perfect reproduction - media files can be transferred and copied without any loss of information, unlike analog recordings or film photographs - is central, the layers of infidelity to high quality digital reproduction involved in transferring music like this are stacked upon one another: MP3 encoding already represents concessions of quality to portability; cheap earbuds hardly produce decent playback, and with only one earbud transferring music to the microphone, half the original track is lost; the microphones on MP3 players and cell phones are barely suitable even for casual voice recording; and the audio from the microphone is then subjected to further degradation from another round of low bitrate MP3 encoding.

But maybe these practices were faithful, if not to a hi-fi vision of audio reproduction, then to the physical, spatial, and embodied world in which MP3 players and their earbud cables were already so intimately embedded on and between kids' bodies. Just as they tethered one friend to another, kids connected one object to another with the umbilicus of their earbud cables, and from earbud to microphone, they transferred sound from one vibrating membrane to another, in real time. In a meaningful sense, the recordings they made were composed more of "actual" sounds and music than are digitally encoded representations. On the Internet songs would be found by searching for meta-data - titles, artist names, dates, etc. - but as several kids pointed out to me, they didn't know the names of many songs on their devices. They did, however, know very clearly how the songs sounded, and so, to move music from device to device, it made sense for the songs to resound in physical space.

(An extended discussion of this topic is forthcoming in a chapter called "Tinkering and Tethering: Children's MP3 Players as Material Culture," in the Handbook of Children's Musical Cultures, edited by Patricia Shehan Campbell and Trevor Wiggins, from Oxford University Press. An preprint version of that piece is available here.)

All photos © 2008 by the author.

June 28, 2010

Matis Indians and the economy of culture media, tourism and anthropology in the Upper Amazon

Barbara Arisi (Anthropology PhD student, PPGAS/UFSC, Brazil)

Lévi-Strauss, in an interview with Viveiros de Castro, commented that as (the indigenous societies) are getting hotter, meanwhile ours get colder. In France, this is very clear: the increasing interest in patrimony, and the efforts to find roots (Viveiros de Castro 1998). The Matis are in a very hot phase of their relations with international markets of tourism and television. And they become hotter precisely by giving value to their cultural patrimony. They show increasing interest in making money and gaining prestige for their material (blowpipes and bracelets) and immaterial culture (showing their hunting and animal parties).

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Binan Chapu Chunu and Txami show the mug produced by BBC.
"The gringos didn't tell us they would glue our children in a mug!"

First Contact and the industrialized objects
The Matis established contact with the Brazilian government in 1978, before that, they had had just sporadic relations with outsiders, mainly rubber tappers and other Indians. The men and women who told me their memories from a time when they use to live basically among themselves, hunting, farming, gathering with tools made of wood and a few metal axes (Arisi 2007, Arisi 2010) are the same men and women who now I have observed negotiating to perform their monkey hunting and animal parties with foreigners from UK or South Korea. The Matis are establishing the bases for the economy of their culture, the exchange of goods, technology and knowledge with outsiders.

I wrote about indigenous contact and isolation in my MSc dissertation and now I am working out a PhD thesis on how the same people are dealing with gringos from the other side of the globe. To write more bluntly: those old men and women came from the hidden head of rivers to be stars in the showbiz of global portrayal of Amazonia. I hope I can show from close observation what kind of difficulties and worries but also easiness and pleasures these kind of fast track historical events had brought to them.

Objectification of culture

At the same time that many anthropologists started to doubt of everything that smells like the essentializationof culture, both indigenous and many other peoples are starting to reify culture for themselves and to makes claim for it for many reasons and in different ways.

The awareness and manipulation of the idea of culture that is taking place throughout lowland South America mirrors a similar self-conscious display of culture currently going on among indigenous peoples elsewhere in the world, such as in Australia (Myers 1991, 1994), New Zealand (Hanson 1989; Linnekin 1991), Melanesia (Foster 1995; Thomas 1992), and Polynesia (Sahlins 2000), among other places. (Oakdale 2004: 60)

In Brazil, there are researchers studying Indigenous transformations where culture participates in exchange relationships that become more and more commercial, intermediated by money (Coelho de Souza, 2005; Gordon, 2006; Carneiro da Cunha 2009).

I am engaging in this effort. I want to understand how people like the Matis create an economy of their culture, how do they negotiate with tourists, documentarists and anthropologists. All of us, consumers of their culture.

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Matis, touristic guides and anthropologist camping with German tourists

Media in the forest and the Matis in the forest of media

I consider that I had three key moments when I could participate and and observe the economic relation of the Matis with TV crews and with tourists. In July 2009, there was in the Javari a crew from MBC South Korea, the biggest communication company in that country). In August, three North Americans filmed for a pilot for Animal Planet/Discovery Channel, from the US, with a group of five Matis families in a Tikuna village, an indigenous community located in Colombia, by the Amazon river, close to the triple border Brazil, Colombia and Peru. Then, in October, I followed the Matis camping with four German tourists and three guides one from Yugoslavia, one Peruvian and one Venezuelan.

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South Korean MBC TV crew shoots the Matis drinking "tatxik", beverage made of a vine

The first documentarists appeared in the lives of the Matis just after the contact in 1978. The Matis also entered, timidly, into the universe of information and communication technologies. They now use mobiles, digital cameras, emails, virtual networks like Orkut. Their images and films made by outsiders have been available in the internet for much longer.

My research tries to follow those associations that form this assemblage that provisory we can call the culture market or exotic culture market in the Amazon. I am interested in the economy and in the trading of the immaterial and material culture to outsiders. We, anthropologists, like tourists and documentarists, are important actors in the relations of those people from whom we all consume culture and who we may or may not help to create a certain status for culture itself and thereby a certain economy.

Thesis goals
To write an ethnography and analysis which will reflect the indigenous practices related to the economy of their culture.

To contribute to the anthropological debate about indigenous transformations.

To contribute to Americanist and Amazonianist ethnology, in general, and the Panoan and Matis studies, in particular.

To question analytical and theoretical models regarding the Indianization of modernity (Sahlins 1997, Conklin 1997, Oakdale 2004), goods and objects taming/White people taming (Albert & Ramos 2000, Howard 2000) and post colonial (Appadurai 1986, Thomas 1991, Clifford 1997, Abu-Lughod 2002, Obeyesekere 2005).

[ed.: Any comments or input from materialworld readers would be more than welcome]

Continue reading "Matis Indians and the economy of culture media, tourism and anthropology in the Upper Amazon" »

May 31, 2010

An Anthropologist looks at Engineering

Ian Ewart (Oxford University)

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Production studies have until recently been pushed to one side in anthropology, but with growing interest in what seems to be coalescing around ‘Design Anthropology’ there may soon be a new sense of vitality in issues to do with making things. My research falls within the broad scope of that emergent field, and aims to tackle some basic questions about how engineering as an activity works, and to examine some of the assumptions about what engineering actually is.

The acronym-rich Science and Technology Studies (STS) have, since the 1980s, developed a number of theoretical approaches that offer a sociologist’s eye view. Most notably, but also perhaps most controversially, Actor-Network Theory (e.g. Latour 2004), but also, among others, the Social Construction of Technology (SCOT) approach (e.g. Bijker, Hughes and Pinch, 1987). Whilst ANT provides a refreshingly relational way of thinking, it has been roundly criticised, not least for its apparent emphasis on non-humans and lack of attention to practice. Similarly SCOT demonstrates the historical and culturally specific appropriation of technologies, but at its simplest is little more than a ‘Just So’ story. Material Culture Studies on the other hand, have a plethora of ideas on how to treat objects: from Gell’s agency to Kopytoff’s biographical approach, Miller’s materiality to Ingold’s biology, and all kinds of ideas on exchange, globalization, disposal, domesticity…. Though not a lot, it has to be said, to do with production. With the dry business of STS laying siege to production and technology studies, what we surely need is to introduce some of that anthropological creativity. As Design Anthropology begins to loom larger on the horizon, hopefully liberation beckons.

For my part in this enterprise, I have gathered data from the Kelabit highlands of Malaysian Borneo, by engaging with a rural community in some of their communal projects. This has included building and refurbishment of houses, installing and repairing water supply pipes, and the construction of a new bridge. Engineering can of course be applied to a paper clip as well as a skyscraper, but to my mind ‘real’ engineering is the communal projects and large objects. As well as this, material culture studies have tended to focus on smaller objects, perhaps a hangover from the days of museum collections, which have now been so richly studied, but are inherently portable. Without going in to the whys and wherefores, unashamedly I admit I want to look at BIG things.

Building a bridge in the Kelabit Highlands

Being a rural community, the Kelabit have restricted access to industrial materials and ideas, and have developed their own sense of what constitutes engineering. For instance, work is carried out through a system of voluntary communal labour exchange kerja sama, which has traditional origins, but has become associated with the Christian church. Then, the lack of specialists in for example bridge-building, requires the villagers to apply their considerable ingenuity to problems that are new to them. ‘Not-knowing’ forces innovation; we can trace a history of Kelabit bridge design, an evolution of sorts, and it is quite clear that they are keen to push the boundaries with each design. The new bridge was a self-conceived ‘suspension’ bridge, a development of the more common ‘catenary’ or hanging bridges, but made using quite rare materials - wire rope and the extremely durable belian hardwood. This contrasts markedly with the traditional bamboo and rattan constructions which they throw up with remarkably little fuss, and incredibly quickly (I ‘helped’ build a 10m bridge from scratch in 3 hours!).

Many of the newer materials are only available via roads cut by logging companies in the last 5 years or so, challenging Kelabit rights to the forest, whilst at the same time enabling greater access to the wider world. This illustrates how they are changing relations with their surroundings, spreading their sights beyond the immediate environment to include coastal towns some 10 hours drive away. Along with the gradual influx of new tools (first saws, then chainsaws, more recently generators and electric tools), this has relaxed the pressure on retrieving and recycling materials and allowed greater personal expression and experimentation. Longhouse floorboards, once carefully retined as a sign of prestige, are now being replaced with chainsawn and electrically planed boards as the best flooring. Materials and ideas are now finding new ways of migrating to the Kelabit highlands, to be squeezed and forced into shape.

We can also ask questions about conception and design, much of which seemed to have been dealt with on the ground and in practice, rather than through pre-conceived detailed plans. Engineering in this case seems to be done ‘in-the-hand’ and not ‘in-the-mind’. Design, if we can call it that, is drawn from history and tradition, shining a light on the problems of today, manipulated by the forward thinking Kelabit to take account of new materials and tools, and recently acquired skills. And finally, what of the object itself, the finished bridge? Here I readily acknowledge the influence of MC studies and relational thinking in suggesting that what is produced is a bundle of relations, ever changing in its comprehension. A fleeting agglomeration of components and tools, ideas and sociality, initially cosseted and fussed over in construction, then left to its own devices, as much a part of the forest as of the village.

Engineering is not the cold application of science and technology, nor is it simply or primarily a social construction. For the Kelabit, engineering is a practical activity, one which requires a good hand and a keen eye. It is a forum for emotional expression: frustration, embarrassment and ultimately pride. It is the means by which a community can experiment with new materials and exercise their desire for discovery, and it is ultimately a process of creation. As I hope this project shows, research that concentrates on production is an exciting and vibrant prospect, and one full of potential.

April 29, 2010

The unanticipated city: shifting urban landscapes and the politics of spectacle in Chennai.

Roos Gerritsen, Institute of Cultural Anthropology, Leiden University.

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Mural dedicated to the political party DMDK. The man pointing his finger is the leader of the party and a well-known Tamil movie star. (Chennai 2009)

The streets of the South Indian city of Chennai have for years been used as the canvas of political competition. Until recently, Chennai’s cityscapes were saturated with billboards, cutouts, posters, painted slogans, murals, and various other signposts. In 2009 however, in the wake of criticism regarding the defacement of public and private walls, the Chennai city administration has attempted to intervene in this encroachment and initiated campaigns to regulate this visual “pollution” of unsanctioned forms of display within the city. They have decided to enforce a ban on posters, murals, and hoardings on two of its main thoroughfares within the city as these are considered distracting and therefore a danger to onlookers. Soon after the city extended the measure and at present the use of 3,000 public walls is now prohibited. To beautify the roads, signboard artists have been commissioned to cover several stretches of government walls with images of Tamil historic, cultural, and natural scenery.

Paradoxically, the South Indian state Tamil Nadu and particularly its capital Chennai have always provided a model for the elaborate spectacle of monumental yet ephemeral imagery dedicated to movie stars and politicians; the same images that are now being replaced. The state shows a long and extensive history of crossovers of cinema and politics. Their intimate connection has created a particular visual culture and remarkable forms of exhibition. Particularly conspicuous have been the gigantic cutouts of up to 30 meters and the ubiquitous murals depicting (cine-)political leaders. Tamil Nadu is particularly well known for this spectacle of leaders and heroes; famous for some and notorious for others.

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Cutout of Karunanidhi, leader of the political party DMK and Chief Minister of the state Tamil Nadu. (Pondicherry, date unknown)


The new restrictions taken up by the city administration have become part of new visual contestations over city space. Moreover, the new wall paintings do not seem to be merely an attempt to beautify the city, but also a way of urging a different morality for its inhabitants. Unanticipated, spontaneous visual regimes are displaced and even exchanged for new visual imaginaries.

The recent restrictions of imagery by the city administration are part of a larger beautification project and have to be understood within a wider discourse of city development. Chennai aspires to be a world-class city, with Singapore as its role model. The transformations of public spaces, therefore, have become crucial points in changing the image of the city. In actual practice this goes often at the expense of the urban poor who are deprived of their homes or means of income as e.g. slums are being cleared and relocated in the city’s fringes, or so-called “informal” economies barred from the streets. Within the visual contestations taking place right now, what stands out is the term used by the city itself: beautification. Beautification suggests that the surface of the city has to become beautiful, not habitable per se. In this line, the city attempts to push back the encroachment of public space by restricting its use, particularly that of city walls. The mayor of Chennai, M. Subramanian, declared that images that reflect Tamil culture will be painted on compound walls of government property in an attempt to keep those who paste posters away and improve aesthetics. Posters are an eyesore, he stated. The city thus has become a visual space, a space to look at, not particularly a space to use.

Continue reading "The unanticipated city: shifting urban landscapes and the politics of spectacle in Chennai." »

April 24, 2010

‘Denim’ and the Dongs

The closeness of denim consumption in a family in a South-west Chinese city

Tom McDonald, Research Student, UCL Department of Anthropology

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For the Dong family, who live in Kunming, a city in South-west China, the chief, consumer of denim is 22 year old Dong Baiyi. Dong Baiyi lives at home, with her older brother and parents they have two children, due to an exemption in the family planning laws allowing couples in which one of the parents is of a state-recognised ethnic minority (Dong Baiyi’s mother, Li Jingmei, is of Dai ethnicity) to have multiple births (Sautman, 1998:89-90).

The family are economically comfortable. Dong Baiyi works as a receptionist in a two-star hotel, earning around 2000 RMB per month. Her brother, Dong Yishan, sells insurance, which can earn several thousand RMB per month dependent on commission. Baiyi’s father, Dong Guoping, is a Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) doctor, and her mother is a nurse.

Dong Baiyi claims only she and her brother wear denim regularly, while her parents wear it very rarely. Baiyi herself had six pairs of jeans, and her brother had 4 pairs. The presence of denim in the family, however, is not a new phenomenon, dating back to 1990, when Baiyi was only four years old. At that time she received a denim dress from her mother’s sister, who, Baiyi informed the researcher, was then making a living importing large amounts of foreign clothing for sale.

Baiyi’s testimony reveals important trends for her induction into denim. All four of the first denim items she received were gifted to her, with at least three coming from close relations on both the maternal and paternal sides of her family. Baiyi herself took an active role in instigating the purchase of one pair.

Since graduating from university Baiyi’s situation has changed. She continues to live at home, but now has works, and considerable autonomy over her clothes, food and lifestyle. However, in this period denim has continued to remain an important feature in Baiyi’s wardrobe, even if the way she has thought about them has changed from an emphasis on ‘cuteness’ to a more practical rationality:

Now I like jeans because they are convenient (fāngbiàn), you can match them with anything. Match them with T-shirts, match them with shirts. And… the main point is you can match them with anything. Also, they won’t be vulgar (yōngsú).

Baiyi’s denim collection has expanded to six pairs of jeans (only three of which she regularly wears), a pair of denim dungarees, and three denim dresses. Baiyi’s jeans often featured floral embroidery.

Virtually every time Baiyi met the researcher she was wearing at least one item of clothing featuring some kind of floral pattern. But flowers were not merely worn by Baiyi, they seemed to permeate her entire life. This was made apparent when Baiyi invited the researcher on a park trip to “look at the flowers” (kànhuā). Baiyi was able to identify a large array of flora, their blossoming times, and sometimes their medicinal use. On at least three separate days, she pointed out, or drew the researcher’s attention to flowers.

Baiyi is aware that her clothing differs markedly from that of her parents. Her father owns only a single pair of jeans (which he rarely wears); her mother owns three; in comparison to four owned by her brother and six by herself. Baiyi reported that none of her grandparents (both paternal and maternal) ever owned or wore jeans. She describes her parents’ style as ‘plain’ (pǔsù), although she said that she did not mind the clothes that they wore. The wearing of flowers, either embroidered or print, seemed to be something that both her and her mother could indulge in, both linking the maternal side and emphasising femininity.

Baiyi has been wearing denim for over four-fifths of her life, and jeans for over half. Baiyi likes jeans because they are “comfortable” and “convenient”, two words she used on countless occasions to describe jeans. Not only has Baiyi grown up, denim has grown with her, and her preferences in what constitutes suitable denim have changed.

Most of her jeans remain straight-legged or flared, which she maintains is appropriate if your body is “just ok”. Flowers emphasise her femininity, but also draw attention to her body. The cut of Baiyi’s denim enables her to be a grown woman, while still being a filial daughter. The history of her receiving the denim from her family represents a tacit approval of her choice by her parents, that has enabled her to expand the forms of denim she wears. The multiple forms of denim Baiyi owns suggest the fabric was instrumental in allowing this transformation of identity to occur.

Denim and the closeness of kinship

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The Dong families case, in common with that of other families in China illustrates two phenomena. First, denim has been particularly efficacious due to its ability to insert itself into traditional Chinese notions of nurturance (Stafford, 1995:80; Stafford, 2000) enabling Kunming parents and elder relatives to gift it to their children in the hope that the act would strengthen their kinship bonds, while simultaneously making their offspring’s lives fundamentally different from their own, coupled with an awareness that an alteration in material circumstances would be necessary to achieve such a change. But denim also provoked a ‘kinship gulf’ between children and their parents, one that parents now appeared keen to close, by purchasing and wearing denim of their own, though not without a degree of ambivalence. It is as if, having dispatched their offspring into the Brave New World, parents desired to follow in their progenies’ footsteps, to experience some of the materiality their offspring had. Ambivalence was best reflected by the amount of parents’ jeans lying inactive, in wardrobes. Thus, perhaps the most remarkable discovery about denim in Kunming at the turn of the century is that it was seen as a tool that could create generational disjuncture through the most traditional of means, and then later was hoped would provide the solution to remove this disjuncture.

This article is an extract from a forthcoming paper to be published in the journal Textile. To preserve informants’ anonymity, their names have been altered.

Bibliography

Sautman, B. (1998). Preferential policies for ethnic minorities in China: The case of Xinjiang. Nationalism and Ethnic Politics, 4(1), 86-118.
Stafford, C. (1995). The Roads of Chinese Childhood: Learning and Identification in Angang. Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press.
Stafford, C. (2000). Chinese patriliny and the cycles of yang and laiwang. In J. Carsten (Ed.), Cultures of Relatedness: New Approaches to the Study of Kinship (pp. 37-54). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

April 13, 2010

Gay Robot Fieldwork

By Kathleen Richardson
British Academy Postdoctoral Fellow,
Department of Anthropology,
University College London (UCL).

Once a friend said to me ‘I don’t mind if someone is gay, but I don’t want it rammed down my throat’ (whatever could he have meant???) I think what he meant was gay people who talk too much about being gay. Heterosexuals talk about being, well, straight, all the time. They talk about their engagements, husbands and wives, plans for children etc.. In fact, heterosexual people talk a lot about being heterosexual. You might not even be aware of how much straight people talk about being straight, but they do. When I was asked to write something for this blog, I wondered what information might be useful to share. On this occasion I want to write about being a gay anthropologist and how that has affected choices I’ve made in my anthropological career.

As an undergraduate I went to Costa Rica for my first fieldwork experience. I loved Costa Rica as a place, it was stimulating and exciting and my topic – indigenous rights – was at that time high on the agenda of the national government. As a place that fitted perfectly with my research topic, I could not have chosen better. However, I did find it difficult being a lesbian. The main problem was not being able to meet anyone – at the time of my travel there was only one gay bar in the capital (and my fieldwork was in a different part of the country). I think it useful to think about my own experience in relation to my other travelling companions. All three of us women, all three of us single, yet as time went on, my two travel companions met and began dating a tourist and a local, whilst there were no such opportunities for me. Another difficulty was disguising my sexuality. There are still many places in the world where being gay is still a crime and homosexuality is hidden, underground or there but invisible. I would not want to put off any gay anthropologist from travelling to these regions (and many do), because as an anthropologist you have to weight up the interest in your topic, with the kinds of problems you may experience being gay or lesbian (and I think the experience is also qualitatively different for gay men and lesbian women). Yet being gay puts a slightly different tinge on a situation. Being straight is such a normal part of life that it is really easy to see how my friend thought any mention of being gay was excessive, because if you are heterosexual it is so normal and unquestioned to talk about being straight. As a little experiment, try to go for one day, not mentioning to anyone your sexuality and if anyone asks play the pronoun game – say “them” or “they” instead of “he” or “she” and see how you get on. For me, when choosing graduate fieldwork I did not want the experience of being so isolated again for 18 months or so. The field can get very lonely at times, and if you are like many who are not lucky enough to have a partner or family travelling with you, you have to build your social relationships from scratch and one or more of these may become more intimate. When I was thinking about my PhD plan, I was thinking about my field as a place where I would have to build social relationships, and whether I was willing to make the sacrifice of hiding my sexuality from my interlocutors. But it wasn’t my sexuality that made me decide to go to Cambridge, MA in the United States (over my plan to go to Amazonia), but robots.

My initial plan was to conduct fieldwork in Amazonia exploring indigenous views of persons and things, but after watching the film AI: Artificial Intelligence (2001) directed by Steven Spielberg I decided to explore these themes in relation to robots. AI is about a relationship between a robot boy, David, and a couple whose child is ill and in a suspended state until his illness can be cured. In the interim the father, who works for a technology company, is chosen to host a robot child. This film then is an exploration of whether a human- more particularly the mother- could develop a relationship with a robot child. The fact that the robot David was given a child’s form was interesting, because when I began my fieldwork I realised how many robotic labs around the world actually do design their robots to look like children, or to be modelled on developmental psychology models. Moreover, forget the notion of the robot who is just built to work (the term robot is taken from the Slavic word robota – which means to work slavishly)- some robots are built now specifically to be social robots or companion robots. These robots might not actually “work” at all (like the robot Paro which is seal-like in its appearance and behaviours and is used amongst elderly people). And there are even some that speculate that robots and people will develop friendships and sexual relations (though in my view it is possible to have sex with just about anything, having a relationship with an artefact is something else altogether). Or it may be a realisation of the Iron Cage hypothesis by Max Weber where all sentiment is erased and replaced by calculation and contract where a substitute child or partner will do, one that you can switch off and on as you please, just like people can now switch on and off their TVs, cars and computers.

However, this shift in geographical area was qualitatively different for me as a gay woman, compared to my earlier experience in Costa Rica. Within a few weeks of arriving in the robotics lab at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) I started to realise that I didn’t need to keep my sexuality a secret and within a few weeks the whole lab knew. This was certainly interesting from an anthropological perspective, because prior to fieldwork I had read Stefan Helmreich’s Silicon Second Nature: Culturing Artificial Life in a Digital World, (1998) where he had raised issues of class, race and sexuality and emphasised that the scientists he met were ignorant of these issues in the artefacts they produced and the buildings and environment they worked in. Helreich paints a very different picture of computer scientists to the ones I met at MIT. MIT computer scientists and roboticists, at least, were politically liberal and to some extent were culturally sensitive, for example on one occasion when trying to decide the name for a robot they refused to give a religious name to a robot after reflecting it might offend people from the Hindi religion. These scientists too were cautious about assigning genders to their machines, were open to the idea of alternative ontologies and types of being and generally supportive of extending civil rights to gays (of course this was not true of everyone, but on the whole it definitely was the norm). During my time in the US, the debate about gay marriage was well underway, and many lab members joined me on the demonstrations that took place outside City Hall in Boston. Rather than find a community of scientists who weren’t alert to the social influences in their work, as Helmreich did, these roboticists very much were and I write about these issues in my PhD dissertation.

Robots for me were definitely the right choice for fieldwork. Robots have always fascinated me, since my first viewing of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927) as a 15 year old interested in radical politics. The rise of humanoids (from around the mid-1990s) have led to this becoming a growth area with now dozens and dozens of projects around the world building humanoid and social robots. This fundamental interest I have in the anthropology of robots, relationality and personhood has led me into even newer directions in my postdoctoral research. My current study is a look at what it means to be social, and a look at humanoid robots designed to help people with autism spectrum conditions (ASD). What is interesting about this research is that some researchers at the University of Hertfordshire found humanoid robots can seem to encourage children with ASD to interact with other adults and children, and having a robot in the room seemed to improve social behaviours that children with ASD find difficult. I am now running a psychology experiment designed by autism specialist psychologists to test if this hypothesis is true. I am acting as an experimental psychologist, roboticist and anthropologist all rolled into one. I hope this research will enable me to contribute to anthropological theorizing of the social.

Finally, because anthropological data collection relies on so much personal interaction with other people and the building of social relationships, who you are does matter (whether your gay, of a certain class, your sexuality and your gender and race), and it will matter in all kinds of configurations depending on where you go to do fieldwork and it may be relevant to think methodologically about these issues and ultimately you have to be passionate about your topic.

Good luck wherever your adventures might take you.

Kathleen Richardson
Kathleen.richardson@ucl.ac.uk
If you are interested in robots, or gay or lesbian, and embarking on fieldwork and have some issues you may want to discuss please get in touch.


References
AI: Artificial Intelligence (2001) Dir. Steven Spielberg

Metropolis (1927) Dir Fritz Lang

Paro Robot Seal - http://www.parorobots.com/

Lucy Tobin. March 10 2010. At home with the android family: work going on in Hatfield could create robot home helps – or even one day robot girlfriends and boyfriends. The Guardian Newspaper.

Helmreich, S. 1998. Silicon second nature: culturing artificial life in a digital world.
University of California Press: California.
Richardson, K. 2008. Annihilating Difference? Robots and Building Design at MIT. Unpublished dissertation. Cambridge University.
Weber, M. (2001). The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. Routledge Classics.

March 17, 2010

A MUSEUM WITHOUT A MUSEUM: RAMM'S REFURBISHMENT AND REBRANDING PROCESS

Ilke Kocamaz,
PhD Candidate
University of Exeter

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Malraux's concept of the "museum without walls" informed us about the museum as a concept or a construct that is not dependent on any particular place or time. It referred to the museumization processes in our modern societies, i.e. our streets, cities etc. becoming ever more museum-like. Today many museums are going under refurbishment and rebranding to fit themselves into the 21st century consumer culture. It is seemingly a time of crisis/opportunity for many of them because they have to lead the refurbishment processes without having to loose their customers. Times are fastening and refurbishments seem to eventually become a normal procedure that museums, just like many other basic institutions like banks or schools, will have to face every couple of years, if not more often. So, the museum seems to eventually have to literally be without walls. Museums are looking for immaterial ways of rebuilding themselves in the hope that they will be able to make necessary changes more often and with less burden.

Going under a huge refurbishment and rebranding process, the story of the RAMM tells us a lot about how a museum can literally work without walls. While being shut down, the museum takes its collections to many different interest groups and keeps its relationships up and running with them. The museum is becoming ever more immaterial, using the Internet and other technological sources and extending its boundaries to become a global player. The museum is using the refurbishment process as an opportunity to come together with many people from around the world, not being restricted to the people from Exeter (even though it has initially been built up as a local museum). Some staff members say that the refurbishment process itself
has brought them together to work in a single office where they can see and interact with each other and form a renewed sense of unity.

March 9, 2010

Genealogies Of Garbage: Historical Meanings and Practices of Garbage and their Impacts on Trash Activism Today

Max Liboiron, PhD Candidate
Department of Media, Culture and Communication
New York University
max.liboiron@nyu.edu
www.maxliboiron.com

We are facing a garbage crisis. From nuclear waste with a ten-thousand year half-life, to the persistent organic pollutants found in the breast milk of women living in the Arctic, to the billions upon billions of tiny plastic bits in the Pacific gyre, “garbage”—the unwanted detritus of industrial production and consumption— has taken on an unwieldy form.

Yet we have been here before. At least two other moments in the past two centuries in the United States have faced a similar “crisis of containment,” where garbage not
only seemed unimaginably foreign and dangerous to everyday sensibilities, but communicating these hazards and eliciting organized participation to prevent their spread also appeared impracticable. The first was in the late nineteenth century during the sanitation reform movement, and the other launched the popular environmental movement in the 1960s. In each case, the meanings and understandings (ontologies) of garbage were revolutionized, leading to practices and knowledge (epistemologies) unimaginable a decade earlier.

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New York City street before and after George Waring, Commissioner for Street Cleaning (1895), revolutionized sanitation practices and accomplished what was thought to be an impossible task.

I argue that whatever instigates such transformations leaves its trace on subsequent reasoning concerning what “garbage” is, how it affects people and the environment, and what can and should be done about it. The historical meanings of “garbage” constrain, compel, and otherwise influence trash activism today. The first section of my dissertation will construct a Foucaultian “history of the present” to examine how a concrete object called “garbage” has congealed in particular ways at particular times. While some scholarship describes how certain objects have moved into or out of the category of trash, such as recyclables or antiques, and others have researched the municipal sanitation reform movement, I argue that the category of trash itself has not been stable or continuous over time, and that changes in the category of garbage result in profound changes in trash activism.

The first chapter of my dissertation looks at American eastern coastal cities between 1840 and 1880, from the publication of the first health survey in New York to the beginning of the sanitation reform movement. I hypothesize that the health surveys of the 1840s and 60s that located, mapped, and defined garbage and its effects, as well as other “accounting” measures developed in the period, allowed garbage to cohere into an entity that was functionally homogenous despite its acknowledged varied material make up. This allowed it to be identified and productively controlled–that is, contained— for the first time in history. While there were kitchen scraps and ashes, old shoes and horse manure littering the streets before this time, these objects all had different values, levels of “nuisance,” and destinations. I hypothesize that the health surveys and their classification methods organized the ontology of garbage into something that could be readily identified by the public, feared, and rhetorically evoked to rally public action, resulting in new epistemologies and regimes of management and control. In effect, I hypothesize that garbage as we know it today was “invented” in this period.

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Title page for second sanitation/health survey of New York City, 1866.

My second chapter will investigate the “paradigm of pollution” that developed during the 1950s and 60s. In this case, a distrust of Big Industry and Big Science, the rhetoric of the Cold War, including nuclear weapon and waste protests, the publication of Rachael Carson’s Silent Spring, and a permanent, visible plethora of non-biodegradable “disposables” radically challenged what garbage was, how it polluted, and what could and ought to be done about it compared to how it was conceived of at the turn of the century. This was the second trash crisis of containment.

A crisis of containment is the result of garbage systematically exceeding, breaking down, or permeating not only material boundaries, but more importantly, social limits and control. The breech of social norms is what creates the impetus for change, even though the crisis focuses on material objects. In the nineteenth century, garbage newly signified both the threat of cholera and immigrant rebellion during a period of mass urbanization and immigration. In the 1950s and 60s, chemical modes of pollution and contamination were “discovered” as the globalization of industrial capitalism began to threaten ecosystems on unprecedented scales. Thus, by studying the time just before successful national trash activism, I am studying the conditions of possibility that allowed garbage to be diagnosed, located, categorized, and managed during previous crises of containment. My subject is the social stakes, communication strategies and cultural interpretations that launched these successful social movements.

Unquestionably, I am framing these garbage crises as social crises and not merely crises caused by an abundance of a certain type of material (garbage) and its attendant technical problems (how to get rid of it). During a crisis of containment, the management, dangers, and very character of everyday garbage are defamiliarized as threat, transformed into something new, and then naturalized as part of that crisis’ strategies and solution. I have chosen the sanitation reform movement and the birth of the popular environmental movement rather than, for example, the New York City garbage strike in 1917 or the national landfill crisis during the 1980s, because the latter were crises of accumulation and intensification; garbage itself was not ontologically or epistemologically challenged during these times, and as such were not crises of containment as I am using the term.

A crisis of containment is failing to take place today; the material transgressions of garbage are not matched by transgressions of social norms or limits. My dissertation is a historical genealogy that will investigate the conditions that redefined “garbage” during these two previous moments of revolutionary trash activism, and compare them to the problems faced and tactics used by trash activists in the twenty-first century.

What are the social, cultural, and material conditions that allow garbage to cohere into one type of object and threat during a particular moment in time? In other words, why are certain types of garbage and trash activism legible and possible at a given moment, and others not? Secondly, how does "the historical awareness of our present circumstance" affect what and how we know about garbage and how we deal with it today? How can we “update” ideas about garbage to create new forms and paradigms of trash activism?

February 7, 2010

`Fas’ book (Facebook) in Trinidad

Daniel Miller, UCL

I have always been drawn to anthropological research I never intended to undertake, but just couldn’t help myself. I am writing this towards the end of a period of fieldwork in Trinidad. I am here with Mirca Madianou to study the way new media impact upon transnational relationships in comparison with research undertaken last year in the Philippines which we are working up as a book, probably to be called Distant Parenting. But I just know that I wont be able to stop myself writing at least some papers if not a book about Facebook in Trinidad, because the country seems in the grip of something like a Facebook frenzy which I seem to have been increasingly researching as the fieldwork progresses. To be `Fas’ in Trinidad is to be too quickly into someone else’s business another related word is Maco, that is to view others peoples private business and Facebook is also called Maco book. Since this is seen as a national characteristic leading to the disorder of bacchanal there is a general feeling that Facebook was invented to exacerbate the very nature of being Trinidadian. Indeed as consistent with my previous work I now see Facebook as something invented by Trinidadians. As it happens the word Friending or to Friend is also a common traditional expression in Trinidad unfortunately it meant to have sex with, I am not quite sure about the implications of that particular semantic juxtaposition.

What makes Facebook a natural topic of enquiry is its ubiquity in the country resonating with the anthropological sensibility towards the holistic. It has been important in galvanising the response to the recent catastrophe of fellow Caribbeans in Haiti, as well as in more local politics. It is at the heart of our intended topic of transnational relationships but equally in the reinvigorisation of specifically Trinidadian identity. It provides considerable insights into traditional topics such as the nature of community and family, with a marked effect on both. It may be used for religious expression, and is a common way to conduct business and economic transactions. As such the given literature on the social networks which tended to presume that their early use, mainly for student sociality, was also their given property, is only a very partial insight into the nature of Facebook as it establishes itself as a global phenomenon. Actually the topic had already arisen in our previous work in the Philippines and we had submitted a journal publication called `Should you accept a mother’s friends request?’ which looks at the clash between two networks that, of kinship and peergroup, (not yet heard if this was accepted). But already it is evident that Facebook is becoming so much more than networking.

Let me end with one particular characteristic of Facebook that demonstrates its particular relevance to material and visual culture. In the previous paper we hasd discussed the issue of making relationships visible as an extension of theoretical discussion by Marilyn Strathern. I had also been made aware of the consequences of relationship breakup for deactivation in research work by the anthropologist Ilana Gershon. But here in Trinidad the concern is not only with the consequences of breakup but with the way the very visibility of one’s partners other relationships makes it harder to sustain relationships. For example in an interview yesterday a young woman talked of four of her friends relationships she was convinced had ended almost entirely because of this effect of being on Facebook. This is just one of many instances where at least Trinidadians are convinced that the technology in and of itself is changing what it means to be Trinidadian. Something I am hoping to give time to think about more deeply over the next few months.

January 19, 2010

“Everyday Practices and Representations of Domestic Space” Santiago - Chile 1930-1960”

Francisca Pérez
PHD. Program Architecture and Urban Studies
Pontificia Universidad Católica de Chile

fperez1@uc.cl


“A place dwelt in by the same person over a period of time becomes a portrait unto itself, through the objects (present or absent) and the uses that they suppose…” (De Certeau y Giard, 1999).

Domesticity defined as an interdisciplinary field of study of social space traditionally linked with the house, home and everyday life implies the analysis of daily practices, discourses and images that produce and reproduce it in time (Cieraad; 2000; Blunt y Dowling 2006) .

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Within this focus my research tries to outline some interpretative elements in the construction of domesticity in Santiago –Chile between 1930-1960. On the one hand, the research approaches the everyday practices of domesticity in the context of Santiago elite, taking the historical perspective of inhabitants of the first garden suburb called Barrio El Golf. This suburb was inaugurated in the 30’s and represented the definitive abandonment of the city centre by the elite in favor of a new suburban family and domestic way of life (Fishman, 1987, Sennett 1975). The suburban process as a historically situated phenomenon, produced a specific domesticity that spread as one of the central elements of western culture. In this way, we can link suburbanization, with a particular moment of domesticity, in which emerges new imaginaries of living at home (Mumford; 1979; 641).

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On the other hand, the research includes the analysis of discourses and images within the social imaginaries of the period, present in the weekly women’s magazines that proliferate from the beginning of the 20th century, and in institutional publications that reproduced an official discourse about home. In this way, the research connects an analysis ofthe specificity of the elite within the frame of a suburban ideal with a more general reflection about the social meanings of domesticity that circulated in that period.

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From this juxtaposition the research tries to identify the particular meanings that domesticity takes within a process of modernization of urban life that begins in the early twentieth century and represents both certain continuities and breaks with a more traditional meaning of domesticity linked to the values of family and home along with patterns in the use of domestic space that were deeply rooted in earlier Chilean society.

January 5, 2010

Visualizing the New Utopians: The Transition Network as a Visual Community

Jane Dickson Mphil/PhD student UCL


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Images do more than represent. They are also material artifacts which have social, economic and political effects. They help people to make sense of the world, develop their ongoing biographies and enable and encourage the formation of subjectivities. These processes are evident in the Transition network, a fast-growing organisation which encourages community based responses to the environmental challenges of climate change and peak oil. Transition Initiatives run community building projects aimed at powering-down, localism, resilience and re-skilling; not just for a carbon-neutral future, but for a transformative, Utopian future. The Utopian vision is of a post-oil, zero-carbon, agrarian, socially just, pre-industrial type of lifestyle (Hopkins:2008).

The model of Transition has so far been taken up by more than 200 official Initiatives, with many more in the initial stages. These include forests, villages, universities, and islands, hence the name change from Transition Towns to Movement to network over the four years since its inception. The network emerged from the deep ecology movement, which promotes a “consciousness of identification with the non-human world” where humans and ecosystems are accorded equal status (Dobson 2007:40). The structure and principles come from Permaculture which is the combination of permanent agriculture and permanent culture coined by Bill Mollison and David Holmgren in the mid-1970s. Permaculture developed as a system of “consciously designed landscapes which mimic the patterns and relationships found in nature, while yielding an abundance of food, fibre, and energy for provision of local needs” (Holmgren 2003:xix). Holmgren's design principles which include: valuing renewable resources, designing from patterns to details and creatively using change, have been foundational to Transitioners (Holmgren:2007). The model also relies heavily on the work of Joanna Macy, an eco-psychologist, for its guiding principles on the psychology of change.

By situating the Transition network as a visual community, this research argues that the network is produced by, organized by and productive of the visual. MacDougall's insistence on images as “constituents of knowledge,” opens up the way that visual anthropology can produce new and different kinds of knowledge from written and discursive knowledges (2006:5). The network attracts and educates members through regular film showings followed by discussion groups. These include titles such as The Age of Stupid and The End of Suburbia. Regular members are encouraged to participate in collective creative visualization exercises in order to envision the future post-oil Utopia. These visions are used as the inspiration to produce material artefacts such as the 'Timeline' and the 'Energy Descent Action Plan'. These are documents which outline the targets and actions to be undertaken to transition to the post-oil future. In addition, members use social networking sites extensively, not only to organise but to share their visual products; everything from gardening projects to how to introduce and promote a local currency. In addition, the production and reception of the internally produced film In Transition was an important landmark for the network, and to which I was lucky enough to gain access.

The work of Edwards and Gell have been particularly influential to this study. By examining the materiality of images it can be seen how the visual both “stops agency” and allows it to continue flowing in different and multiple directions (Gell:1998). In addition, by using theories of processual subjectivity formation and the methodology of examining how the visual operates in circuits to co-produce “complexes of subjectification” this agency and its effects have been traced (Guattari 1995:7).

The Transition network is only four years old and has attracted many thousands of members country and world wide. Often people report that what attracts them to Transition is the move away from oppositional activism (although activism is not discouraged) towards a solutions based reconstruction of society. This ideal of geographically located community really becomes the heart of Transition. Transitioners are seeking what Heidegger referred to as 'dwelling', where there exists a harmony and integration between persons and location which does not destroy the 'essence' of either and which leads to nurturing and gives life meaning (1978:327-328).

Dobson, A. 2007. Green political thought. London: Routledge.

Edwards, E. & Hart, J. 2004. Photographs objects histories: On the materiality of images. London: Routledge.

Gell, A. 1998. Art and agency. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Guattari, F. 1995. Chaosmosis: An ethico-esthetic paradigm (trans. P. Bains and J. Pefanis), Bloomington: Indiana University press.

Heidegger, M. 1978. Building dwelling thinking. In Basic writings: From being and Time (1927) to the task of thinking (1964). (ed.) D. F. Krell, 323-339. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

Holmgren, D. 2007. Design principles (available on-line: http://permacultureprinciples.com/principles.php)

... 2003. Permaculture: Principles and pathways beyond sustainability. Cambridge: Holmgren Design Press.

Hopkins, R.2008. The Transition handbook: From oil dependency to local resilience. Totnes, Devon: Green Books LTD.

MacDougall, D. 2006. The corporeal image: Film, ethnography, and the senses. Princeton, NJ.: Princeton University Press.


Films:

In Transition 1.0. Forthcoming: Dec. 2009. Emma Goude, (dir.) 50 min. Colour.

The age of stupid. 2009. Fanny Armstrong, (dir.) 92 min. Colour. Distributed by Dogwood Pictures.

The end of suburbia: Oil depletion and the collapse of the American dream. 2004. Gregory Greene, (dir.) 78 min. Colour. Distributed by The Electric Wallpaper Company.

November 29, 2009

Contested Futures: Research into the Material Culture of Cemeteries

Maren Deepwell-Kurz, Department of Anthropology, UCL

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This research is focused on the material culture of cemeteries, from architectural structures and monuments, to tombs, coffins and funeral paraphernalia. The main fieldwork site was West Norwood Cemetery, which is located in South London. This Victorian cemetery has the largest number of individually listed monuments of any cemetery in the UK and thus represents a unique opportunity to study the role of heritage and conservation practices in the context of cemeteryscapes.

Working together with professionals from the funeral industry, cemetery staff, volunteers, mourners and members of the general public my research explores the meaning of Victorian cemeteries in contemporary society and questions the way in which they may develop in future. This led me to research new and emerging cemetery architecture, disposal methods and burial cultures.

One of the most fascinating aspects of the project is the way in which people and their practices are connected to the cemetery via means of production and consumption, ownership, professional and personal practices or by social relationships. Thus a single cemetery can have material and social connections throughout a network of communities all over the country.

Bringing together those individuals who have contributed so much to the project and providing a platform for some of the information and insights which could not be included in my thesis, a new collaborative blog called Cemeteryscapes allows information about funeral museums, coffin exhibitions and heritage practices as well as many other topics to be made available as an online resource.

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For more information or to contribute a post, visit
http://cemeteryscapes.blogspot.com

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November 6, 2009

Manila, Tel Aviv and back

Claudia Liebelt
Research Institute for Law, Politics & Justice, Keele University


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Living room decoration in the home of a Filipino family, whose grown up daughter left to work in Israel

In recent years, consumption and possessions have been recognised as important themes in migration studies. The short history of migration between the Philippines and Israel has indeed produced a rich material culture of its own, with fascinating stories yet to be told. Since Israel started to recruit Filipina care workers in large numbers in 1995, numerous objects have travelled back and forth, while many were created along the way. Within this process, these objects have changed their meanings and transformed their functions. In both countries, they now mark the homes of those who travelled, as well as the homes of their loved ones, employers, and neighbours. In Manila and Tel Aviv, the respective cultural centres, they have entered the public space, sometimes visible only for those, who themselves have travelled.
Rather than providing a complete account or thorough investigation, this essay highlights some stories and material objects of migration from the Philippines to Israel and back, as well as the social space between them.

Altars
Given the fact that most airlines provide only about twenty to thirty kilogramm of baggage allowance on flights between Manila and Tel Aviv, there’s not much one can carry either way. However, Filipinos travelling in between Tel Aviv and Manila typically have their suitcases filled not with objects destined for their own use, but with commodities to be sold, things to be consumed with relatives or friends at the place they travel to, as well as gifts to deliver. Lots of gifts. Even if they have never been to Israel before, they are likely to have former neighbours, classmates, or relatives who left ahead of them and who will now wait for their arrival, as well as for the arrival of the Filipino food, much cheaper sandals or whitening creams they ordered to be brought along from the Philippines.

This is why one has to really set priorities in choosing what to take to Israel from among one’s own objects. So what, apart from some clothes (many of them gifts, too…) and pictures of loved ones in the Philippines could be more important than objects, which will protect and bless you on this journey to a far away land?

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Catholic Altar in the shared flat of Filipinos in Tel Aviv, Israel

Being predominantly Catholic, most Filipina migrants on their way to work as carers in Israel carry along little devotional objects, that is prayer books, icons, or figures from the shrines they visited before leaving. Most importantly perhaps items from the shrine of Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage in Antipolo, which for so long has protected the colonial galleon trade between the Philippines and Mexico and nowadays blesses the many Filipinos, who visit it before setting off for work abroad. Sometimes also brought along is an icon of Saint Lorenzo Ruiz, the first and only Filipino Catholic Saint, who until recently was rather unheard of in Israel’s few Catholic Churches, but now even has fiestas being celebrated in his honour. These objects are put onto altars, which Catholic Filipino newcomers to Israel set up as soon as they manage to have a place of their own - typically a bed space in a shared flat with other Filipino care workers to be used on their one day off work. As they stay on, these altars increasingly bear witness to their devotees’ religious journeys and spiritual endeavours, not only in the Philippines, but in Israel as well.

Back in the Philippines, house altars too are being transformed in the process of migration: they come to include Virgin Mary icons from Nazareth, bottled water from the Jordan River, as well as rosaries, crosses, figures and candles from the ‘Holy Land’.

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A large Santo Niño figure and devotional objects from Israel set up on the home altar of a Catholic migrant to Israel in the Philippines


Balikbayan boxes
Perhaps the most prototypical object of Filipino migration is the balikbayan box. Created in the early 1970s by the Philippine dictator Marcos, the term balikbayan (Filipino, literally ‘homecomers’) was intended to strengthen ties between the Philippines and its diaspora by stimulating the economic support and financial investment of overseas Filipinos in their economically weak ‘motherland’. Filipino migrants all over the world were (and still are) encouraged to send gift boxes free of duty up to a value of $1,000 to the Philippines. In Israel, balikbayan boxes can be found in practically every shared (weekend) apartment of Filipinos, often half packed, since things may be collected over long periods of time.

Gina’s balikbayan box seen on the picture, contains packages of salt, sugar, pasta, corned beef, Israeli instant coffee and tea, as well as six video cassettes, four on ‘The Holy Land of the Bible’ and two on the life of Mother Teresa. As in other balikbayan boxes, a great deal of space is taken up by hand-me-down clothing Gina received from her employer’s extended family. In her case these include baby clothes, even though there are no small children in her family in the Philippines. In addition, she sends a TV set to her father, bought second hand for US$65 in Tel Aviv.

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Gina’s balikbayan box, Tel Aviv, Israel

The foodstuffs frequently sent from Israel in other boxes comprise food that, in the Philippines, is commonly associated with the Middle East, like dates or ‘Arab’ sweets, as well as food that migrants have become used to in Israel, but which are uncommon in the Philippines, for example mixed pickles. As in Gina’s case, balikbayan boxes contain objects that migrants are expected to send (the corned beef; even though these might be more expensive in Israel than in the Philippines), gifts in the more classical sense, and things that help family members have a picture of life in Israel. And, of course, there are the many ‘Holy Land’ souvenirs: seven-armed chandeliers, ‘Holy Land’ calendars, place-sets, rosaries, Christian DVDs and video tapes…

Each balikbayan box allows deep insights into and understandings of the varying degrees of social status, prosperity, misery, insecurities and tastes of both the senders and the recipients. Some migrants explained that the content of their boxes provided substantial support for their families, who were otherwise unable to buy clothes or ‘extravagant’ food like dates or sweets. One Filipina interviewee, Marian, whose extended family lived in a Manilan slum-like neighbourhood in nearly complete dependency on money remittances sent by family members from overseas, jokingly remarked that, due to her balikbayan boxes, which she filled with her affluent employers’ second-hand clothes, ‘they still can’t afford a warm meal three times a day, but at least they wear Prada and Gucci’.


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Origami paper swan in an Israeli living room in Kibbutz Ein Gedi, Israel

Origami Paper Swans
If there is one single object, which in Israel signifies the immigration of Filpina women for the care of the elderly, it is an origami paper swan. Origami paper swans have conquered Israel in all sizes, shapes and colours: They adorn book shelves in the living rooms of children of elderly cared for by Filipina migrants, as well as desks of Ministry of Interiour officials, who decide about Filipinos’ permits of residence and employment; they are used to collect the tip on counters of Tel Aviv’s many bars and coffee houses, and, displayed in shop-windows, signal that Filipino customers are welcome. Crafted out of the pages of old magazines, the swans are fabricated by Filipina care workers during their often tedious working hours with the elderly in private homes.

It is important to note that in the Philippines, I have never seen an origami paper swan. In Israel, they were introduced by those Filipinas, who worked in Taiwan and Korea before coming to the ‘Holy Land,’ Filipino friends told me. They learned to do origami in these countries and introduced it here in Israel, they said. Initially given away as small gift in appreciation for favours, Israeli residents, citizens and migrants alike, have deeply fallen in love with these paper birds. Accordingly, more and more carers have learnt to craft them, and nowadays, on Sundays, Filipinos’ only day off work, in front of the Tel Aviv central bus station, you can even buy them.

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Paper swans and other objects for sale in front of the Tel Aviv central bus station]


7%20cliebelt.jpg Origami paper swan beside the Philippines National flag in a jewellery shop in the Old City of Jerusalem, Israel

Things Israeli in the Philippines
As a country where about ten percent of the population live and work abroad and practically every family is affected by migration, objects that are an outcome of migration are highly visible in the Philippines: houses built from overseas remittances, cars acquired through contract work abroad or motor bikes and buses financed by those, who left. The houses of migrants to Israel may have the star of David on their gates or sport large open kitchens, as they have become fashionable in the new building in Israel, where the Filipina carer worked. Buses financed by these migrants may bear names like ‘The Holy Land’, ‘Jerusalem’, ‘Manila Tel Aviv’ or even, seen once in Baguio, ‘Kibbuts Shiller’, named after a communal settlement in central Israel, which employs several Filipina carers.


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A washing machine imported from Israel, used as a commode in the home of a return migrant in the Philippines

Then, there are the many small, less spectacular objects of migration in returnees’ homes. There are home appliances one has become used to working with in the Israeli households one was employed in. There are the many ‘Holy Land’ posters and pictures of celebrations and gatherings with co-Filipina workers in diaspora. There are washing machines imported from Israel, for example, which have not even been unpacked, because the local water and electricity supply turned out to be insufficient for their use. In the house of Romelyn, located in a picturesque valley in the Philippines Mountain Province, I spotted bed sheets from the Israeli Tel HaShomer hospital turned into curtains. While the Hebrew inscription ‘Medical Centre Tel HaShomer’ in between ornamental flowers was unreadable for Romelyn as well as for most of her visitors, the bed sheets were revealed to serve as both souvenir and trophy.


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Romelyn in her home in the Philippines Mountain Province two years after her return from Israel]

Curious about their story, I asked Romelyn about it. After almost five years in Israel, she told me, the elderly woman she had been employed to take care of, was referred to the Tel HaShomer hospital near Tel Aviv. Romelyn accompanied her and stayed beside her bed during what turned out to be her employers’ last two weeks. Out of feelings of responsibiliy and compassion, Romelyn continued to be with her, washed her, fed her, sleeping on a chair beside her bed, in spite of the rudeness of the Israeli nurses, who repeatedly told her to leave. After her employer died, and Romelyn was forced to return to the Philippines within days due to the expiration of her work permit and in spite of her own grief, the bed sheets her employer had rested on were the last thing within Romelyn’s reach to remain of her. But, so she tells me with a smirk upon my visit two years after she returned from Israel, she too took them to revenge the nurses’ nastiness.

The objects in returnees’ homes therefore tell stories not only of the success, but of the nostalgia, the happiness and suffering, and very typically the ambivalences and paradoxes of migration.

see the AHRC Footsteps Project,
http://www.keele.ac.uk/research/lpj/SOCPOR/AHRC/index.htm

November 2, 2009

Will Matrimonial Websites Transform the Traditional Norms of Indian Marriage?

Parul Bhandari, PhD student,
Dept. of Sociology, (PPSIS), Univ. of Cambridge

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A typical Indian-wedding envelope given to the bride and groom by the
guests, carrying a certain sum of money as a token of their happiness and blessings for the newly weds

Indian society has in the past decade witnessed a proliferation of matrimonial websites each of which have 10 to 12 million users registered with them. These websites seemed to be an interesting topic of research as it could help investigate whether the Internet has led to a transformation of marriage practices and processes in India displaying a move from the traditional patterns to more individualistic ones (or the new and ‘modern’ ones). Keeping in mind its pertinence to the ‘changing’ and ‘transforming’ nature of the Indian society this research topic formed my thesis for the MPhil programme completed in June 2009.

The focus of this study was both on the offline and the online. In the offline context the opinions and practices of the registered users and their family were examined to understand the extent of the traditional hold in their marriage preferences and the consequent impact on the consumption of the matrimonial websites, and in the online context, the ways in which matrimonial websites feed into and become embedded in the cultural practices of Indian society was investigated.

As one enters the home page of these websites, the users are presented with various options that qualify the ‘search’ of their prospective spouses. The primary search option is of religion followed by region (or language). Once a specific religion is chosen then the option of castes and sub-castes within that religion is also provided to the users. Other attributes such as specific physical, educational and professional qualification are also a few criterion in the search however it is the religious, caste and/or region attributes that form the primary requirements in the search of profiles. While ‘searching’ for profiles and making one’s own profile, the websites do provide the options of ‘any religion’ and ‘caste no bar’ however, these are not used very often and this clearly reflects that the registered users are satisfied with the hierarchicisation of the attributes wherein the religious and caste qualifications take the primary spot in search for prospective spouses.

One of the other most important traditional norms associated with Indian marriage is the role of the family in the selection of a spouse. This role, contrary to many assumptions, is very much prevalent even in the internet matrimonial matchmaking and becomes evident as along with the space for display of information on the ‘self’, ample space is provided by the website for information on the family of the user. Thus, the profile carries information not only about the attributes of the registered user’s (religious, physical and others) but also provides an in depth description of his/her family such as number of siblings, their occupation, parents’ occupation and most importantly their ideal choice of a spouse for their son/daughter/brother/sister.

It is assumed that the internet facilitates a tilt towards ‘love’ marriages since more private communication through e-mailing, and chatting can lead to spouse-selection on the grounds of compatibility, the ‘connection’, intimacy and so on. While this assumption holds true it is important to understand that the screening process involved in the short-listing of profiles is governed by the more traditional norms of Indian marriage that give importance to the religious, caste-based and regional backgrounds of the prospective spouses and the opinion, wants and wishes of the family in the entire process of selection and decision-making. The research suggests that the presumption that the Internet can alter the traditional framework of the Indian marriage system is erroneous and in fact the research empirically concludes that many of the traditional aspects are strongly prevalent and even accentuated by the Internet.

October 29, 2009

Al-Hima, A Way of Being

Hala Kilani (MA student UCL)

"From society to society people know how to use their bodies,"
Marcel Mauss (2006:78)


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Hima is a traditional system of management and conservation of natural resources practiced by tribes in the Arabian Peninsula since more than 1400 years.

The term hima literally means in Arabic a protected place or protected area. For rural communities living in the Arab world, the term holds connotations that appeal to their collective memory and hence when evoked, the term is not only readily recognized as familiar but also valued and triggers an air of acceptance and ease among communities living anywhere in the Arabian Peninsula or Arab Middle East.

Drawing on the actor-network theoretical framework, particularly the work of Bruno Latour and Marcel Mauss as well as fieldwork in six hima sites in southern Saudi Arabia, this dissertation demonstrated that the processes involving embodied knowledge resulted in a particularly female gendered anthropomorphosis in line with the nature-woman allegory (MacCormack and Strathern 1980). Himas transformed into a family member, a powerful actor in a kin-dominant society. It played part in social relations, in a network binding people and this landscape tightly by notions of place, identity, emotions, ethnicity and religion.

Their protection is equated to the protection from violation (sexual) reserved to women in these conservative rural Arab societies. This is why their violation is insulting to one's honour.

Ali Duwayli'i from hima Humayd illustrates this passionately: "The value of the hima to me is the same as the value of my sister or my daughter, it is my honour, I won't let anyone violate it, I will protect it like I would protect my daughter or my sister".

Culturally there are parallels to this linguistically in terms referring to conservation institutions and prohibitions rooted in Islamic legislation. The word haram means wife and at the same time a sanctified inviolable zone such as haram Makkah and haram Madina. In the same vein, harām or moharram means prohibited and harim zones are greenbelts and easements - whatever is near developed land and pertains to its well-being, such as its pathways and watercourse, its rubbish dump, its square etc." (Llewellyn 2003:20) considered in Islamic law as other forms of protected public areas - and the word harim is at the same time the plural of horma, which means a woman that is prohibited to anyone else other than her man (husband).

These similarity and double meaning further the unconscious cultural links between himas and women, the gendered anthropomorphosis and the deeply felt insult of the violation of himas, which seems to have been expressed in language and has now become seemingly trivial. The act of entering one's protected own, his hima is almost equivalent to a non-accepted sexual penetration perpetrated on a sister, a daughter or wife.

Beyond mirroring the tribe and its social structure and objectifying identity, honour and pride, himas played an active part in forming social relations through discipline, laws, alliances, religion, punitive sanctions, relations with other tribes and alliances. As the main body of material culture for the tribes of Arabia, in a cycle of reciprocal maintenance, the himas maintained the tribe and the tribe maintained the himas throughout centuries.

Himas are like Latour's Berlin key at the same time strong and fragile (Latour in Graves-Brown 2000). The discovery of oil and the sudden modernization in recent history resulted in their substitution by another material culture. This situation along with cultural colonialism and political forces acted on this social network and disintegrated kin ties, in which himas are an important link.

Disconnectedness between inhabitants of the region and their natural environment ensued and the creation of Latour's much criticized "mind-in-a-vat" (Latour 1999) situation in the praxis of nature conservation followed.

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This indigenous knowledge, along with the himas themselves are now reduced to a form of intangible cultural heritage running the serious threat of disappearance, a threat driven by the change in technological practices and political forces.

However, this dissertation questioned the possible disappearance of this system based on observations in the field that support the argument that not only would the anthropomorphosis and the emotional bonds forged between himas and their long term custodians prevent their disappearance but also based on Alfred Gell's theory himas are works of art, the distributed consciousness of the ancestors, the embodied knowledge of which, enchant a wide community of scientists and nature conservation professionals (Gell 1998). To both these groups and even to the anti-tribal structures in Saudi Arabia, himas will remain as they hold value and are powerful actors by being there, if only at the centre of a live debate.

However, threatening or not, himas are part of the chain of associations. Ignoring hem will not change this and neither will destroying them because they can exist as a concept in the immaterial realm. Ignoring them would be as dangerous as ignoring any other part of the chain: the government, religion, conservationists, modernity etc.

Latour taught us that none of the parties in the debate are right to negate or destroy the other links of the network. The only way is to accept the new elements, such as modernity that were introduced to the chain and which propelled it to another dimension. The only way is to accept that we live in a hybrid world and to work towards the connections because in the long run, the destruction of one link will lead to the annihilation of the entire network.

Continue reading "Al-Hima, A Way of Being" »

October 11, 2009

Hackers, liberalism and pleasure

Gabriella Coleman, Department of Media, Culture, & Communication, NYU

Most generally, my work entertains the formation of counter-expertise among technologists (programmers and hackers) and patient advocates largely, but not exclusively, in the context of virtual interactions. Since most of my completed work is on geeks and hackers who write Free and Open Source software, such as the Linux operating system, the rest of the post will focus on completed research, publications, and a manuscript I am writing on the topic: Coding Freedom: Hacker Ethics and Pleasure.

First a word about hacking, which tends to immediately raise eyebrows and stereotypes perpetuated by the media (and at times by hackers themselves):

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Generally a hacker is a technologist with a love for computing and a hack is a clever technical solution arrived through a non-obvious means (or alternatively it can mean a downright clunky and ugly solution, one, however, that gets the job at hand done). Hackers tend to uphold a value for freedom, privacy, and access; they tend to adore computers—the cultural glue that binds them together; they are trained in highly specialized and technical esoteric arts, including programing, system administration, and security research; some gain unauthorized access to technologies, though the degree of illegality greatly varies (and most of hacking is completely legal); they tend to value playfulness and cleverness and will take most any opportunity to perform their wit through code or humor or even both: funny code.

Once one confronts the fuller, social dimensions of hacking, this shared plane of material and ideological existence melts into a sea of difference and variations, one variation being Free and Open Source Software. Other variations have focused on cryptography and privacy, for example. Most famously, the “hacker underground” has brought into being a politics of transgression by seeking forbidden fruit—and it is this variant that has received the lion's share of media attention.

Most of my work has concentrated on Free and Open Source software, a techno-social movement centered around making the underlying directions of software, source code, legally accessible via novel licensing schemes, most famously the GNU General Public License. Following an anthropological tradition that examines the linkages between the online and offline world, much of my work has examined how hackers have exposed central contradictions in the liberal tradition, notably between intellectual property and free speech, in large part by remaking liberal values into their own technical vernacular. I have explored this in depth in a number of publications, most recently a piece that examines the coupling between source code and free speech as it occurs in the context of software development and political protest.

Another thread in my work entertains the pleasures of hacking and thus pays close attention to the material and affective stances of hacking/programming. Since I have published less on this material, I will spend a little more time on this theme here. In its more commonplace form, hacker pleasure approximates the Aristotelian theory of eudaimonia described by philosopher Martha Nussbaum “the unimpeded performance of the activities that constitute happiness.” In pushing their personal capacities and technologies to new horizons, hackers experience the joy of that follows from the self-directed realization of skills, goals, and talents—more often than not achieved through computing technologies—and is a form of happiness that is evident in other forms of crafting.

Hacker pleasure, however, is not always so staid; it far exceeds the eudamonic pride of crafting. Less occasionally, hackers experience a more obsessive and blissful state. In native hack-jargon, the state of bliss is “Deep-Hack Mode.” Matt Welsh, a well-known hacker and computer scientist, humorously describes the utter magnetism of this mode, “...very few phenomena can pull someone out of Deep Hack Mode, with two noted exceptions: being struck by lightning, or worse, your *computer* being struck by lightning.”

One cultural vessel by which I analyze the pleasures of hacking is humor, which was quite pervasive during the course of my fieldwork. I encountered it over dinner with geeks in San Francisco, all the time online during Internet Relay Chats (IRC), and during the festive conferences—the hacker cons—that hackers organize and attend (and sometimes hack until they drop):

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To put it simply, humor is pleasure and play made socially material/tangible and also reveals and attenuates all sorts of contradictions in the world of hacking, especially between individualism and collectivism. Humor—a punctuated, performative, and self-grounding expression of wit—is also a distilled instantiation of the hacker cultural adoration for cleverness. It is a particularly effective way of enacting their commitment to cleverness precisely because, unlike the objects of hacker technical production, joking has no strict functional utility and speaks of the inherent appeal of creativity and cleverness for their very own sake. Joking is a self-referential exercise that designates the joker as an intelligent person and cleverness as autonomously valuable.

To wrap up, discussing hacking in terms of liberalism and pleasure might seem implausible or even a contrived imposition. Presenting them together gets us much closer to what makes this site of ethics and technological production so intriguing in the first place. For it is the extreme pleasure of hacking that motivates hackers to simultaneously turn to and yet also turn away from liberal engagements. The unruly, deeply-felt pleasures of hacking, which at times stray away from liberal visions, and usually enters into a more romantic territory, nonetheless hold a substantive link with them. Because the joy of hacking intimately shapes the hacker desire for productive freedom, hacker pleasure forms part of the ground for adopting and extending liberal commitments, especially those of freedom and free speech. At least part of the reason hacker ethics takes the liberal form it does is connected to the particular pleasurable experiences of hacking, which nonetheless, often part company with liberal logics.


Links:

1. http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/gpl.html
2. http://www.amazon.com/Internet-Ethnographic-Approach-Daniel-Miller/dp/1859733891
3. http://www.culanth.org/?q=node/238
4. http://www.utilitarian.net/jsmill/about/20040322.htm
5. http://mbrix.dk/files/quotes.txt

September 24, 2009

“Carrot-Cut Jeans” in Berlin

Moritz Ege
Doctoral candidate, Institut für Europäische Ethnologie, Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin

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This is about “carrot-cut” jeans (Karottenschnitt): a type of jeans, how people use them and what they make of a number of small but symbolically potent Berlin-based denim brands that sell them. Picaldi’s jeans (and those by some other local brands that have followed this example, namely Daggio Romanzo, Blucino, and Casa) are based on a denim model by Diesel Jeans (“Saddle”) which was popular among a wide variety of men in the mid-1980s. The carrot-cut is defined by its high-waist fit, its relatively loose shape around the thighs, and slightly narrower form from there towards the hem. During the 1990s, mainstream fashion moved away from this cut, which is often considered conspicuously masculine. However, the cut has been in continuous demand by smaller, more specific groups of people since then, including – in Germany – immigrant youth and young adults, Turkish- or Arab-Germans of the second generation.

In the late 1990s, before Diesel stopped selling this model, it was copied and re-branded by a small-scale retailer in Berlin-Kreuzberg, run by a first- and a second generation Turkish immigrant. The retailer ordered the jeans from an Istanbul-based manufacturer, Picaldi, and sold them at a cheap price to neighbourhood youth. Since then, the store has grown into a small retail chain with twelve stores, an online dealership, and a handful of franchises in other cities. A sense of style, which originated among youth in Kreuzberg, spread with the brand. Marketed as the “Zicco” model by Picaldi, the “carrot-cut” denim now comes in many fabrics, dyes, washings, and designs. The company also produces other products such as sweaters and jackets, which often display the brand name prominently. Picaldi’s carrot-cut jeans are the most popular leg-wear for young men in many high schools and vocational schools in Berlin, especially those with a strong immigrant and/or working-class representation.

I reconstruct that story and the narratives surrounding it, which have become part of local lore – in different versions among different groups. Furthermore, through participant observation in various settings, ethnographic interviews and other methods such as go-alongs and media-based group-discussions, I research life-world meanings, emotions and distinctions in which such narratives are embedded. The following description is based on that work.

Partly as a generic item, partly as a branded one, the carrot-cut acquired the status of a marker of ethnic and lifestyle identity among boys and young men with Turkish, Arab, and other immigrant backgrounds, most of whom come from low-income families and face various forms of exclusion and discrimination. Many among Picaldi’s customers describe their own apparel as “gangster style”, referring to real or imagined connections to organized crime, the shadow economy, and the gangster figure in international popular culture, in mafia films and gangsta rap most prominently.

Such semantic connections between jeans and street crime were solidified through endorsements by local gangsta-rappers who had become highly successful in commercial terms. In that process, they disseminated the style and the brand’s name on a mass-media scale. At the same time, the denim type and brand became increasingly stigmatized by a variety of other social actors as embodying a type of personhood and masculinity deemed vulgar, deviant, “foreign”, lower-class – or all of the above.

For many outsiders and, to a lesser extent, to insiders as well, the crucial term in that context is prollig – a pejorative word that refers to showy, rude, assertive behaviour, loudness, and, in an (by now) indirect way, the working-class, the proletariat, or low social position more generally. Certain homologies seem to pertain between the jeans’ material properties and the meanings that are given to them: between, most prominently, the high-waist style in which the jeans are supposed to be worn, the male body shape it is taken to support and highlight (a narrow waist, muscular legs and behind, and a V-shaped upper body), and a self-confident, straightforward, dominant demeanour and personality. Such homologies are part of a low-complexity stereotype. Nevertheless, there also is some overlap of inside and outside understandings and usages, and consequently, a material-social-semiotic “lash-up” (H. Molotch) that helped bring about the style and jean as cultural entities.

After Picaldi’s initial growth among second-generation immigrants, it found a second major group of dedicated customers: largely working-class, “white” young men in the former East, many of whom live in areas such as Hellersdorf or Marzahn which have a small presence of immigrants, a high unemployment rate, and a strong presence of racist violence. Stylistically, there are similar aesthetic traditions; in the East, men’s carrot-cut had remained popular as well, though the overall stylistic patterns and practices (grooming, accessories, styles of movement et cetera) were hardly identical. Furthermore, the rise of Berlin gangsta-rap (and other somewhat similar, slightly more playful, genres) contributed significantly to the carrot-cut’s resurgence.

These stylistic developments parallel structural positions, as both the so-called “foreigners” in the West and the so-called “Germans” in the East share a basic class background and, in different ways and extents, experiences of socio-economic, cultural, and educational exclusion. The spread of the “Picaldi style”, which I call transversal diffusion, is remarkable not least in that the ethnic line that divides those groups is otherwise much harder to cross, both on the level of ideologies and on the level of political affects.

The ethnographic lens also shows the ways in which other relevancies complicate such socio-cultural dynamics. Among many young people, the ubiquity of Picaldi denim in schools and on the streets has given rise to heated conversations about the right and the wrong way to wear them, about colours, fabric and dye that only “foreigners”, “Germans”, “easterners” or, even more importantly, “wannabes” and “children” would want to wear. Many young men stopped wearing them because they associate them with a bygone biographic episode, or because they have been “polluted” by their popularity among boys whose pre-pubescent masculine pretence seems almost painfully obvious. At the same time, though, all of this is about relatively inexpensive pieces of denim which, theoretically, anyone may buy and wear. If, for instance, one shops at the Picaldi warehouse sale, one may get name-brand-clothing at no-name cost, which is not a trivial concern. Furthermore, for many people, carrot-cut jeans are just some leg-wear among others. Dads wear them. People grow up emulating what others in their surroundings wear, and how they carry themselves. One person’s deviance-from-the-norm is another person’s milieu-based conformity. Cautioning against facile attributions, such practical ambiguities document the indeterminate, socially embedded, multi-faceted nature of cultural symbolism.

I take this overall story, and its complications, as a vantage point to approach three sets of questions, which lead from ethnography to a cultural analysis of post-fordist working-class-ness in an ethnically diverse urban environment. Firstly, what does the relevance of these jeans in people’s life-worlds really consist in? How do people wear them, and what meanings, affects and emotions play into these practices? What difference do they make (and when and where do they make a difference)? What are the ways in which people use this type of denim to practically “manage” the dilemmas of conformity and individuality within this specific context? Which distinctions and which forms of symbolic togetherness and sociality are being created, upheld, challenged or broken down in this process? How do they play out over a number of years in individual lives and in networks of friends, classmates and acquaintances?

Secondly, I consider the specific social and cultural conditions that allowed this particular type of denim and these brands to emerge and take on such symbolic potency. This approach, I believe, will shed light on the ephemeral ways in which people handle various forms of social inequality. The third concern is methodological. I follow scholars such as anthropologist John Hartigan and cultural theorist Brian Massumi, who argue that it can be helpful to supplement the focus on “identities”, which is most often directed by psychological theories or theories of discourse, with a focus on “cultural figures”. The latter stresses the continuities and the affective flows between representations and appropriation while simultaneously highlighting their mediated and performative aspect. Denim represents one medium in which individuals and groups negotiate their relation to such “antagonistic” figures, which they may simultaneously embody, use to make sense of their situation, and, reflexively and satirically, hold at a distance.

see http://www.ucl.ac.uk/global-denim-project/me-1

September 17, 2009

Symbols and signs

Jeremy Menchik, PhD Candidate, Political Science, Univ. of Wisconsin-Madison

On 30 March 2009 the Prosperous Justice Party (PKS) held an election rally in Gelora Bung Karno, Central Jakarta. The stadium was packed with enthusiastic supporters waving flags, dancing to dangdut music, and cheering on Indonesia’s largest Islamist political party. Both the foreign and domestic press have depicted the election day showing of the PKS, as well as the even less impressive results of the other parties, as demonstrating the failure of radical Islamic parties in the world’s largest Muslim democracy (for example see Onishi 2009). Yet, the message from the political rally suggests that this characterization is worth reconsidering.

Pluralism, as defined by the Oxford American Dictionary, is “a condition or system in which two or more states, groups, principles, sources of authority, etc., coexist.” The political symbols found at the rally suggest that PKS cadres are not radicals bent on imposing a narrow interpretation of syariah on all Indonesians, but are rather pious Muslims striving to reconcile diverse ideologies including nationalism, pan-Islam, and deep respect for personal piety.


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PKS is more than a political party; it is part of a movement to implement the teachings of Islam by encouraging righteousness in all spheres of life. Above, a man’s shirt designed to encourage modesty by covering the torso and thighs. The shirt is decorated with the crescent moon and rice-grain logo of the PKS, along with the party’s ballot number.

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PKS blends nationalist imagery with symbols of the global umma (Islamic community). Above, jackets with the PKS logo and ballot number, alongside the Indonesian national flag, the Palestinian national flag, and the logo for the Palestinian group Hamas.

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In addition to supporting the Palestinian national struggle, some PKS supporters support militarized movements elsewhere. Above, a PKS supporter with a Palestinian flag and military jacket. On the coat, there is a patch for the Taliban above the right chest pocket, and an army logo above the left chest pocket.

Such syncretism has a long history in Indonesian politics dating from the first national election in 1955. At that time the modernist Islamic organization, Muhammadiyah, was the leading member of the Islamic party Masyumi. Both were firmly nationalist. Yet like the PKS, their nationalism was Islamic, and they supported the incorporation of Islamic law into state institutions. Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), the other major Islamic political party, was likewise more than simply a party supportive of syariah. NU was more concerned with defending its traditional institutions than promoting an Islamist ideology, which its leaders quickly demonstrated through their alliances with secular nationalist parties, especially the Sukarnoists (Fealy 2005). Such behavior has been ignored by contemporary scholars of nationalism, who situate the collective imaginings of the nation as wholly distinct from that of the umma (Anderson 1983). Yet characterizing nationalism as necessarily secular ignores Islamic parties’ beliefs, as well as the crucial role of Muslim groups in the Indonesian nationalist movement (Laffan 2003).

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In a novel example of reappropriating an appropriated image, a PKS football fan poses in front of the Indonesian comedian Benyamin Sueb (aka Bang Ben), posing as Che Guevara, the famous Latin American revolutionary.

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The Jakarta wing of PKS has tried to appeal to youth activists broadly. Above, PKS logos affixed to hats popular with young Indonesians and fashionmongers elsewhere.

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PKS supports the state enforcement of public morality, including a ban on pornography, limitation of the distribution of alcohol, and support for the war on drugs in Indonesia. Above, a campaign button for Twiwasaksana, a successful PKS candidate for the Regional Peoples’ Representative Council, atop a Rastafarian peace flag.

Is PKS today any less of an amalgamation of views than NU and Masyumi were in the 1950s? Evidence from the rally suggests not, although certainly the substance varies. PKS cadres blend ideologies and styles: Islamist, nationalist, individualist pop-culture hipster, pan-Islamist, democrat, soccer-fan, and even communist revolutionary. Such visual data should remind us that pious solidarities and nationalist ones may be productively coterminous, rather then being competitors (Wedeen 2008). Indeed, PKS women’s organizations are now playing a pivotal role in re-imagining the public life of the Indonesian nation (Rinaldo 2008). These photographs illustrate the diversity of imaginings found under the PKS banner.

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The rally felt more like a party, or a lively football game, than the gathering of a radical religious group. Above, the field at Gelora Bung Karno, where young male supporters danced, oblivious to the speeches from the stage. PKS ran one of the most innovative campaigns of the election season, distributing informational DVDs, running whimsical television advertisements, publishing collective campaigns to bolster all candidates rather then just individuals, and speaking directly to voters by knocking on one million doors.

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The rally felt more like a party, or a lively football game, than the gathering of a radical religious group. Above, the field at Gelora Bung Karno, where young male supporters danced, oblivious to the speeches from the stage. PKS ran one of the most innovative campaigns of the election season, distributing informational DVDs, running whimsical television advertisements, publishing collective campaigns to bolster all candidates rather then just individuals, and speaking directly to voters by knocking on one million doors.

References
Anderson B. 1983. Imagined communities. London: Verso.

Fealy G. 2005. The Masyumi Legacy: Between Islamic Idealism and Political Exigency. Studia Islamika 12: 73-100.

Laffan M. 2003. Islamic nationhood and colonial Indonesia: The umma below the winds. London: RoutledgeCurzon.

Onishi N. 2009. Indonesia's Voters Retreat From Radical Islam. In The New York Times, pp. A1. NYC.

Rinaldo R. 2008. Envisioning the Nation: Women Activists, Religion and the Public Sphere in Indonesia. Social Forces 86: 1781-04.

Wedeen L. 2008. Peripheral visions: Publics, power and performance in Yemen. Chicago: Univ. Press.

Jeremy Menchik (menchik@wisc.edu) is a PhD candidate in the political science program at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. His dissertation focuses on the history of Indonesian Islamic institutions. An extended version of this photo essay was first published in the magazine "Inside Indonesia".

September 10, 2009

Bloggers and the blogosphere in Lebanon and Syria: “Meanings” & “Activities

Maha Taki, PhD candidate, The Media and Communications Research Institute (CAMRI) Univ. of Westminster


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For the past three years I have been researching the varied and unique ways in which blogging is perceived, appropriated and valued by actors in Lebanon and Syria. Since 2005, hundreds of enthusiastic articles have appeared in the Western and Arab press about Weblogs in the Arab world. This enthusiasm resonates loudly in this region due to the general dissatisfaction felt towards the state of the local mainstream media. Arab media is for the most part, either state controlled, censored, heavily divided amongst political ideologies and run or sponsored by politicians. In sharp contrast, Weblogs are deemed to offer a space where users can escape the boundaries (and ideologies) of the dominant social, cultural and political milieus, resulting in voices not often reported on being brought to the foreground, such as those of religious minorities, homosexuals, and the 'opposition.’ The collective discourse makes unfounded assumptions about why bloggers blog rather than analyses why they actually do blog.

The present research project aims to go beyond this and interpret how bloggers feel about blogging, what it means for them and how they interpret it. It does so by exploring and comparing the process of blogging and the blogosphere in Lebanon and Syria. While this work bases its examination on a first hand study of microscopic perspective of the process of blogging, it is not limited to that. Rather, it investigates the bloggers’ positionality (how they are positioned and how they position themselves) within the wider social space that they inhabit, thus, taking into account the wider issues of access, social inequalities, censorship, self-censorship, the roles of institutions, government and society that affect their blogging activities. Through face-to-face ethnographic interviews with bloggers in their respective locales, online participant observation, an online questionnaire, and semi-structured face-to-face interviews with ISPs and others involved in Internet development projects, it explores the structural and cultural variables that have allowed actors to appropriate this technology in their own unique ways.


The analysis of Lebanon and Syria will be a comparative one that also considers the transnational forces between the two countries. Lebanon and Syria were both part of Greater Syria sharing much historical culture and change. It was not until 1920, when the League of Nations Mandate divided the Ottoman territories between Britain and France, that Lebanon and Syria emerged as two mutually, exclusive autonomous countries. Since then, Lebanon has been under an unstable, confessionally-based, capitalist state where a power-sharing formula attempts (unsuccessfully) to resolve competition among the main religious groupings, and Syria is under a relatively stable, secular, self-declared "socialist", authoritarian regime. There has been a battle of continued and contested (sometimes bloody) disputes from within the government and different communities in the two countries on how the two countries should associate with each other. The research comparison will pursue the same questions and instruments of observation across the loose but vast divides of power and culture drawing on original field data, online observation, and historical data in the two national contexts.

In these societies, the blogosphere has constituted a complex and contradictory experience of modernity. Since the Internet and the frames in which users interact in allow for a different kind of communication to occur, my research questions revolve around how do bloggers negotiate social interactions online? How do they choose to articulate their identities? Why do they choose to blog? What do their Internet experiences tell us about the context they live in? Are affiliations in the offline world the same on-line? How is anonymity used and for which reasons?

The challenge that I face in working in such environments is the strikingly little literature that conceptualizes or even describes the micro everyday life of those living in contemporary Lebanon and Syria. Very few scholars have attempted to conceptualise what it means to be Syrian or Lebanese beyond the nation/confession/tribe labels and have often used lay or folk terms as analytical categories. These accounts have missed saying anything on how the macro structures have affected the micro occurrences and vice versa. In such a context, what are ways in which a researcher could deal with/compensate for the scarcity and disparity of sociological and anthropological literature?

Moreover, with such scarce literature, how does one test the macro level by capturing views from below through ethnography? Can conceptualising occur beyond the stories that bloggers tell me about the context in which they live in?

August 7, 2009

The domestication and indigenization of global forces through consumption

Christian Sørhaug, Research Fellow, University of Oslo
Museum of Cultural History, Section for Ethnography

In writing up my thesis I am concerned with the domestication of global forces through consumption. The ethnography is centered on a small Warao village in the Orinoco Delta, Venezuela. In the marshes of the delta, with its myriads of river and creeks, the Warao live a relatively sheltered existence. But the isolation which the delta offers is only partial, and there is a range of actors and forces that interact with Warao everyday life. They qualify to the term “remotely global”, being an out of way place.

The Warao have been interacting with a range of ethnic groups, like the Arawak, and Carib, but lately the most significant other is the Hotarao. The Hotarao is a rather large ethnic group that the Warao use to designate the White-Creole people, like missionaries, politicians, traders and tourists, but especially the White-Creole population that live in the urban areas around the Orinoco Delta. Hotarao means “people from the raised/hard land” which makes out a contrast to the Warao meaning “people from the river’s edge/soft (marshes) land.” (Heinen 1998-1999)

Being the significant other the Hotarao have been in regular contact with the Warao for many decades, especially in the form of the Capuchin missionaries. The Capuchin first established a mission in the 1920’s and have since been actively seeking to transform Warao society into an image of their liking. Later Venezuelan state policy makers, doctors teachers, development agencies, NGO’s and traders have made their way into the area, all seeking to transform Warao society in different ways.

Even though there have been a multitude of forces seeking to influence Warao society, they have in large part been resilient towards these actors and institutions wish to transform them in their own image. Warao identity is very much alive, and is there is pride involved in being a Warao. In my thesis I am preoccupied with how the Warao have reconfigured, reconstituted and recreated themselves through the different types of global forces manifested through material culture and consumption activities (global forces being all the above types of Hotarao that exists).

So far in the process of writing up I have 5 major chapters that in different ways touch upon the problem of consumption, material culture and globalization, tentatively as follows:

The Wetlands: A village as a place that gathers things
The Orinoco delta is inhabited by the Warao Indians, numbering about 25.000, concentrating themselves in the south-eastern part. The fan like delta is divided by eight large rivers the major ones being Manamo and the Wirinoko (Rio Grande) moving into the Atlantic Ocean. The majority of the Warao live in the south eastern littoral zone of the delta where the rivers, creeks and channels carve out a range of island. Here the villages are built along the edges of the river on stilts to stay clear of the tidal waters that daily flood the landmasses. The houses are built with palm thatched roofs and bridges going out into the river. In the tidal zone the Orinoco Rivers enormous water masses clash with the tidal waves that daily flood the landmasses creating vortexes, or disturbances in the water. One of the words that the Warao use to designate such disturbances is hobure, which is also is the name of the village where I have done fieldwork.

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Hobure: The houses are built on stilts along the river’s edge with the swamp forest in the background.

Hobure, translated as “crazy waters”, is a community of about 250 people distributed on 35 households. The households are of varying sizes, but the majority has two major structures, the hisabanoko and hanoko. Hisabanoko is “the place for eating/food” where food is prepared and consumed, and is the house that is the furthest out into the river. The hanoko is the “the place for hammocks” which is the sleeping place where the hammocks are hanging from the roof beams, with small fireplaces in between them to hold the mosquito and the cold nights away. Behind the hanoko you also find the nahimanoko “the menstruation place” where women are during their menstruation. This is often a structure that several households share. It is located the furthest away from the river towards the forests to create distance to the nabarao – the river people that is attracted to the smell of blood and can kill menstruating women, but also children.

There is also the school, the church and a dysfunctional water tower in the village, structures that stand out in this place. While the household structures seem to have been built by things that have been gathered in the surrounding environment, these structures are made out of elements that have an origin far away from the village.

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Hoisi: Through the whole village is a walking bridge (hoisi) connecting all the households. Moving about in this swampy environment usually requires a canoe.

The houses are for the most part built with Yawihi palm as roof materials, and manaca palm stems are used as floors. The house pillars, roof stems and roof skeleton is made from different types of wood, held together by its own weight, lianas and nails. Nails are used to the extent that the house owner can afford it.
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The old chool: Now abandoned for a new school in the other part if the village, the concrete floor on the inside serves as a football arena for the boys playing.

Knowledge of building houses is passed between the generations and had a standard quadrant form. The school was contracted by the local government to outsiders who have the knowhow to build such school. The church on the other hand built the house with the cooperation with the villagers, partially with materials gathered from the forest. In contrast to other houses in the village it has wooden planks for walls and windows, zinc roof and floor boards. The building of the church versus the school also reflect the more cooperative relation the old capuchin missionaries have with the villagers versus the more unilateral relation that the government have with the people of Hobure. Maybe the worst working relationship is manifested in the structure left behind a water project funded by the government and the Red Cross. A large water tower stands slightly in the back of the village accompanied with a large water tank. A tube goes through the entire village offering each household a water tap. The water project failed due to bad construction and lack of funds, but the enormous structure stands in the village as a reminder of even another failed development project that has ended on the “garbage heap of development projects”.

The Warao have a subsistence economy based on gardening, fishing, gathering and hunting. The root crop ure (Colocasia Esculenta), originally an Asian tuber, has been introduced to the delta area in the early 20th century by Warao migrating workers coming from Guyana. This root has shown to be perfect for the delta habitat where one have been able to adopt the root without requiring much technological equipment or knowledge (Heinen 1974). The ohidu palm which used to be the major subsistence source as palm starch, is still of importance in relation to the making of hammocks, getting grubs, making fishing equipment and fruits. In the noara, or the nahanamu, ritual the fertility of the palm was celebrated, and likewise there was a gathering of people from different villages looking for potential partners. The pattern of uxorilocal marriages pulls young men out of their villages joining up in new vicinity neighborhood villages.

The Wastelands
This chapter investigates the migration of Warao to a garbage heap and their relation to garbage. Warao Indians living in the Orinoco Delta, Venezuela, travel to a large garbage heap outside of Ciudad Guyana. Ciudad Guyana was started as a planned community with a few thousand inhabitants in the sixties and has today grown to almost a million inhabitants. This enormous growth has been made possible due to the shifts in the world economy, with the expansion of markets for crude oil, steel and other minerals which make out the central industrial activities. But the city, situated along the Orinoco River, some hundred kilometers from the Warao home land, also produces large amount of garbage. This garbage is daily transported to Cambalache, a large wasteland, where a range of people scavenge and live of the garbage. Some poor white-Creoles live of the garbage, but for the most part it is the Warao, who is the major ethnic group in this part of Venezuela, that exploit this recourse.

The%20Wastelands.jpg Continue reading "The domestication and indigenization of global forces through consumption" »

July 25, 2009

Materiality and digitization in the Museum of the History of Polish Jews

Barbara Kirschenblatt Gimblett, NYU Performance Studies and the Museum of the History of Polish Jews

The Museum of the History of Polish Jews is being created in Warsaw on the site of the former Warsaw Ghetto and facing the Monument to the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. At the heart of this educational and cultural center is a multimedia narrative museum presenting a millenium of Jewish presence on Polish soil. While we will show original historical objects, we do not depend primarily on them to tell this rich story.

There is a general perception that if we are not basing the exhibition on objects we must be a "virtual" museum--and that is generally taken to mean a museum that lacks materiality. I offer one example here of our work as a challenge to the generally accepted dichotomy between
virtual and--take your pick--actual, digital, material.

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Source: The Museum of the History of Polish Jews

I call the problem the materiality fallacy: what constitutes an "original" or "actual" or "authentic" object. The 18th-century wooden synagogue of Gwoździec that we will feature in the 18th-century gallery offers a fine case for exploring this issue. We intend to reconstruct the timber-framed roof and polychrome ceiling of this spectacular synagogue. Now we could go to a theater prop maker, give him the dimensions and some pictures, and say to him "Make it!" The result would look pretty much like the original, but it would be a theatrical prop. That is not what we want to do. What we want to do goes to the heart of the issue of actual and virtual. We want to work with a studio in Massachusetts, whose motto is "learn by building."

These beautiful 18th-century wooden synagogues no longer exist; the Germans burned to the ground those still standing in 1939. We can however recover the knowledge of how to build them by actually building one. What is actual about that artifact resides therefore not in the original 18th-century wood, not in the original painted interior, but in the knowledge that we recovered for how to build it.

It's a completely different concept of the object. This approach is related to a completely different tradition of thinking about what constitutes an object.

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The best example I can think of is the Jingu Shrine in Ise, Japan. This is a shrine that is 800 years old and never older than 20 years because for 800 years they have been tearing it down every 20 years in order to rebuild it. The only way to maintain the embodied knowledge of how to build it is to build it, and to make it necessary to build it, they tear it down and then must build it again. The value is in maintaining the knowledge of how to build it, not in preserving the original materials. The result is not a replica or simulation of the Jingu shrine; it is the Jingu shrine. This is a completely different way of defining what is "actual" about such an object.

This posting is adapted from my interview with Obieg, Poland's leading online contemporary art magazine. An English translation of the complete interview appears here:
ttp://www.jewishmuseum.org.pl/news_archive.php?miId=120&lang=en&nId=1744

June 1, 2009

Legitimizing a People: The Mashantucket Pequot Museum and Research Center

Joanna Alario, NYU Museum Studies

In the Connecticut River Valley, the thirteen-thousand-strong Pequot tribe lived in villages, practicing agriculture and trading products with neighboring groups. Similar to so many other Native people across the nation, the arrival of the English and their foreign diseases decimated the Pequot, reducing their population by close to eighty percent. Following growing hostilities between the Pequot and Colonial authorities, the Pequot Wars of 1636-1638 further diminished the tribe. Surviving Pequot, numbering between two thousand and twenty-five hundred, were either captured and sold into slavery or absorbed into neighboring tribes with whom they had ancestral ties (Bodinger de Uriarte 2007:42; Quin 1999:54; Lawlor 2006:35). In 1638 the Pequots became the first “terminated” tribe with the Treaty of Hartford. The Treaty declared that “the Pequots shall no more be called Pequots, but Narragansetts and Mohegans” (Bodinger de Uriarte 2007:43). In the years that followed, the Pequots reclaimed their name and petitioned for expanded lands for their reservation. However, their reservation lands continued to be sold off by the state and, by 1972, 204 acres remained, with only two women—Elizabeth George Plouffe and Martha Langevin Ellal—left living on the land (Bodinger de Uriarte 2007:43-44).

Skip Hayward, the grandson of Plouffe, was inspired by his grandmother’s commitment and encouraged tribal members to move back to the reservation “to reclaim illegally seized land, gain federal recognition, achieve economic self-sufficiency, and revitalize tribal culture” (Quin 1999:54). The Mashantucket Pequot Indian Claims Settlement Act of 1983 granted the tribe with federal recognition and $900,000 to purchase back their tribal lands. Ten years after the ruling, the tribe expanded into gaming as a means to support the future of their reservation. The Foxwoods Resort and Casino provides funds for the reservation’s infrastructure and has made the Pequot the wealthiest tribe in the nation (Lawlor 2006:31; 35-36).

To gain tribal membership one must provide documentation that lineally links them to a person appearing on the 1900 or 1910 tribal roll calls. After so many decades away from the reservation, the Pequot today represent a highly diverse ethnic background (Lawlor 2006:34). Because of this racial component and the fact that history considers them to be long extinct, the “Indianness” of the Pequot has been called into question over and over. For example, Atlantic City casino developer Donald Trump, who faced direct competition from Foxwoods, stated to a Connecticut legislative subcommittee: “Go up to Connecticut, and you look at the Mashantucket Pequots…They don’t look like Indians to me. They don’t look like Indians to Indians” (Bodinger de Uriarte 2007:46). The Pequots faced a continued need for legitimizing their presence even after gaining federal recognition and chose to open a tribal museum. Tribal museums throughout North America are “sites for establishing Native American humanity, historical presence, and contemporaneity for post-colonial audiences” (Erikson 1999:46). In 1998, the Manshantucket Pequot Museum and Research Center opened and serves as a vehicle for authenticating the Pequot people both past and present.

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Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mpmrc/2889751391/

CONTEXT OF TRIBAL MUSEUMS
Before I delve into the specifics of the MPMRC, it is helpful to know the definitions and history of tribal museums. Lisa J. Watt, a member of the Seneca tribe, is the founder and principal of Tribal Museum Planners and Consultants, an organization in place “to inform tribes about the challenges and opportunities that building a museum entail and present program ideas that help meet [their] cultural goals” (“Lisa”). She defines a tribal museum as a “museum, cultural center, heritage center, history center, or interpretive center that is owned and operated by any one or more of the federally recognized or unrecognized American Indian tribes, either on or off reservations” (2007: 71). They exist to perpetuate tribal culture and traditions, to hold onto the material culture, to construct and instill a tribal identity, to maintain a presence in the world, to define tribal territory, to exert tribal sovereignty, and to reinforce treaty rights. They serve as a public declaration, saying “we are important and worth culturally maintaining” (Watt 2007: 73). Tribal museums help reclaim and preserve their cultural heritage, often by building upon earlier traditions concerned with protection and transmission of knowledge, and expand to include overall community development (Kreps 2003: 114). Anglo-American understandings of ownership and rights of access do not always translate in the realm of tribal museums (Isaac 2007: 5-7; Kreps 2003: 114). In his observation of four Northwest Coast museums, Clifford notes that, in contrast to majority museums, “tribal museums express local culture, oppositional politics, kinship, ethnicity, and tradition” (1991: 225). He lays out the agenda of a tribal museum as follows:

(1) its stance is to some degree oppositional, with exhibits reflecting excluded experiences, colonial pasts, and current struggles; (2) the art/culture distinction is often irrelevant or positively subverted; (3) the notion of a unified or linear History (whether of the nation, of humanity, or of art) is challenged by local, community histories; and (4) the collections do not aspire to be included in the patrimony (of the nation, of great art, etc.) but to be inscribed with different traditions and practices, free of national, cosmopolitan patrimonies (Clifford 1991: 225-226).

Carla Roberts, director of a Phoenix-based Native American Arts organization writes “there have always been mechanisms in native communities for transmitting cultural values from one generation to another” (Kreps 2003: 107). The curator of New World Ethnology at the Burke Museum in Seattle James Nason supports this statement with his description of the Southwestern kivas, which were used “[to house] collections whose use was vital to the members of the pueblo and their sense of place in the world” (1999). The widely practiced method of passing on cultural knowledge through oral traditions and ritual practices has been inhibited in recent years because of an increasing generational gap in Native American communities (Isaac 2007: 9-10).

The Osage Tribal Museum in Pawhuska, Oklahoma, established in 1938, is considered to be the oldest tribal museum in the United States (Watt 2007: 70). The first wave of tribal museums coincided with the American Indian Movement of the 1960s and 1970s, during which time tribes began to question the museum’s authority and Native American representations. Under President Nixon in the 1970s, tribal museums were also seen as a source of job opportunities and a chance to diversify tribal economics. The next wave of tribal museums occurred in the 1990s when tribes with resources, knowledge, and desire established museums (Isaac 2007; Nason 1999; Watt 2007: 70-71). Gwyneira Isaac, an assistant professor and the director of Arizona State University’s Museum of Anthropology, cites Fuller and Fabricius’ argument that links the growth of tribal museums to a loss of tribal knowledge and a rise in self-determination, causing “the need for a new forum to transmit cultural knowledge [to meld] with the needs for autonomy and self-sufficiency” (2007: 10). Nason feels that tribal museums “complete a circle that began with alien institutions imperialistically collecting and interpreting Native American culture and ended with a resurgence of tribal communities” (1999).

THE MASHANTUCKET MUSEUM AND RESOURCE CENTER
The MPMRC is a 308,000-square-foot facility opened on August 11, 1998 and was founded to “serve as a major resource on the history of the Tribe, the histories and cultures of other tribes, and the region’s natural history” (Quin 1999: 54). Funding for the facilities came from the lucrative gaming industry at Foxwoods, which also helped fund education and healthcare on the reservation. Costing close to two hundred million dollars, more money went into the Pequot tribal museum than the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian (Erikson 1999:49). Exhibits cover Pequot life in southeastern Connecticut from the last Ice Age to the present, featuring displays like “a glacial crevasse, a caribou hunt of 11,000 years ago, a sixteenth century Pequot village, an eighteenth century farmstead, and a twentieth century trailer home” (Erikson 1999:46). It features a high level of transparency by featuring curators’ and researchers’ voices throughout the exhibits, as well as including information about how the exhibits were constructed (Lawlor 2006:46).

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Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mpmrc/2889752101/

Anthropologists have long acknowledged the draw of life group dioramas, however, the MPMRC has taken this technique to new heights (Hinsley 1991: 347-348). The largest display in the MPMRC is the 22,000-square-foot immersion style diorama of a 16th century coastal Pequot village. There is also a palisade fort next to the village, set fifty years after the village scene, included to represent the impact of European presence in the area. Patricia Pierce Erikson, currently a visiting professor at the University of Southern Maine, described the Pequot Village as follows:

Bombarding visitors’ senses are the smells of the forest and campfires, the sounds of chipmunks and running water. The human dimension of the diorama depicts daily life and provides a basis for interpreting coastal subsistence activities and Contact-period social structure (1999:50-51).

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Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mpmrc/2889752079/

Visitors use audio-guides as they walk through the display. It offers both “unattributed” Pequot perspectives, as well as anthropologists’ and archaeologists’ interpretations of the diorama (Erikson 1999:51).


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Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mpmrc/2889751271/

An important element of the Pequot Village display is the use of sound. Douglas Quin was one of the researchers who developed the soundscape. In addition to recreating what the environment sounded like in the 17th century, researchers had to figure out a way to represent the Pequot language as there are no native living speakers. After looking at other Algonquin languages, tribal members from Maine were brought in to record exhibition scripts in the Passamaquoddy language (Quin 1999:64). Other portions of the exhibit that utilized secondary voices—areas such as the sweat lodge ceremony and the hide tanning display—utilized recordings of voices of Native peoples from all over North America, including Navajo and Osage, to create “a collective resonance and identity” (Quin 1999:65).

In addition to the Pequot Village, the MPMRC has exhibits that speak to the continued presence of the people and culture. The Life on the Reservation gallery establishes Pequot presence in the Post-Pequot War time period, effectively dismissing accepted notions that the tribe was extinct. The stories featured in this exhibit include those of Pequot children working as indentured servants in colonial households, as well as those tribal members who learned the English legal system in an attempt to hold onto their traditional territory. This gallery is where the trailer home sits to represent the hardships faced by those who lived on the reservation in the 1970s. Also present in the Life on the Reservation gallery is the story of the casino and how it impacted the Pequot’s land claims and their contemporary lives (Erikson 1999:47-48).

Native Americans have been the subjects of portrait projects since the nineteenth century during the age of salvage anthropology (Bodinger de Uriarte 2007:179). The MPMRC appropriates this method not to capture the evidence of a dying people, but to show the cultural survival of the Pequot tribe:

The portraits reinvigorate the historic progression of life on the reservation by introducing the contemporary to the visitor experience. As the oral histories provide a shared remembered history, the portraits give that history an individual face. While they indicate each other as a group and destabilize essential notions of “Indianness,” the portraits provide a progression of possible singular connections for the visitor, mixing elements of person al, historic, and cultural markers, and offering multiple routs for recognition (Bodinger de Uriarte 2007:208).

The Tribal Portrait Gallery is an exhibit that “encourages visitors to humanize popular notions of Native peoples generally, and Pequot people in particular” (Erikson 1999:46). It is comprised of black-and-white portraits of tribal members and has accompanying recorded interviews from the Mashantucket Pequot oral history project (Bodinger de Uriart 2007:163). John J. Bodinger de Uriarte, who worked for and studied the MPMRC and the Foxwoods Casino, feels that the Tribal Portrait Gallery, like the overall museum space, becomes a charged contact zone (2007:208).

THE POWER OF A TRIBAL MUSEUM
Tribal spokesperson, Lori Potter, made a statement to the Tribal Tribute that effectively sums up the MPMRC’s purpose and power to bring legitimacy to the Pequot: “When I was a little girl and I looked up our tribe in an encyclopedia, it said we were a warlike tribe that was extinct. That was a lie, and I never forgot it. Now, our tribe is strong and united again, and this museum will make it possible for the world to know the truth” (Erikson 1999:46). In addition to the impact of the physical institution, the MPMRC is also making a presence on the internet. Its website has information about the tribe history, the exhibitions, as well as educational resources and information about programming. They have also broken into the realm of social networking sites, like Facebook, which serves as another outlet to make connections with people and maintain their contemporary presence (“Mashantucket”).

A criticism of the MPMRC concerns the “Disney-fication” of the displays that supposedly distracts from the authenticity of the information (Lawlor 2006:49). The style of display toes the same line of “infotainment” that other majority museums face. Curators have had issues with the level of entertainment present in the museum since Franz Boas’ time at the American Museum of Natural History. It persists in this case as well, yet the immersive life group experience at the MPMRC appears to be awe-inspiring and engaging. Coupled with their institution’s transparency, the technology remains grounded by the cultural information.

Another criticism is that the Pequot Village exhibition falls into the museum trap of displaying Native American cultures only in the light of the pre-Contact past and that the sheer size of the exhibit (22,000-square-feet) physically overshadows the displays about current Pequot life, thus diminishing their importance (Erikson 1999:52). Size, however, is not always a fair indication of social importance. People are proud of their heritage and possibly feel an ache of nostalgia for a life they never had the chance to know first hand, so they put that past on full display. Some museums only present Native peoples in the past and include nothing of their contemporary life. The MPMRC, however, makes the effort to include present-day elements of their culture to show the ties to the past (the recognizable “authentic Indian”) and how through all the changes time has brought, they are still a living, breathing, distinctive people with a legitimate claim to their culture.

Continue reading "Legitimizing a People: The Mashantucket Pequot Museum and Research Center" »

April 17, 2009

Zapatista Tchotchkes

Miriam Basilio, Art History and Museum Studies, NYU

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I recently visited San Cristobal de las Casas, in Chipas, Mexico to take part in an academic workshop, and, although I had read and heard about the traffic in Zapatista souvenirs, knick-knacks, or tchotchkes there, was overwhelmed by their variety and number. The complex political motives that led to the Zapatista movement are not my subject here rather I am interested in the ways in which popular representations of this movement for self-determination circulate as objects for tourist consumption. What is our role as consumers? What does it mean to buy these objects? Just prior to my visit, the New York Times’ Frugal Traveler column published a piece promoting San Cristobal de las Casas as an ideal travel destination. Of course, this feeds this place into a cycle whereby those of us with relative wealth travel seeking this particular bargain, which then makes the place less inexpensive, more crowded, and less seemingly remote, and the new cheap and undiscovered place is…elsewhere.

One particular feature of this city, which the reporter underscored, is its proximity to a network of autonomous communities governed by the Zapatista movement. (For the account of a visit to one such community see: http://frugaltraveler.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/12/09/in-the-village-of-the-zapatistas/) That even a few years ago, the US State Department warned US citizens against going there lends the region a seductive hint of danger for some travelers. Other Americans, sympathetic to the Zapatista cause, travel there to see for themselves the revolutionary changes being made on behalf of the Mexican people. But most of us are not experts on the political situation there, and our role is more ambiguous. Are we seeking the thrill of the supposedly off the beaten track? Romanticizing revolution? Empathetically yet somewhat voyeuristically witnessing others’ struggles, only to safely return to our lives of privilege? How do we negotiate these at times intersecting positions?

As Americans in particular, and at a time when we are being urged to consume as our patriotic duty, we shop. Is it out of a desire to support the revolution in Chiapas, to help locals in one of the poorest areas in Mexico to make a living, regardless of where the proceeds end up, or, buying souvenirs motivated by the basic tourist drive to return home and say “Look, I was there.” Despite the New York Times reporter’s breathless account of his trip to view a Zapatista community (easily accessible and cheap public transport) and his detailed description of the group’s self-presentation and scripted tour of their community, I was shocked by the “Zapatista tourism” infrastructure that existed in San Cristobal. Large bus tours were advertised, and private taxis may be hired as well.

Seemingly hard to access, yet openly advertised, the prospect of visiting such communities was thus paradoxically tantalizingly possible, and mysteriously remote. Goods produced to publicly assert sympathy for the Zapatistas, however, were openly sold everywhere. Ubiquitous at the local market beside Santo Domingo church were T-shirts in myriad designs: black star logos, the EZLN initials, women with bandanas tied across their faces, hair worn in braids, with slogans calling for women’s dignity, others featured male freedom fighters, faces covered in ski masks. Male and female dolls made of yarn wore indigenous garb from the region, with the ski masks, and carried tiny cardboard rifles. Handmade revolutionary Barbies and Kens, they also are sold as Lilliputian key chains. Cotton handkerchiefs had slogans praising Subcomandante Marcos and his portrait all hand embroidered. Small change purses and pouches were similarly embellished. I purchased a tote bag large enough to carry my MacBook, featuring a female freedom fighter and the slogan: Las mujeres con la dignidad rebelde (Women with rebel dignity) for myself.

There were a few stores in town that advertised themselves as cooperatives that sold the goods for the benefit of Zapatista communities, so I tried to buy most of my gifts there. However, I also felt torn and bought a few things from local women at the market. The coop stores had the greatest variety of products, posters, postcards with photos of Zapatista communities, often featuring the beautiful murals painted on many of their walls and buildings, and locally produced textiles or coffee. I regret not asking the people selling these things at both places where they were made, did they also keep them in their homes, who else was buying them, what did they think about them, when did they start to sell these objects, and more. But someone should.

March 28, 2009

Playing dangerously: Transformational moments in children’s play within a global television culture

Abby Loebenberg, DPhil Candidate, ISCA, Univ. of Oxford

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I am currently in the fieldwork phase of my DPhil thesis examining the popularity and effect of children’s television and associated material culture on children aged 1-11 from multi-ethnic backgrounds in Westernized contexts, by original ethnographic research in Vancouver, Canada. Particularly, I am investigating moments of transition, material hybridity and liminality in children’s animation as symbiotic with public nervousness about issues of moral danger. I argue that this in turn presents the seed of appeal of these products with the informant children, themselves perceived by society as transitory, hybrid and liminal, as often children of migrants, but especially those with experience of the foster system.

This derives from my MPhil thesis work on children’s television and toys from Japan and its relation to transformational pretend play. The fieldwork further connects ideas of moral danger to notions of safety and adult concern for children by examining children’s use and understandings of ‘traditional’ space categories, public, semi-public and private, particularly in the light of theoretical claims by postmodern spatial theorists (Gupta and Ferguson 1992) of the ‘blurring’ of boundaries by shopping malls, gated developments and particularly the internet (Castells 1989, 2000). In this light, the thesis will make a contribution to the development of an ‘anthropology of childhood’ particularly dealing with the idea of a distinct child culture, as separate from, but containing elements and inversions of the adult world. The results will help in creating an understanding of the development of complexity in older children’s culture by considering the diversities in play from toddler to age 11 and charting the clear contributions of global television cultures to contemporary children’s public and private worlds.

By considering both Alison James’ thesis (1979) that children’s play is not mimetic of the adult world but instead contains and inverts elements of it, as well as Cullingford (1992) and Erikson’s (1963) work on play as a parallel to ritual but constructed without consequence, one would expect that a spatial reading of play in the city to be a reflection of these qualities. Certainly, Sutton-Smith’s (1976) argument that modern toys exert a solitarizing influence on children’s play points to a construction of childhood in line with Sennet’s (1977) reading of the public realm, as well as that of architectural and public space theorists (Such as Jane Jacobs, 1961 and Mike Davis, 1992). Considering particularly spatial arguments for ‘safety’ such as Marcuse (1997), perhaps the most interesting question regarding the anthropology of a spatial version of children’s play would be to ask whether children’s play becomes more anthropologically ‘dangerous’ as it becomes more private.

This construction is semantically different from that of the home as ‘private’ and ‘safe’ and the street as ‘public’ and ‘dangerous’. However, particularly through the reading of toys and play, anthropological dangers and taboos (Douglas, 1966) such as themes of pollution, liminality and gender/identity changes are more likely to be more present as the child moves from the public realm of games and sports through the semi-public realm of consumption and group play such as schools, after-care centres, and shopping to the private and super-private realm of the home and child’s bedroom, or other private area within the bedroom, such as in one of my informant’s cases, the area underneath her (raised) bed.

The challenges to this research primary derive from the notion that the anthropology of children, and moreover children’s television and toys are considered somewhat ‘anti-intellectual’. This derives from a typical view encountered around the idea of an anthropology of childhood, namely that children’s culture is mimetic, insignificant and that all children are, are processes, on their way to adults.

Historically, this sort of notion of children as ‘becoming’ attributes to Freud and psychology in general, that with predominantly laboratory-based methodologies, ethnography fundamentally challenges. Furthermore, it is key to separate judgement on this type of research from one’s own ‘adult’ notions of what ‘culture’ is valid and what invalid, in that it is naturally because child culture contains elements of adult culture that we attribute higher significance to our own condition. Thus, it has been important to theoretically separate this research from ideas of homo ludens (Huizinga:1938), adult recreation and game playing and notions of carnival. This is of particular significance when one notes that the great majority of anthropological research on children, both historically and presently is performed as part of a larger ethnographic study, or otherwise with some other aim in mind, using adults as informants. This means that whilst a large quantity of anthropology deals with children, little considers children’s culture as a distinct entity.

A further point to be considered is the history of the idea of ‘childhood’ in general, namely that as a concept it is bound together with modern society. This is in contrast to the medieval period where children had no separate status, but were integrated into daily work and life routines (Aries:1962). The idea of children as reflective of some “originary state of Eden” (Kline 1993:51), connects them to romantic, Rousseaun ideals of the natural – indeed the term ‘kinder-garten’ (lit. children’s garden) derives from this source. Margaret Mead, (1932) was one of the first notable anthropologists whose work led her to direct research on and with children. Mead was concerned with discovering whether animism was present in play universally, or was the product of a specific cultural environment. The ethnographic results of her work with children began to support a distinction between children’s stories, play and peer structures from those of the adult world. Later work such as that of Allison James (1979) begins to support a theory of distinction between adult and children’s culture, but similarly an interdependence. This is primarily manifest through an inversion of elements of the adult order, but also by the connection between play and ritual.

The key distinction between these two concepts here is that, due to a level of inversion and irreverence, play seems to lack an intrinsic efficacy and “carries a negative weight...treated as unimportant, trivial or unworthy of adult attention” (Mead 1975:160). This is partly why, as part of academic tradition, play is seen as anti-intellectual, but similarly it draws attention to the paradox that children, who are considered to be the ‘players’ of society, are awarded less freedom than adults in terms of the content of their play.

A second important theoretical area in terms of children’s play is the notion of ‘pretendership’, which relates to the ability to transform an object or situation into a signifier of some other phenomenon, but also particularly in the case of television toys it draws attention to the difficult and nervous relationship between adult and children’s society. That this is due to a fundamental, sacred seriousness that is embodied in playing itself where in fact children’s behaviour is only likely to be interpreted as mimetic by adults in that adults perceive their own behaviour and culture as valid as children’s as invalid. Thus, it is the attribution of significance to mimetic play over fantasy and narrative play that creates a sense of nervousness about television and television toys that are somehow perceived as non-educational or violent - rather than the reality that any toy is educational, depending on what the child needs to learn.

Ultimately the toys a child likes will be those that expand the emotional life of the child. It is more a question of adult society than child society, why some children are restricted access to toys that make them happiest. It is particularly repetitive narrative play, based on television series, that adults so despise as ‘un-educational’ or violent. Yet, the types of toys that are involved in this type of play, such as action figures, not only allow the child to accommodate the fearfulness of the world around them in a safe environment of their own making, they introduce a new type of playing similar to that previously observed in Huli children in Melanesia. (Goldman:1998) A form of self-narration with multiple voicings or ‘hetroglossia’ is a key feature of television-based play where one child can index various social roles and explore multi-valent approaches to play under the narrative ‘backstory’ of a television show. The great public criticism of television and play surrounding it is that it is repetitive and somehow impoverished in content, yet research on hetroglossic play and play in general argue that play is always repetitive in some elements, philosopher’s such as Latour and Gadamer argue that the ‘to-and-fro’ nature of play is a fundamental part of all games, and it is through this method that a child learns to understand the pressures of modernity and how to control their own environment.


March 24, 2009

The Objects of Creativity

Tomohiro (Tomo) Morisawa, ISCA, Oxford University

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Last month I started my PhD in Anthropology at the University of Oxford. Through an ethnography of the production process of anime movies in Japan, my research will look at how socially negotiated ideas of creativity, facilitated by the institution of copyright law, have come to articulate the terms with which animators evaluate one another's work as well as their professional development. Through this project, I plan to engage with the emerging debate in anthropology about the concept and practices of creativity (Liep 2001, Hisrch and MacDonald 2005, Ingold and Hallam 2008) and intellectual property (Strathern 1999, 2006, Brown 1998, 2003, Myers 2005 etc.).

Whereas the analytical potential of creativity as a topic has been rather well discussed, I believe a more ethnographic engagement still finds ample space to be explored. The starting premise of the project is that ethnographic engagement with creativity does not yield much satisfactory result without turning to the legal and economic regime of intellectual property rights (Leach 2007). Both stem intricately from philosophy of John Locke and the Western liberalist tradition of possessive individualism (cf. Macpherson 1962). This point is brilliantly exposed in ethnographies of copyright, which look at how differing conceptions of authorship may prove to be a critical problem in determining ownership (Myers 2005). The ethnographic focus on creativity - the twin concept of authorship - where the local and the international regimes of copyright do not significantly differ i.e. Japan (but see for other examples Geismar 2005a, 2005b) will not only add on to the emerging literatures of creativity and intellectual property in anthropology, but also facilitate a connection between them.

Anime is a Japanese abbreviation for the English word 'animation', which has increasingly come to specifically mean animation movies produced in Japan and consumed worldwide. Currently, the estimated number of anime programmes broadcast on TV networks amount up to 80 per week domestically; the wide availability corresponding with its high visibility within popular cultures and media in Japan. However, the rise in the presence of anime related subculture also led to its polarized reception in public discourses during the past decade, oscillating between anime as the expression of creativity and that as arresting social malady.

Whereas the ideal of creativity in anime is personified in a few master animators such as Miyazaki Hayao, who has come to embody everything Japan aspires to as the master of personal creativity, malicious images of anonymous (more often than not male) consumers who are latent public offenders and social misfits also began to dominate in daily shows and sensational news media. This shift from creative individual to malfunctioning mass also traces a change in public imagination from the side of production to that of consumption. While 'genius' animators produce 'creative' art-like crafts, 'anonymous' consumers destroys the value by turning them into fetish commodities.

The government has promoted the anime industry as Japan's core 'softpower', and the relative success of such anime films like "Spirited Away" and "Pokemon" abroad are shaking up something of its newly defined sense of cultural uniqueness verging on that of superiority. Yet, the daily work the professional animators actually carve out at the studio, as the result of their labour, is anything but spectacular. Rather, it is the banality of it all that may perplex the researcher on the first encounter - a thousand of stop motion drawings which are hard to make heads or tails for non-professionals. By focussing on how animators make use of the concept of creativity in articulating their work and personal ideals I will be able to examine the juncture between creativity, work, and personhood, onto which the larger ideas of national future have come to be staked.

Starting from October 2009, I will conduct a 12 month fieldwork at a yet-to-be-specified anime production studio in Suginami-ku district of Tokyo, where almost one fifth of the entire industry (approx. 80 studios) is concentrated. Ideally, I will work as an assistant to the production-management section of the given studio, which foresees the schedule management of ongoing projects and entails highly frequent face to face interactions with animators. In the field, I will pay particular attention to how references to the ideas of creativity entail the corresponding references to the material forms it is objectified. That is to say, when animators talk about their work, and actually produce their drawings, how personification, objectification, and idealization of creativity all play out in such a way to elude rather than cement the boundaries between them.

March 10, 2009

Limited Edition: The Consumption of Music Box Sets and the Politics of Distinction

Andrew Bowsher, D.Phil Candidate at the Institute for Social and Cultural Anthropology at Oxford University

My research project explores the production, marketing and consumption of boxed-sets of recorded specialist music in Europe and North America. Boxed-sets collect archival materials pertaining to musical genres, eras and artists in elaborate packaging. They run in limited numbers, and are highly sought-after by music fans and collectors, who view them as valuable cultural artefacts and tributes to artistic legacies of cultural importance. Through an ethnographic investigation of practices surrounding these nostalgic goods, I examine the complex creative processes involved in producing these specific commodities, the dynamics of collecting practices, and the specific forms of sociality created through participating in fan culture to question anthropological theories of value creation in commercial marketplaces and consumer lifestyles (Graeber 2001) from a new perspective.

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By questioning why boxed-sets are so prized and important to consumers, my methodological and theoretical consideration of anthropological debates creates a perspective for understanding how the value of boxed-sets is produced, negotiated and sustained. My study on boxed-sets questions previous anthropological research into the industries of cultural goods, which has suggested that producers can engender specific consumer reactions to goods through advertising (Moeran 1996), or that producers’ efforts have little impact on consumer behaviour (Miller 1997). By understanding how musical nostalgia and memory are packaged for, utilised by, and become symbolically powerful for consumers of boxed-sets, my research anthropologically analyses cultural industries by novelly researching the sociality of boxed-sets’ consumers, and their relationship with music producers, to anthropologically explore market dynamics, consumer agency and the creation of inalienable, culturally dense valuables (Weiner 1994). My study employs ethnomusicological literature (Frith 1998, Seeger 1986), but adds a pertinent new dimension to anthropology’s study of music by investigating music as a commodity within the context of cross-cultural transmissions and sociality (Hannerz 1987). My research on boxed-sets also critiques current shifts in the anthropological research agenda on consumption from focussing on shopping, fashion, and taste to consumption in the home and commodity disposal.

Methodologically, my research combines the biographical model for studying objects grounded in anthropology (Kopytoff 1986) and the commodity-chain approach developed by geographers. I am currently conducting a multi-sited ethnography that examines the specific social and economic practices surrounding boxed-sets as they move from their production in the US to their consumption in the UK. I will conduct ethnography where boxed-sets are consumed in the UK and North America, in spaces ranging from concerts and conventions to Internet sites and fan literature.

Moreover, in a six-month internship with Revenant Records in Austin, Texas, I aim to gain insights into the multiple creative processes crucial to designing their unique boxed-sets, and to understand how this influences the value that consumers perceive in their commodities. Thusfar in Austin, I have come to realize the importance of authentic aesthetics in the city, and have further realized the trend-setting capabilities of this local music-market in the wider marketplace. It is clear therefore that Austin’s local characteristics impact upon industry-wide concepts of authenticity from production through to consumption, and these factors appear to bear influence upon the viable production of box sets by companies such as Revenant Records. Austin’s magnetism within the global music industry has made it the heartland for many subcultural styles; how this melting-pot of a city has prized musical authenticity and simultaneously nurtured many musical genres and modes of production is something I wish now to understand as part of my research; to understand how the local aesthetic for the ‘real’ and ‘authentic’ has affected the reception of Austin’s products in the global marketplace. My research has therefore benefited from immersion in a local music industry with worldwide influence. I anticipate to finish this research and my D.Phil by the end of 2010.

Any interest, comments or suggestions would be most welcome to this work-in-progress.

March 6, 2009

Up the river – Ifugao extras and the making of Apocalypse Now

Deirdre McKay (Keele Univ) & Padmapani Perez (Leiden Univ)

Francis Ford Coppola’s experiences on the Apocalypse Now shoot in the Philippines were famously a journey ‘up the river’ into the director’s own hour of darkness. His wife, Eleanor Coppola, published her own account of life on the set and made a documentary [1]. She details how, ill and beset by cost overruns on his production budget, Coppola had also run out of creative juice—having no idea what to do for the final scene. On August 24, 1976, Eleanor Coppola wrote:

In the script, Kurtz’s band of renegade soldiers has trained a tribe of local Montagnard Indians to be a fighting team. They live in huts by the temple. Rather than dress up Filipino extras everyday, Francis asked Eva, a production assistant, to go to a northern province where the rice terraces are and recruit a real tribe of primitive people to come live on the set and be in the scenes. I hear she is trying to make a contract with a group of 250 Ifugao Indians….

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Two of Edgar’s friends, in costume, with one of the props they built for Kurtz’s temple. (Edgar Dupingay)

The production was successful in recruiting a larger group of Ifugao people to act as extras on the film. They joined the shooting first in Baler, Quezon – the site of the “Charlie don’t surf” scene – and then in Pagsanjan, Laguna – at Kurtz’s “temple.” Living in accommodation around the set, the Ifugao extras constructed props, made handicrafts to sell, and continued their cultural life.

As Coppola puzzled over how to stage the death of Kurtz, Eleanor called him to see some of the Ifugao extras who were conducting a ritual. Coppola watched the ritual slaughter of a carabao (water buffalo) and immediately decided to incorporate what he had seen into the film. If his genius as filmmaker lies in the images he incorporates into his movies, he actually took these images straight out of Ifugao ritual.

The famous final scenes of Apocalypse Now thus show the Ifugao extras hacking apart a carabao. All the Ifugao extras we interviewed in 2002 insisted that this scene wasn't in the script. "That came from us!" Many audiences flinch. Maybe they don't want to think about the origins of meat? Or is it the apparent savagery of the ritual? These are superficial readings and westernized audiences don't see that there is much more to this than meets the eye!

This scene is reminiscent of the old colonial relations reported in the National Geographic of the early 1900s. [2] In the early colonial era, U.S. appointed provincial governors held "cañaos"—large redistributive prestige feasts. In a traditional Ifugao cañao, a carabao or several were slaughtered and the meat was doled out by the feast's sponsor to relatives in order of their importance to the sponsor. The Americans sponsored these feasts to make peace between fractious Ifugao villages and establish colonial hegemony over the redistribution of wealth and justice. Since the Americans had no relatives, in their cañaos the order of precedence was 'up for grabs'—particular Ifugao community leaders vied for the first chance to strike a blow on the carabao, in order to show their affinity with their hosts. Men armed with bolos rushed to the carabao in a running melee until all the meat was taken from the bones, attempting to outdo each other in symbolically claiming kinship with the Americans. Photos of cañaos suggested the carabao slaughter was a 'free-for all,' reinforcing American ideas that Filipinos were primitive and barbaric.

To the Ifugao,
the carabao remained a symbol of colonial power and its slaughter by the Ifugao became the symbolic tax levied on the Spanish as colonial overlord. But the carabao holds a deeper significance in Ifugao ritual. The carabao entered the rice terraces of what is now Ifugao Province when Ifugao people living along the Magat River were displaced by Spanish incursions. The river ran through lowland Ifugao, separated the uplands of Ifugao Province from the neighboring lowland provinces of Isabela and Nueva Viscaya. The Spanish tried to Christianize the population and bring them into reducciones (or mission settlements). The Ifugao abandoned their hunting grounds along the Magat and moved up to the mountains.

The theft of the animals by raiders from the Ifugao uplands was understood as a form of payment exacted from the Spanish for the use of the land the latter had occupied. As one Ifugao elder described it: "First, we just killed the carabao and carried the meat. Then we saw that it could be done to lead the carabao back. That was our pride, to kill many carabaos for meat when there was a death. That's how we were rich, sharing the meat."[3]

To the Ifugao, the carabao remained a symbol of colonial power and its slaughter by the Ifugao became the symbolic tax levied on the Spanish as colonial overlord. Therefore, the prestige and the feast retain an ambivalent quality. Even as the Ifugao accept the gift of meat, they are symbolically assassinating the imperial donor.

In the actual filming of this scene, the natives (as Cambodians) are led in a dance and ritual by Guimbatan, a respected mumbaki (ritual specialist or ‘native priest’). Guimbatan came from Banaue, and the performances retain definitive Banaue Ifugao elements of expression and gestures.

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In discussion: Francis Ford Coppolla, Lily Luglug and Guimbatan, the mumbaki (Lily and Gerry Luglug)

Coppola was "in love" with the Ifugao since he was so reluctant to let them leave. Some of the Ifugao even said that they shouldn't show Coppola any more rituals; otherwise they would never be allowed to go home.

The former extras told us that, after Coppola first witnessed the carabao ritual slaughter, he tried to shoot every ritual that the Ifugao performed. Once he asked Roben Bahatan if the Ifugao elders could chant in one of the scenes. Roben said that they would be willing but that the utterance of those chants must always be accompanied by a sacrifice of chickens. So Coppola went overboard and ordered a whole truckload of chickens, which were then distributed to the entire Ifugao group.

Just before the Ifugao left for home, they performed one more ritual. Gerry Luglug saw Coppola throw down his cap and swear, "Shit, why didn't they show us this before? I want that for the film." Lily Luglug, who led the Ifugao extras along with her husband Gerry, Roben, and Benjamin Cappelman remembered forming a similarly impression. It seemed to her that Coppola was "in love" with the Ifugao extras since he was so reluctant to let them leave. Some of the Ifugao people even said that they shouldn't show Coppola any more rituals; otherwise they would never be allowed to go home.

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Edgar on set in his warrior costume. (Edgar Dupingay)

In December 1976, the Ifugao extras completed their contract with the production company and returned home. In contrast to their trip down to the set, Lily Luglug made sure they traveled comfortably. They rode in air-conditioned coasters and were escorted by the local police in every province that they drove to. When they reached Dalton Pass – the beginning of the mountains - Gerry Luglug told the police to go home, "Baka kami pa ang mag-escort sa inyo dito" (maybe we had better escort you from here on).

In our interviews, the former Ifugao extras recalled their participation in the film with a mixture of fondness and smugness. Their having been part of the filming is more important to the Ifugao than the film itself. Benjamin Cappelman said, "You feel proud that you're part of the film but first it was just about the money." He recalled that he was paid about $500 a week for managing the Ifugao extras, and the exchange rate then was P7 per $. Prior to the filming, he was earning P350 a month as a teacher.

For Edgar Dupingay, one of the on-screen extra actors, "seeing the movie filmed, it lessened my belief…. In the movie, you are attracted with them, you are believing what is being performed there. But, when I saw it for myself, it lessened my interest. Now, I only take in the history of the movie. Now, I don't believe already—once I have seen it, I know it is not true… In my experience there, at least by myself, I have done what they call filming. I stand in front of a camera and it's even an American film. It's a good experience for myself, when it comes to film. I'm a common person here, but I have experience. I was trained, for a short time, in martial arts for the film and even firing guns. Only we didn't operate the cannon… We learned how to load, to really attack and capture the object. It's like being a soldier without entering the military."

Edgar remembered that he even went to Bayombong, Nueva Viscaya (the nearest cinema) to see the film and was dismayed by how many scenes were missing. "I didn't even see my face there. I was very eager to see Brando with us. That was the scene where Brando investigated Sheen. We were dragging Martin Sheen to him."

Lily Luglug, who led the recruiting of the Ifugao group explained, "It was fun because it helped a lot of people here. They experienced traveling to a far place, there was good food. It was like a vacation for most of them. No hard work! We were pampered. There were truckloads of ducks and chickens. Drinks all over the place, lanzones (a delicious lowland fruit), toilet paper. For me, when I saw the making of the film I lost interest in watching other films. I don't get so excited so much because I know they fake it. It must have been a nice experience for the other women too. They traveled, they were a community together, they liked doing what they were asked to do, and some met future husbands."

All in all, our interviewees suggested that being in a Hollywood film and contributing to its ending was no big deal to the worldly Ifugao, really. It was fun while it lasted, and then life went on as usual and films thereafter lost their luster. No one could have said this better than Benjamin Cappelman. When we first asked him to tell us about his experiences on the set, he replied: "Apocalypse Now? That's Apocalypse Yesterday already!"

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[1] Coppola, E. 1979 Notes on the Making of Apocalypse Now (London: Faber & Faber) and her documentary on the shoot, Hearts of Darkness.

[2] See Worcester, D. "Field sports among the wild men of Northern Luzon" National Geographic 22(3), 1911: 215-267; Worcester, D. "Head-hunters of Northern Luzon" National Geographic 23(9), 1912: 833-930; Worcester, D. "The non-Christian peoples of the Philippines-with an account of what has been done for them under American Rule" National Geographic 24(11), 1913: 1157-1256.

[3] The sacrifice of a carabao is part of rituals to cure sickness and misfortune as well as to honor the dead.

The images are courtesy of Lily and Gerry Luglug and Edgar Dupingay. The text is excerpted from a larger collaborative research study by Deirdre McKay (Keele University) and Padmapani Perez (University of the Philippines Baguio City and PhD candidate, Leiden University).

Versions of it appear in Flip Magazine (2003, v.2, n.3, pp. 29-33, 90-91) and the Filipino e-zine Our Own Voice
http://www.ourownvoice.com/essays/essay2004a-3.shtml.

February 27, 2009

PARENTING BY PHONE AND INTERNET – THE CASE OF THE FILIPINO DIASPORA

Daniel Miller, UCL

Over the last two months I have been conducting fieldwork in the Philippines, based in Manila and the surrounding countryside, along with Dr. Mirca Madianou from the University of Cambridge. One of my long term interests in material culture is new media, and its impact on relationships, and the project that we are engaged in, which later on will also include fieldwork in Trinidad, is to take this to the extreme. If you want to know how far the media itself can constitute or transform a relationship then this can be most fully explored when a relationship is entirely dependent upon that media.

Over the last year Mirca and myself have been getting to know members of the Filipino Diaspora population in London and Cambridge. Mostly the individuals we work with are domestic labourers but many are also nurses. Although there are big populations of Diaspora male Filipinos, for example, working on ships, we are working almost entirely with women. Perhaps unusually for such migrant female populations, almost all our informants first married and had children, and only then migrated for work. For many reasons, they were restricted in leaving the countries where they worked, which in most cases were places such as Saudi and Hong Kong, before coming to the UK. As a result, apart from occasional Christmas visits, they have mainly been absent for the entirety of the time during which their children have grown up.
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A Child whose mother lives in the UK

We went to the Philippines in order to talk to the children of these same mothers. Most of whom are now young adults, and in some cases have children themselves. We have worked now with twenty direct `pairings,’ where we are involved with mothers and children in the same family, but also with many more separate parents and children. In our discussions we usually start with a history of the time when the relationships were mainly sustained through the sending of letters and in most cases also cassette tapes. While today we have mothers who are using yahoo messenger, skype, and in some cases a social networking site, which is very popular in the Philippines, called Friendster. Most people are also aware that the Philippines has for many years been the world’s most prolific texting nation, and in the Philippines texting is central to the creation and maintenance of almost all relationships – in fact the greatest number of texts sent, tends to be on Valentine’s day. Without twenty or thirty texts a day people feel there may be something lacking in any given relationship. I think we startled a few people by using the phone for calling them, since in the Philippines this usually signifies an emergency or problem.

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Image from telecommunications company in Manila.

We havn’t yet started our detailed analysis of the material we have collected over the last eighteen months, but it is already clear this will require us to work on two levels. We will obviously have to involve ourselves in the discourse that dominates this situation, which is simply a concern with the impact of this absence on the left behind children. Almost everyone in the Philippines has seen a locally made film Anak which portrays a young woman getting pregnant, taking drugs but mainly berating her mother who is visiting from her work in Hong Kong, for destroying her life by being absent for her childhood. This is a much debated issue in the academic literature, and we obviously have a great deal of information that bears upon this debate. In general there had been a supposition that the improvement in technology would be mainly significant in its ability to ameliorate the negative consequence of absence, as mothers who could now speak to the their children several times a day could to some degree recover their role as active parents to children on the opposite side of the world. Not surprisingly, perhaps, we found this to be far too simple a story; and that in many ways the improvement in technology can exacerbate, rather than improve, what are seen as the negative consequences of separation.

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Learning to use the internet prior to migration

We will clearly become involved in these debates. But working as anthropologists it is already evident to us that the debate itself sets up often inappropriate and imposed presuppositions about what it means to be a mother, about the nature of childhood, about how communication operates in relationships, not to mention a failure to consider other aspects of the situation such as the wider impact of poverty and prior internal migration. From a material culture perspective, the way we hope to approach these more nuanced appreciations and engagements is through detailed attention to the media themselves and the precise nature of their position, not just as media, but as mediations in relationships. What is a Filipino social networking site? Why is texting quite so ubiquitous, other than just cost? What kinds of text circulate? Which messages are retained as memories? What is shared and what is private? How does each media manifest different possibilities of relationships and to what extent does it realise something within the relationship as opposed to create some new potential in that relationship? We would then want to relate these materialities of communication to more specific Filipino concepts of debt, kinship and obligation.

As often happens in such fieldwork, one starts with a largely academic reason for developing a project, as I just suggested an `extreme’ dependency upon the media. But of course once one starts fieldwork it is the humanity of the people one works with and the sadness and suffering that that is associated with separation, as well as the new freedoms and the ability to contribute to one’ family that takes centre stage. Although at this point we are focused on the Filipino Diaspora we are also very much aware that this world of remittance economies, separated families and transnational communities, is fast becoming one of global transformation and global experience, which makes even the ten million Filipino Diaspora just a small component of a vast new world. It is an issue that more and more anthropologists are likely to find themselves engaged with, even if it was never the topic they intended to study, simply because its prevalence and consequences will increasingly impose itself upon us. Meanwhile, over the next few months, we hope that we will be able to bring some insights to this particular and poignant example of the social and welfare consequences of new media.

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Mother

January 16, 2009

The Relational Museum


Chris Gosden, School of Archaeology, Univ. of Oxford

Just how we should think about, and work in, museums is a considerable question at the beginning of the 21st century. Older ways of thinking about museums, as sets of static, decontextualised objects, are unhelpful and inaccurate. Museum objects are in a very definite set of contexts, even if they have been through a series of networks and relations to get where they are at present. The Relational Museum project, which ran from 2002 to 2006, was based around the idea that museum objects to some degree conceal the mass of relations that lie behind them, ranging from the people who originally made and used the objects, to all parties to their trade and transfer and ending, for now at least, with the curators, conservators and visitors who make up the museum community in the present.

Charting the relations that have helped compose a museum will provide insights into the colonial relations of administrators, missionaries, travellers and anthropologists, the changing situations of local people responding to and participating in these colonial forces, shifting intellectual fashions in the metropolitan centre lying behind collections and a mass of biographies of people of all types whose lives were entangled with objects and collections. Museum collections represent a privileged form of historical source composed of the objects themselves and the various links to other material backgrounds they have enjoyed, written and oral histories, archival materials, photographs and film. The Relational Museum project looked at the collections of the Pitt Rivers Museum, Oxford from 1884, when the museum was set up, to 1945, the beginning of the end of the British Empire. The project was funded by the ESRC and directed by Chris Gosden and Mike O’Hanlon, but the real work was done by the two researchers on the project Frances Larson, who concentrated on archival and historical work and Alison Petch, whose main task was to enhance the computerised databases of the Pitt Rivers and to carry out a mass of statistical analyses on them looking at when objects came in, where they came from and through which hands or conduits. In addition to articles, the project had two main outcomes – a website http://history.prm.ox.ac.uk/ and a book, Knowing Things. Both are linked and meant to be understood together. Although the book is the result of our reflections, the website contains material for anyone interested to carry out their own analyses.

The main aim of our project was to investigate the sets of relationships between people and things that make up the Pitt Rivers Museum. Let us start with one small example of what these relationships might involve. There are two ‘jew’s harps’ in the Pitt Rivers Museum – these are small, inconspicuous bamboo instruments that are held against the lips and plucked with the fingers. The Museum’s curator, Henry Balfour, acquired these two instruments in the Naga Hills of India in 1922. He was staying with his friend, James Mills, a Sub-Divisional Officer with the Indian Civil Service who was stationed at Mokokchung in the Naga Hills. On 1st December, Balfour visited a Chang Naga man called Ngaku, who worked as an interpreter at Mokokchung. They spent a ‘cheery’ time together discussing local traditions and practices, before the mother of a friend of Ngaku’s played the jew’s harp for their British visitor. After ‘quite a pleasing melodious performance’, the old woman gave Balfour two similar instruments for his ‘memsahib’, by which she probably meant Balfour’s wife. Memsahib is the female form of the Hindi word ‘sahib’, then used as respectful address for Europeans in India. From the use of this single word we know that during the course of the transaction Balfour was implicated in the existing social hierarchies in Mokokchung and India as a whole. The two jew’s harps are now in the collections at the Pitt Rivers Museum, but they were not accessioned until 1939, the year Balfour died. His wife, Edith, had passed away in 1938, so perhaps he did give them to her as the Naga lady had intended (the details supplied here are drawn from Balfour’s notebooks of his trip to Nagaland, held in the Pitt Rivers Museum and from documentation pertaining to the objects themselves).

These two bamboo instruments have quickly drawn us into a little cluster of relationships, involving Mills, Balfour, Ngaku, Ngaku’s friend’s mother, and Balfour’s wife. We cannot now know what Ngaku and his elderly friend understood of the Pitt Rivers Museum, if anything, but their stories have been part of the institution ever since, because their actions and interactions helped to create it, albeit in a small way. Rather than being distant observers, Ngaku and his friend are participants in the formation of the Pitt Rivers Museum. They are implicated and involved, and integral to the institution as a whole. Museums emerge through thousands of relationships like these; through the experiences of anthropological subjects, collectors, curators, lecturers and administrators, amongst others, and these experiences have always been mediated and transformed by the material world, by artefacts, letters, trains, ships, furniture, computers, display labels, and so on. No one person or group of people can completely control the identity of a museum. They have multiple authors, who need not be aware of their role nor even necessarily willing contributors. But however else each person’s involvement differs, all of their relationships cohere around things. It is objects that have drawn people together, helped to define their interactions, and made them relevant to the Museum.

This project had a series of intersecting research themes concerning variously the disciplinary histories of archaeology and anthropology, the history of museums within Oxford (itself embedded in broader discussions concerning the sciences and humanities), the nature of colonial histories as illuminated through the movement of objects, links with originating communities and an overarching concern for the relations between people and things. These themes include many of the big current issues within archaeology, anthropology and science and technology studies, so that a lot has been written about these topics, but we know of no one work which has combined in the way we have, focussing crucially on the collections of one large institution which provides coherence and focus.

The general ambit of thought within which we are working is that which explores the interactions and relationships between people and things. The notion is that people and things are equal (although different) players in the creation of social relations, institutions, knowledge and politics. Such ideas allow material things to be active players in the human world in manners which are still controversial and debated – in what sense objects are active or are agents is not at all clear or agreed and many are unhappy with this line of thought altogether (Gell 1998, Ingold 2000, Latour 1993, 2005, Strathern 1996). A museum which has lasted several human generations is given continuity through the objects in it, which are conventionally seen to be the museum, rather than the people. For museums it may be an issue as to how far people are active players.

The key idea of the Relational Museum is to look at the relationships between people and things in an historical context, charting how both continuity and change arise. Rather to our surprise a key issue has become through the course of the project a question about the nature of knowledge and the manner in which knowledge is embodied as well as, or instead of, being a mental construction. In the early twenty first century a number of divisions are breaking down, first of all between disciplines such as archaeology and anthropology, but also between key conceptual divisions such as culture and nature, or mind and matter. The Pitt Rivers Museum was established in 1884 at a period in which disciplinary boundaries had not been drawn up and the conceptual landscape different to that of today. There is no way in which we can return to the intellectual landscape of the late nineteenth century, but this was a world sufficiently different from our own to shake up now established forms of thought and provide some inspiration for the future. In particular, a general lack of distinction was made, by people like E. B. Tylor, between the material and the mental, so that objects were seen as materialisations of ideas, interacting with the skills of the body, as much as the operations of the mind.

Our particular focus has been on one museum, that of the Pitt Rivers, in the first 60 years of its history. There is a considerable literature on the history of museums and collecting (e.g. Barringer and Flynn 1998, Pearce 1995) but there has been surprisingly little in the way of detailed empirical studies of individual institutions and their collections. This, we suspect, is because working out when collections came into a museum, from whom and from where has been very difficult, a difficult now partly overcome through searchable electronic databases. We feel that our work has made a unique contribution in a number of important areas.

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The Anthropology Diploma class of 1910-11. Back row from left - Wilson D. Wallis, Diamond Jenness and Marius Barbeau. Front row from left - Henry Balfour, Arthur Thomson and Robert Ranulph Marett.

We have charted the first sixty years of the Museum’s existence looking at the intellectual, institutional and political forces influential in its creation. This has been made possible through the creation of electronic versions of the Museum’s catalogues which can be searched relatively rapidly and systematically. Because the Museum’s holdings are so large and various, now comprising some 275,000 objects from all continents of the world, we chose a number of routes into the collections, particularly those provided by the collectors. Some 4000 people are known to have collected objects in the ‘field’ (whether this is West Africa, Tasmania or north Oxfordshire) which they gave to the Museum, either directly or indirectly. Such a large number of collectors threw light on issues of class, gender and social networks which lay behind the Museum’s collections. We also concentrated on a number of topics (stone tools, toys and games, head hunting to take a few) important to the history of the Museum in various ways. Lastly, we selected out a small number of people either within the Museum or outside, who threw light on different aspects of the Museum’s history. This group was made up first of Pitt Rivers himself whose gift of 20,000 objects provided the starting point for the Museum. Analysis of this collection, which built up from the 1850s onwards, allowed us to extend our period of analysis back to the middle of the nineteenth century. Henry Balfour was employed for a year to unpack Pitt Rivers’ collection but stayed in the Museum until his death in 1939 and became the major force behind the build up of the collections through travel, letter writing and conversation which meant that he either gathered objects himself or encouraged others to collect. E. B. Tylor, the first professional anthropologist in Britain, was employed as Keeper of the University Museum from 1883 and oversaw the acquisition and initial ordering of the Museum. He had much less hands-on connection with the objects than Balfour but was the major intellectual force behind the Museum in the 1880s and 1890s, producing important work on objects and their role in religious life, magic and technology.
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Henry Balfour, Upper Gallery PRM some time in 1890s

John Hutton never worked for the Museum, but became a member of the Indian Civil Service in 1909, working in particular in Assam and especially in the Naga Hills. Through his friendship with Balfour, Hutton collected large amounts of material, especially from Naga, which he gave to the Museum. He also formed a focus for others to collect and donate. Hutton was a small, but exemplary, element of the British colonial world and its entanglement with anthropology and collection. In 1937 Hutton became William Wyse Professor of Social Anthropology, University of Cambridge. Charles Seligman’s major institutional affiliation was with the LSE, but he, with his wife Brenda, was a major collector for a number of different institutions including the Pitt Rivers Museum. The Seligman archive at the LSE provides considerable detail on the Seligmans’ style of fieldwork in the Sudan, Ceylon (Sri Lanka) and New Guinea and the impact that their survey mode of work had on patterns of collection of objects given to the Pitt Rivers Museum. Our final collector was Beatrice Blackwood who worked for a long time in the Department of Anatomy at Oxford, but latterly at the Pitt Rivers Museum where she stayed as an active presence until her death in 1975. Blackwood carried out fieldwork in north America and New Guinea which resulted in important collections. She was attracted to a Malinowskian style of fieldwork, more sedentary than the Seligmans, but was never quite able to achieve her aims, partly because of demands by Balfour to collect for the Museum. Blackwood was an important teacher of ethnography using the Museum’s collections, as well as being instrumental in setting up the catalogues that were later to be digitised to form the base for the Relational Museum project. We chose this range of collectors to provide some chronological span, which provided an insight into changing intellectual interests, styles of fieldwork and thoughts about the centrality of material culture to anthropology. The resulting work was not a history of the Pitt Rivers Museum but a series of key insights into aspects of its history, which can be used to throw light on key questions in the present.

The 'Relational Museum' project team was interested not only in knowing more about the individuals who contributed to the PRM but also to understanding more about the networks of people who created the museums collections. We were quickly confronted by a daunting mass of information concerning thousands of collectors and donors who have contributed to the Museum’s development, and the thousands and thousands of objects with which they were associated. All these people and things were interconnected to varying degrees in complex ways. We considered that when faced with a complicated, shifting circulation of people and things that is literally endless – as is the case when considering the history of a museum, a person’s life, a business or a laboratory – network analysis was a stimulating and revealing methodological tool. We hoped it would throw up patterns in sets of social relationships hard to perceive otherwise, and that it would be a spur to more in-depth, nuanced research. This complexity might be clearer if seen through an example. Take a collection of around 80 objects, primarily pottery eating bowls, water vases, cooking pots and ladles, from the Zuni and Hopi people of Arizona and New Mexico. These particular objects were collected by James Stevenson, who, in 1879, led to the first research expedition for the Smithsonian’s newly formed Bureau of Ethnology to study Zuni and Hopi cultures. The collection – made sometime between 1879 and 1884 – passed from Stevenson to John Wesley Powell, who was Director of the Bureau, and then from Powell to Henry Nottidge Moseley, who was Oxford’s Linacre Professor of Comparative Anatomy. Moseley was great friends with E.B. Tylor. It may well be that he acquired the collection from Powell during his visit to Canada and the United States in 1884, since he and Tylor traveled together and spent some time studying the cultures of New Mexico during this trip. Tylor and Moseley managed the administration of Pitt Rivers Collection when it first arrived in Oxford in the mid-1880s, so it is no surprise that his wife, Amabel Nevill Moseley, donated his ethnological collections to the Pitt Rivers Museum in 1896, five years after his death. This small group of objects passed through four pairs of hands – Stevenson’s, Powell’s, Henry Moseley’s, and Amabel Moseley’s – before entering the collections at the Pitt Rivers Museum. The Museum contains well over 275,000 objects, so it is easy to see how complicated such sets of social relationships can become. Many, although by no means all, of the people who collected and donated objects were known to each other and moved in the same social and intellectual circles. They might have worked together, or traveled together, or been members of the same clubs and societies, or met the same people during the course of their research. The same field collectors sometimes supplied objects to a number of different secondary collectors, who later gave their material to the Museum. The scale and complexity of the relationships that have constituted the Pitt Rivers Museum led us to seek alternative ways of visualizing and analyzing our data. We used network analysis to complement our in-depth historical research with some broader exploration of these sets of associations and relationships en masse.

The late nineteenth century is often seen (and caricatured) as a period of intellectual certainty when people pursued an ‘onwards and upwards’ notion of history within an evolutionary framework. By contrast we found this to be a period of intellectual openness in which people were exploring the nature of human culture, its links to the material world and its intellectual manifestations. The Pitt Rivers Collection was initially taken into the University Museum, which had itself opened in 1860 as a physical location which could bring together the various sciences in Oxford, but within an holistic conception where the links between physics, chemistry and anatomy could be sought. The Pitt Rivers collection became part of the Anatomy Department, so that human products were conceived on in comparative terms in much the same manner as biological organisms. The divisions between natural things and human products were not made, partly because people like Balfour were trained in the Natural Sciences before working on artifacts. Both archaeology and anthropology emerged through a series of links between the sciences and classics, which seem unlikely today, brought together in the person of someone like E. B. Tylor who ranged widely between interests in fire drills or flint tools on the one hand to the differences between magic, myth and religion on the other. As the twentieth century progressed this open intellectual atmosphere was divided up due to the growth of disciplinary specialisms, so that at the end of his life Balfour was defending his broad conception of anthropology, and the importance of the Museum within that, against the newly-appointed Radcliffe-Brown, Professor of Social Anthropology, who wanted more specialist teaching and a division made between the older generalist degrees (Gosden et al. 2007). It was against these changing backgrounds that collecting took place and the role of material culture was debated. Although an over-simplification, it is possible to say that the debates within anthropology in the 1920s and 1930s were between an older more materialist view of the subject, in which material culture was central, to a newer post-Durkheimian stress on social relations. These debates are still being pursued today.

The main results from the project were analyses of the collections themselves, either pursued statistically or through the archives. As described in the Methods section we carried out a series of searches through the electronic catalogues of the Museum to discover when, from where and via which hands the collections came. We now know in great detail about the structure of collections from the various continents or countries or individual major collectors. Such statistics allow us to gain an overview of the collections as a whole, from which various surprises emerge, which include the number of stone tools we have in the collections (about a third of the collections are stone tools) or the number of objects from England (we have some 30,000 objects from England alone, which form the basis for a follow-on project). We can see that there was a lag between areas entering the Empire and collections flowing into Oxford – in the case of East Africa, annexed in the 1890s, material does not real flow into the Museum until the 1920s. A key result is to uncover the huge number of people (almost 4000) who contributed objects to the Museum that they had collected in the field which allows us to look at the broad community of collectors in terms of their class, gender and social connections, a vital result for the Relational Museum project. The raw data for this element of the project is provided on the Pitt Rivers Museum website (http://history.prm.ox.ac.uk/). One important element of this presentation is that people can search the website for themselves, if they are interested in an individual or a network of people who engaged in collecting, so that the results of the project lie not just in what we have been able to deduce about the collections but also what others can explore for themselves using the new and expanded information on the Museum.

We have attempted to make the objects and the museum itself active players in its history and constitution, starting with the question of what is a museum? Museums seem to be defined and circumscribed institutions, but in fact they spread out into space, existing also trans-temporally, raising questions about where the museum is and how it is constituted. Museums also seem to be objects collected by people, but it is easy to reverse this formulation and see objects drawing people into the Museum, through various forms of attraction of form and function. Tylor developed the concept of animism, a belief in the capacity that objects had to act and move which he felt was held by many people in the world and in some ways museums can be seen as being composed of objects animating people. The typological form of thought employed by Pitt Rivers, Balfour and Tylor divided up the world into a series of categories of objects, which could then be displayed in and through the Museum. This represents a very different intellectual approach to the forms of relational thought with which we work today, in which categories are temporary entities arising out of a network of connections between entities. The comparisons and contrasts between categorical and relational thought could be productively explored further.

As the Pitt Rivers Museum came into existence in Oxford in the 1880s this caused a considerable realignment of the University’s collections, with large transfers of ethnographic material from the Ashmolean Museum and smaller ones from the University Museum of Natural History. The University’s collections represent a form of categorisation of the world and collections change in shape as such categories change. The Pitt Rivers internally also can be seen as a means of representing the world through its collections, a representation transformed through changing intellectual and other interests. It is perhaps no surprise that there are so many stone tools from Australia, but it slightly more thought provoking that there is a considerable amount of material to do with witchcraft and magic from England or many Ashanti gold weights from West Africa, the former part of an attempt to work through so-called ‘primitive’ traits at home, the latter concerning an unsuspected sophistication of measurement and commerce amongst people outside Europe and Asia. Anomalies and puzzles were worked through in the Museum as much as the expected being reflected and this is a large part of its charm today.

We coined the term ‘participatory anthropology’ to look the range of collectors and source communities which helped created the Museum’s collections in the first sixty years of its existence. The Museum today is also trying to re-embrace forms of participation which allow real engagement with the collections and their possible significance. Ostensibly, the aim of this project has been to uncover the history of the Museum, but through working on this history we have uncovered many features that are still of relevance today and by making the history of the Museum accessible on the Web we hope to encourage more interactions with the collections both in a virtual and real form.

We feel that the project was a considerable success, but that an infinite number of similar projects might be possible at other institutions, which could eventually be joined into some sort of larger mapping of communities, colonial connections and institutional connections of various kinds. The ultimate aim of such mapping would be not just to understand the past, but to gain insights into the conditions which gave rise to collections and connections, so that these can be used as sets of raw materials in the present for making new sets of relationships between all parties in a post-colonial world.

One outcome of the Relational Museum project is follow up work on Englishness, also funded by the ESRC. Englishness is a recurrent issue within the identity politics of the British Isles, being generally framed as a problem, not a solution; a question rather than an answer. Debates about the definition of Englishness have come to the fore again recently, making it an ideal time for us to reconsider the history of the concept over the last century. Many writers make the point that modern concepts of Englishness developed at the end of the nineteenth century in a context marked by the rise of Germany and France as national powers, as well as worries about the decline of Empire (Colls 2002, Colls and Dodd 1986, Kumar 2003). It is no coincidence that just over a century later debates about what it means to be English are again achieving prominence in a context of perceived external threats through terrorism, immigration and globalization (Blunkett 2005). The nineteenth century construction of English identity was enacted and transformed through a range of publications, and the creation of university positions and other institutions designed to explore and propagate what it meant to be English. At first sight it might seem strange that Oxford’s Pitt Rivers Museum - founded in 1884 and overtly an ethnographic museum dealing with exotic peoples - should be involved in such developments. However, a considerable proportion of the collections of the PRM prove to be from England, ranging between then contemporary items and archaeological material.

We shall argue that the collections of the PRM were involved in attempts to define what it meant to be English in a manner which took a material form. Much of the change through the nineteenth century which put identity at risk concerned the material world, through the production of mass-produced goods, the rise of consumer society and an empirical science. It should come as no surprise that thoughts about local identity should take the form of collecting craft products, items concerned with witchcraft and magic or the making of folk music. The links between material culture and Englishness have been little studied. The English collections of the Pitt Rivers Museum offer a rich set of possibilities, allowing us to look both at the objects, but also the people who collected them, who were in many cases involved more broadly in setting up the Folklore Society or the Folk-Song Society. The English collections will provide a unique insight into the construction of the concept, but also an excellent starting point for looking at the mix of intellectual, biographical and social motives for collection, allowing us to set these within a wider context through the analysis of relevant archives and published sources. The result will be an ethnography not of the English, but of the construction of Englishness in the past and its continuing resonances today. Initial results from the project are to be found on a website still under construction -
http://england.prm.ox.ac.uk/

References
Barringer, T. and T. Flynn (eds) 1998. Colonialism and the Object. Empire, Material Culture and the Museum. London: Routledge.

Blunkett, D. 2005. A New England. An English Identity within Britain. Speech to the Institute for Public Policy Research, London, 14 March 2005.

Colls, R. 2002. The Identity of England. Oxford: Univ. Press.

Colls, R. and P. Dodd (eds) 1986. Englishness: Politics and Culture 1880-1920. Croom Helm.

Gell, A. 1998. Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Ingold, T. 2000. The Perception of the Environment. Essays in Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill. London: Routledge.

Kumar, K. 2003. The Making of English National Identity. Cambridge: Univ. Press.

Latour, B. 1993. We Have Never Been Modern. (trans. Catherine Porter). London: Harvester Wheatsheaf.

Latour, B., 2005. Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory. (trans. Catherine Porter). Oxford: Univ. Press.

Pearce, S. 1995. On Collecting. An Investigation into Collecting in the European Tradition. London: Routledge.

Strathern, M. 1996.‘Cutting the Network’. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, NS, 2: 517-35.

Outputs from the Relational Museum Project

Alison Petch 2004 'Collecting Immortality: the field collectors who contributed to the Pitt Rivers Museum, Oxford' Journal of Museum Ethnography 16: 127-139.

Alison Petch 2005 'The happiest years': J.H. Hutton and the Nagas' Friends of the PRM, Oxford Newsletter Issue 54 November.

Frances Larson. 2006 Anthropology as Comparative Anatomy? Reflecting on material culture studies during the late 1800s and the late 1900s' in Journal of Material Culture 12 (1): 89-112.

Frances Larson & Alison Petch. 2006 "Hoping for the best, expecting the worse": Thomas Kenneth Penniman - Forgotten Curator of the Pitt Rivers Museum Journal of Museum Ethnography 18: 125-139.

Alison Petch. 2006 "Counting and Calculating: Some reflections on using statistics to examine the history and shape of the collections at the Pitt Rivers Museum" Journal of Museum Ethnography 18: 149-156.

Gosden, C, F. Larson and A. Petch. 2007. Origins and Survivals. Tylor, Balfour and the Pitt Rivers Museum and their role within Anthropology in Oxford 1883-1905, in P. Rivière (ed.) A History of Oxford Anthropology Oxford: Berghahn Books. pp. 21-42.

Alison Petch 2006 'A Typology of Benefactors: the relationships of Pitt Rivers and Tylor to the Pitt Rivers Museum at the University of Oxford' Forum for Anthropology and Culture [Russia]

Alison Petch 2007 'Notes and Queries and the Pitt Rivers Museum' Museum Anthropology 30 (1): 21-39.

Alison Petch 2006 'Chance and Certitude: Pitt Rivers and his first collection' Journal of the History of Collections 18 (2): 257-266.

Frances Larson, David Zeitlyn and Alison Petch. 2007 'Social Networks and the Creation of the Pitt Rivers Museum' Journal of Material Culture 12 (3).

Frances Larson 2007 'Anthropological Landscaping: General Pitt Rivers, the Ashmolean, the University Museum, and the shaping of an Oxford discipline' - Journal of History of Collections.

December 20, 2008

Made in Brazil: Jeans and Identity Export to the Global Fantasy Market

Szilvia Simai-Mesquita,
Institute of Advanced Studies, University of Sao Paulo, Brazil

The research "Made in Brazil: Jeans and Identity Export to the Global Fantasy Market", explores how the representation of Brazilian-ness today can be understood through the visibilities of a new identity construction which is driven by a desire for emancipation but which is subject to a neo-colonial concern for a favourable image abroad as a prerequisite for further foreign investment in the country. This ambiguous position is analysed in a recent working paper focusing on the process of fantasy construction for export.

In this recent paper I argued that (i) the construction of images of Brazilian-ness is a very complex and ambiguous process containing a large amount of fetishism and determined by post-colonial mimicry; (ii) cultural fetishism contributes to the materialization of the Brazilian national imaginary. Through the Brazilian samba-jeans fetish various national imaginaries can be studied; (iii) finally, the importance of the exploitation of Brazilian exoticism in these existing fantasies were discussed and considered whether the samba-jeans myth was part of a bigger political–economic process and whether it contributes to the glamorization of misery for global marketing purposes.

Three image-contributing fantasies – (i) the tropical, (ii) the post-colonial female and her body, and (iii) the samba and the carnivalesque – were explored in the research paper and it was argued that the fetishistic power of these fantasies drive people to perceive Brazilian samba jeans not in their 'thing-ness' but in their fantasized state of fabricated representation of Brazilian-ness abroad, which feeds the myth and popularity of these jeans and creates a longing for them.

The opening question from which the analysis sets out was an etymology inspired interdisciplinary exploration of the name Brazil. Through this initial analysis it is uncovered that Brazil has a history of intrinsic mimesis, born out of mimicry and carrying this weight in its own name. The word 'Brazil' is a corruption of the European name for the Malaysian sapang tree, from whose reddish wood was drawn an extract not unlike saffron, but which tints less and has no flavour. When this was discovered and trafficked from the tropical South this corresponding part of the New World metonymically assumed an alien name, the nominally transferred referential for the whole territory.

According to this view, Pau Brasil, 'Brazil-wood', was the first notable item to be exported from this land but was also a designator of the land itself and ultimately of its identity by carrying the name of the first exported object in the name of its own identity. Thus Brazilian-ness also has a complex symbolic sphere in analysis. This nominal condemnation of the colonial rulers, the eye of the outside world, understandably became the dominant perspective and intrinsic for the invention of Brazil's self-image throughout its history. Pau Brasil was also a powerful cultural movement in twentieth-century Brazil. The Brazilian poet Oswald de Andrade (1890–1954) initiated the Poesia Pau Brasil (Brazil-wood Poetry) in 1925 when he published his famous 'Brazil-wood Manifesto'. Brazil-wood was his intended symbol for Brazilian culture as an international commodity in its own right; his Brazil-wood Poetry was conceived of as an export product, as something to combat the historical imitation of European models.

The end of colonialism, resistance, modernization contributed to the development of the modern Brazilian national exotic or Creole identity: the one who felt sympathy for his or her own cultural exoticism and heritage, the one who put an emphasis on the new ideology of multiracial Brazil, but who at the same time desired to attain socio-economic prestige and the imagined cultural sophistication of the former European colonizers. This struggle of ambiguity and auto-contradiction drove Brazilians to initiate the creation of an exoticized image of their own Brazilian-ness. This psycho-social process has become a political and economic strategy during the last few decades and has formed itself into a national strategy. Visual materials of Brazilian Samba Jeans used in my research provided ideological insight into this Brazilian strategy and national imaginary.

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The first strategic Brazilian Samba Jeans myth contributing fantasy explored in my working paper was the tropical fantasy. I found that fantasized images of the tropical in Brazilian jeans catalogues are overwhelming. These images include bright sunshine, beautiful beaches, tropical paradise and fruits. Such powerful tropical fantasies are used by many prestigious Brazilian jeans companies. As Picture 1 clearly shows, the Sawary Jeans catalogue used eight pictures and attached the parts to one another on its opening page. These pictures are lacking in variety and repeat common images of the tropical. These include green, tropical forests; tropical beaches, palm trees and Mediterranean-style architecture. These pictures are then repeated on the following pages, where young women appear wearing various Sawary jeans placed on the pictures introduced on the opening page. In fact, the idea comes through clearly; the tropical images appear far more in the catalogue than any of the jeans models, which clearly reinforces the idea that Sawary is selling a tropical fantasy rather than jeans as things in themselves. Similar images can be found in the brochure of the Samba-Jeans Company, showing the beach at Rio de Janeiro (Picture 2).

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This Rio image has, in fact, historically been seen in Brazilian culture as a symbol of optimism. Although Rio de Janeiro is among the most dangerous cities in the world, its charm and its reputation abroad are still powerful. According to Nicholas Brown the apolitical image of Rio de Janeiro has been culturally constructed since the 1950s, through associated images of 'pretty girls, beaches and the scenic backdrop of a postcard Rio de Janeiro' (Brown, 2003 :124). The tropical fantasy provides a path to an illusionary state of satisfaction (Freud, 1961) and through this attraction and appeal this psychological power can be used in favourable image creation for marketing (in this case, specifically export) purposes. Thus, as Freud (1927) argued, a fetishist is able simultaneously to believe in his or her displaced desire or fantasy and to recognize that it is not real but fantasy. However, this does not reduce the power of the fantasy of the displaced desire over the individual. The tropical fantasy works exactly for this reason: through its psycho-power people have constructed the image of Brazilian samba jeans and worked it into a fetish.

The second fantasy explored was the postcolonial female body fantasy. The imaginaries of this fantasy include the sadomasochist fantasy, which comes directly from the historical imaginary on female passivity and developed into a common obsession among Brazilian males, namely that females like being beaten on their bottom as well as from the practice of bottom-oriented samba dancing and also from recent derogative stereotypes formed on the basis of perceptions of Brazilian immigrants abroad. All these developed an exaggerated interest in, and the mass fantasy that sex appeal is focused on, the bottom. In fact, the most common way of centring attention on the bottom involves concentrating all or any decorations present on the jeans on that body part. This can be observed in the picture below (Picture 3).

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The last Brazilian samba jeans myth contributing fantasy explored was the Samba and Carnivalesque imaginary. In my research I found that the image and history of samba culture and the carnivalesque gives a sensation of rebelliousness, a dissenter or non-conformist illusionary feeling to youth which can be seen on the following model. (Picture 4).

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The conclusion of my paper was that it would be naïve to think that these fantasies are constructed just for the sake of enjoyment and that there are no political and economic consequences. This complex and ambiguous fantasy market and jeans trade in and outside Brazil is a serious and complex identity industry linking politics, fantasy and economics. Thus the phenomenon of Brazilian samba jeans is a political, psychoanalytical and economic notion. I also noted in my research paper that there is one element in this representation that is problematic, and that is the use of the socially peripheral or semi-peripheral condition of the people who are fantasized through Brazilian samba jeans.

The fantasies presented in my research, namely the tropical, post-colonial women and carnivalesque samba, are all related to socially peripheral groups of people. The protagonists of these fantasies are from the global south (tropical), Creole or immigrant women (post-colonial women), and slave descendants (carnivalesque samba). The exploitation of their disadvantage as an aesthetical representation becomes problematic for two main reasons. If aesthetic representation does not have ideological limits it will mean that any peripheral or semi-peripheral condition can be represented aesthetically and therefore enjoyed. If the Creole woman or the misery of the Amazon is to be aesthetically represented, then it is at some level enjoyed. At this point samba jeans become problematic and subject to critique because the protagonists of fantasies constructing their sex appeal, who make them into a myth, would not necessarily agree on such a representation. Furthermore, these images are used for marketing purposes, which means that somebody can make a profit from them. On the grounds of these points, I suggest, the export of Brazilian samba-jeans remains problematic.

References:
Brown, N. (2003). Bossaposbossa: Or, Postmodernism as Semi-Peripheral Symptom. The New Centennial Review 3.2 (Summer) 117-159.

Freud, S. (1927). Fetishism. The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Vol 22. London: Hogarth Press.

Freud, S. (1961). Civilization and its Discontents, New York: W. W. Norton & Company.

December 8, 2008

Subject: Feeling bored? Communication technologies among Romanian teenagers

Răzvan Nicolescu.
PhD student, Department of Anthropology, University College London.

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This post is based on my MA dissertation on boredom and its relation with communication technology, among Romanian teenagers. It is founded mainly on a two months fieldwork I conducted this summer. I worked with 14 – 17 years old teenagers who lived in upper middle class families, residing primarily in central and affluent neighborhoods in Bucharest. I focused on a particular ‘instantiation’ of boredom, which I named the ‘after-school boredom,’ considered as it was individually or collectively experienced by teenagers. Boredom was not necessarily grasped in relation with any particular technology, but I used technology mainly to frame this particular incidence of boredom.

Indeed, there is a tight link between boredom and technology, but not because one follows the other, but because one creates the conditions for the other to emerge. Exploring teenagers’ perpetual balance between these experiences, I examined the two main factors that articulate this subtle relation: the first one is represented by teenagers' individual and group self-introspection, under specific forms such as self-awareness. This attitude further shaped a certain emerging normativity within teenagers’ peer groups. At the level of experience, teenagers consider everyday boredom especially in relation with the potentiality for excitement offered by the various communities they form. In the second perspective, I explored the social norms and institutions that largely regulated the social self. In this context, the rather unexpected encounter between boredom, as an individual or group subjectivity, and the appropriation of technology contests the ethical norms drawn upon teenagers by different institutions such as the family or school. Fostered by this twofold permanent interrogation of the self, teenagers actively engage with a permanent process of intensification of their existing social ties. I am suggesting that by appropriating communication technology within the collective accumulated expertise, teenagers dialectically negotiate the terms of their social relations against an ever changing set of ethical self-made norms. Teenagers are able to reproduce their social arrangements especially because while being bored or excited they insist on those normative schemes driven by group expectations. Furthermore, I am arguing that the permanent adjustment of teenagers’ social engagement corresponds to their enduring effort to overcome the underlying conflict between boredom and excitement.

Summarizing, periods of boredom are commonly thought (by teenagers, and particularly by their parents and professors) to be filled up by technology, namely by the various forms of exciting opportunities offered by the mobile phone, access to the internet, messaging systems, offline and online gaming, music, or television. Looking at how teenagers use such opportunities, I suggest that the intimate relation between boredom and technology is to be understood dialectically: on the one hand such personal technologies are constantly appreciated by the individuals as objects of desire per se, while on the other hand they represent unproblematic means for the individuals to access specific peer groups they are already engaged with. In other words, the object of desire distinctively shifts between the technological object itself and teenagers’ social sphere. This dualism is generating consistent tension in teenagers. In my thesis I argue that they manage to solve this anguish by constantly evaluating it against one particular set of ethical norms negotiated within the group. Teenagers’ notion of ‘value’ is what remains constant throughout their perpetual swing between boredom and excitement.

But what is boredom?
[to be bored is] ‘to have nothing to do, to finish all the things you have [to finish] that day and to want to do something and to come with no idea!... You haven’t the faintest idea what to do! And there is nobody there to tell you [what to do]…’ (Miruna, 16 yo)
or, more existentially:
[Boredom] ‘is like some small little worms that come to your feet, like that, and simply don’t let you stay in bed… you don't have peace! So you don’t have peace and you must do something in that moment: to consume your energy somehow, or at least to enter Mes for example, or to talk to phone, to let your thoughts go in some other direction, not to stay and think: ‘God, I’m staying in my room, like between four walls [laughs] and I cannot stand anymore, I cannot stand it!’ And I am looking for flies!’ (Beata, 16 yo)

I will give a sense of what is actually happening during this kind of boredom, by taking here only one aspect of it: that is the different strategies teenagers use in order to overcome boredom.

Most frequently, the afterschool boredom is experienced individually, while teenagers are in their own apartments. Usually it ‘settles in’ after some rather intense activity, such as practicing sports, finishing homework, or even playing for six hours on the computer. While bored, teenagers complain that ‘there is not much to do,’ time is ‘still,’ and especially that ‘you simply don’t know what to do!’ Under those circumstances, recuperation of the activities which are considered ‘interesting’ turn out to be something strongest desired. The main strategy teenagers use to ‘fight boredom’ is to promptly engage through various forms of communication with the most trusted friends. Following one of my informants’ words, this strategy could be called ’phone a friend!’ Indeed, mobile phone is renowned as the most reliable media one can use when bored. This strategy is generally considered the most active engagement with dissipation of boredom.

The second, more problematic, strategy consists in a rather ‘passive’ engagement (in the first place) with a larger audience: the bored (endangered) self publicly announce the fact that he or she is… bored. This announcement is explicitly done by broadcasting this annoying disposition to an extended list of contacts by means of Internet messaging systems, such as Yahoo Messenger or Skype. Such messages could be as simple as: ‘I am boooored…,’ as well as they could stand for a straight invitation to some specific activity: 'I am bored. Who wants to play Counter Strike?' In any case, teenagers could send such messages to several hundreds contacts. By publicly acknowledging they are bored, teenagers participate to a collective game with simple rules: in the first phase, they offer their peers the option to adopt or not the required attitude towards such a rescue mission. In a second phase, both senders and receivers would have one opportunity to engage into conversation: they could subtly choose if they want to respond or not, as well as the intensity of such response. Following that decision, the initiator of the message chooses at his or her leisure the persons and the modality he or she wants to continue the conversation. This method of dissimulated enquiry leads ultimately to a broader selection base for the future conversation. From this perspective, the apparently passive activity to ‘stay on’ the Messenger hoping that something interesting would happen constitutes in fact a dynamic method of exploration.

All these strategies include issues such as, for instance, differentiated response times (that correspond to the various levels of intimacy between peers), or a common preoccupation for maintaining a certain balance between a too enthusiastic attitude and an aloof one, between constancy and instability, and ultimately between boredom and excitement. Usually determination is to be found outside the self. As one consequence, if the expectation to overcome boredom is not met, the peer group is also in danger. During this entire process, the existing relationship is not questioned. What is questioned is how the peer group still responds to the individual need to overcome boredom.

From this perspective, boredom is perceived by teenagers as a temporary and precarious suspension of their notion of value, considered within their dual relation with the technological object and the various social groups they are part of.

As a consequence, technology constitutes just a means to expand the self through its active exploration of opportunities. Technology is important not because of what it enables people to do (relate, play, entertain), but because of how people do articulate their individual or collective selves through it. Both strategies outlined here, or more generally the way teenagers act (in the world) articulates a certain collective ethical realm, permanently adjusted by the bored or excited individuals against a set of shared values.

December 4, 2008

E-curator project at University College London

Francesca Simon Millar, PhD candidate Material Culture, UCL

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Image 1: 3D scan of a Sepik Yam Mask, Papua New Guinea from the Ethnographic collection at UCL (Source: E –curator project)

Digital heritage technologies are radically changing the way we engage with material culture and are negotiating new ways of knowing and understanding the object. Realising the importance of digital technologies and new interdisciplinary possibilities, the E-curator project at UCL has been undertaken with the goal of applying two state of the art digital technologies: 3D colour laser scanning and e-science technologies. The research group behind the E-curator project are scanning six objects from across UCL Museums and Collections using an Arius 3D colour laser scanner installed in the Chorley Institute. It is the highest resolution and most geometrically accurate 3D colour scanner currently in the UK. The 3D object scans and relevant catalogue information are stored on an e-science storage system, Storage Resource Broker (SRB). Curators and conservators can then access the 3D object scans and catalogue information via the E-curator website, which displays the records stored at different sites.

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Image 2: Aruis 3D scanner which is stored in the Chorley Institute at UCL. (Source: E- Curator project)

The project seeks to: (i) develop a traceable methodology for recording surface detail and colour quality of a range of object types and materials; (ii) explore potential for producing validated datasets to allow closer and more scientific examination of groups of objects, their manufacture and issues of wear and deterioration; (iii) examine how resulting datasets can be transmitted, shared and compared between disparate locations and institutions, for effectiveness in conservation reports and data transmissibility vis-à-vis conservation and object loans; (iv) begin to build expertise in use and transmission of 3D scan data as a curatorial tool.

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November 18, 2008

Roving reporter - the Mead Film Festival at the AMNH

Joshua Bell, Curator of Globalization, National Museum of Natural History, Smithsonian Institute

Long known for its pioneering role and place in the ethnographic/documentary film circuit, the 33rd annual Margaret Mead Film & Video Festival (http://www.amnh.org/programs/mead/) held this past weekend (14 – 16th November) was no exception. Twenty-six films/shorts were shown that collectively pointed to the continued vitality of film making and which highlighted an array of issues. In total I watched two shorts, and seven films, which I thought I would highlight for readers. A fervent believer in the capacity of film in teaching and reaching a wide array of publics, this was the first festival that I attended in full. My hope in reviewing these films, is that others will make the effort to see them and to generate a discussion about other films not discussed here that were shown at the festival.

Opening night of the festival (14th) celebrated the restoration of Edward Curtis's 1914 silent film In the Land of the Head Hunters. Presented in conjunction with the U'mista Cultural Center and Rutgers University, the film was shown accompanied by original music score played by The Coast Orchesta, an all-Native American Orchestra (see previous Material World blog post May 9, 2008, and see http://www.curtisfilm.rutgers.edu for further information). Having watched and used the 1974 version of the film edited by Bill Holm and George Quimby, I was eager to see this version. The U'mista Cultural Center and executive producers Aaron Glass, Brad Evans and Andrea Sanborn are to be commended for their work on this project. The footage has been cleaned, missing portions replaced by Curtis' still photographs and in the case of the burning of a longhouse the deteriorated stock used to wonderful effect. The Coast Orchestra brought the film alive to a packed LeFrak Theater in the American Museum of Natural History (AMNH). Descendants of key Kwakwaka'wakw collaborators and other participants in this project answered questions following the film. The screening and the film restoration epitomize the type of community collaboration that should be done with historical materials in museums, and provides a wonderful role model for other such projects. The evening was also a welcome antidote to an afternoon spent observing another form of revaluation of indigenous creativity at the Sotheby's auction of the African and Oceanic collection of Frieda and Milton Rosenthal, which despite the recent economic downturn fetched a total of $10,859,941 USD (http://www.sothebys.com/app/live/lot/LotResultsDetailList.jsp?event_id=29056&sale_number=N08510 ).

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November 10, 2008

The East Devon Pebblebeds Project

Christopher Tilley, Anthropology, UCL

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The East Devon Pebblebeds project is an interdisciplinary investigation of the prehistoric, historic and contemporary landscapes of the East Devon Pebblebed heathlands of south-west England, UK. This area is one of the largest surviving areas of lowland heathlands in the UK and is a site of special scientific interest. To the south it borders the Jurassic coast World Heritage site. The heathlands survive on a geologically unique low ridge comprised entirely of water worn pebbles, the remains of a huge river which flowed through the area 240 million years ago and bounded today by the river Exe to the west and the river Otter to the east. Here there are a series of archaeologically unique Bronze Age cairns built out of bright multicoloured pebbles. A project investigating the landscape settings and the structure and form of the cairns began in 2008 and will continue for the next four years.

The heathlands also have a series of unusual landscaping mounds constructed during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries that are fake prehistoric barrows. Their design seems to have been inspired not by the local pebble cairns but by monuments found elsewhere in southern England, probably those documented by antiquarians around Stonehenge and Avebury. These lined carriage drives to the grand house and 18th and 19th century landscape gardens of Bicton to which a dismantled prehistoric stone circle was taken to form part of a rockery. The contrast between the fake prehistoric barrows constructed on the pagan heathlands and the vision of nature produced in the landscaping of Bicton Park is quite striking.

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Today the heathlands are very much a contested landscape being used for military training while also being a wildlife conservation area and a recreational resource for local populations. Topsoil scraping practices are, on the one hand improving bird habitats, but on the other threatening the archaeological resource. Pebble structures (walls, pavements, barn floors, house walls etc.) form a significant component of the vernacular architecture and heritage of the area.

The Pebblebeds project is researching all these different aspects of the landscape of these heathlands and is based in the UCL Anthropology department as well as involving scholars from the Institute of Archaeology, UCL and the Department of Archaeology, University of Southampton.

For more details see www.pebblebedsproject.org.uk

October 30, 2008

Burial Poles

Audrey Low, University of Technology, Sydney
Contact details: audrey.lpl@gmail.com,
Blog: http://papayatreelimited.blogspot.com/

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(photo by Audrey Low. Detail, burial poles on the grounds of the Sarawak Museum, Borneo)

I came across Hedda Morrison's books on Borneo, and saw a photo of these exact burial poles in their original location in a Kayan area in Sarawak. It was incredibly evocative seeing the poles, called kelirieng, surrounded by mature trees in the forest. Morrison noted that because the poles were situated in such a densely forested area, it was really difficult to photograph. Today, the poles are situated in the grounds of the Sarawak Museum in Kuching.

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(photo by Audrey Low. Burial Poles (kelirieng) and hut (salong))

These burial poles have had a very interesting biography.

Lucas Chin, the previous director of the museum, told me that he was involved in the negotiations with the original owners, the Kayans, to bring this object downriver to Kuching.

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October 8, 2008

The Rat

Haidy Geismar, NYU

Those of you based in NYC will be very familiar with this artefact, but for those further afield, I wanted to draw your attention to a startling materialisation of labour law, unethical corporate practice, and performative street life.

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On any given day, one is likely to confront a large inflatable rat on the streets of NYC, flanked by union representatives campaigning for fair and lawful employment. The rat comes out at construction sites, restaurants, and even at NYU where it became part of the protests surrounding the controversy over the graduate student's right to unionise.

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A brief google search ("inflatable rat new york") discovers that Construction and General Building Laborers Local 79 says it introduced the rat to New York about 1997, borrowing the idea from Chicago unions. Since then, other unions have bought inflatable rally rats of varying sizes, and at any time there could be more than half a dozen rats humiliating employers around the city. While unions set their own standards, Local 79's system is probably typical.

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A "rat contractor" is an old phrase in construction and can refer to an employer who is not providing proper safety equipment, benefits or wages, said Richard A. Weiss, communications director for Local 79. When the union gets a complaint, if the job site isn't one the union is already monitoring, the union research department checks it with the reports all contractors are required to file with the city. The actual decision to send out one of the gray, red-eyed, snarling rats is usually made by Local 79's market development department, Mr. Weiss said.

The Mason Tenders District Council, which oversees Local 79, owns seven rats, mostly from 12 to 15 feet high but including a monster 30-footer, which is often used for high-rise sites. "We've got a whole family of them," Mr. Weiss said. Other unions can request a visiting rat.

(taken from the site about the NYU strike, http://nerdsforgsoc.blogspot.com/2006/02/beware-rat.html)

The rat is a visceral reminder of the normally invisible labour force that props up the city. It is the inversion of a cartoon character, a sinister materialisation of unethical practice and a humerous reminder of ethical and moral responsibilities around labour. I have never seen such a carnavalesque and everyday form of protest on other city streets outside of the US, outside of the extra-ordinary events of large protests such as the huge anti-war rallies in the run-up to the Iraq invasion.

Does anyone know of any other strike material cultures?

September 22, 2008

Irish-Romanian Homes and the Anthropology of Uncertainty

Adam Drazin, National University of Ireland, Maynooth

“Freewill has to be experienced, not debated, like colour or the taste of potatoes” (William Golding 1959 p5)

How can we think about domestic materialities which effect a sense of deprivation or an absence of home-making?

I have been working since 2004 with people who have moved from Romania to Ireland, on the material culture of their homes. In many ways, this is a journey which typefies contemporary European experience: from post-socialism to a country which represents an economic and political renaissance within Europe; from a relatively cash-poor everyday life to one where salaries are higher. Most people make the move not as individuals but as families – a part of the project of family life and setting up home. Many people have married, many have had children, but cannot easily realise the aspiration to own a material home in Romania. Within Romanian culture, the drive to have a family and home are irresistable; ironically, many people feel they have to leave Romania in order to fulfil this project.

Consequently, the Irish-Romanian home might be expected to be a conscious celebration of materialism and a sense of liberation through mass consumption. Both Romania and Ireland are countries with a ‘before’ and an ‘after’ in their recent experience, and in each case it is the home and consumption which provides the key measure of where society and culture stand now. McWilliams (2006) draws attention to the importance of consumption and home-making after the celtic tiger, negotiating what class and identity comprise in the ‘new’ Ireland. One third of the houses in Ireland have been built since 1995, an immense change, and a large proportion of Romanian men in Ireland work on these building sites. Romania meanwhile is still in some accounts a country after socialism, where private property and the home is the site of negotiation of identity. In the moment of moving from Romania to Ireland, a person is under immense social pressure to know their own mind, and to make the form of the home a mirror to their conscious plans for their own relationships and identity.

What can the specific material homes of Irish-Romanians tell us about this situation? The dangerous temptation for the anthropologist is to read the domestic material culture of Irish-Romanians as having an inevitable social trajectory, like a destiny. A person is seen as a ‘migrant’ who is on a road to ‘becoming Irish’, or on a road to becoming a ‘happy family’.

Irish-Romanian homes however defy expectations. Firstly, they are immensely varied. One person has little in common with another. Secondly, in many cases, practically no effort has been made for any kind of home-making at all. Walls are bare or – worse – retain posters and objects hung there by previous tenants. Objects lie around from multiple previous tenants, developing a veritable archaeology of habitation but not inhabitation.

Many people in Ireland have not actually made the decision to live in Ireland, and their physical homes and consumption manifest this state of being.

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It is not unusual to meet people who have a large house, or several houses, in Romania, but have no plans to ever move back to Romania, disillusioned with that country. Nor do these wealthy people seem to have plans to attempt to integrate into Ireland, but work long hours and in the evenings stay in bare, rented homes, eating cheap food and watching Romanian TV. The physical sensations associated with these flats are often the subject of jokes: poor ventilation; plumbing which is either hot or cold, never warm; globular bathroom lights which gather water inside; windows which form ice on the inside. Such things, the joke goes, must have been installed by a Romanian builder, but they are unfavourably compared with Romanian apartments.

Petru and Betty are one couple in this situation. So why did they build the house in Romania? “Ca sa aiba copii” Petru told me, “for the children to have it”. Their two teenage children were still in Romania, living with relatives.

“The Romanian is different from the Irishman…” Petru said, “that’s the stupidity. The Romanian works like an idiot. He builds his house and then he dies.”

Home-making is often interpreted as a rooted activity, in terms of its relationship with place. But interpreting Irish-Romanian homes in only these terms evokes confusing contradictions and ironies. During two years of fieldwork, most material consumption evoked a sense of building relationships not only across spaces and places, but across time. When Petru says that the point of the house is for the children to have, he is not only saying that the house builds a relationship with the place, Romania, but that it builds a relationship with the future. The future is of course unknown, but nothing can build a relationship with children existing in the future, even after one is dead, like a house.

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The counterparts to the monstrous empty villas being built in Romania are bare flats in Dublin. Just like those houses, the physical surfaces of flats often seem to bear witness to the development of intentions with regard to the project of building a moral family and household, and the variety of means by which this is to be achieved.

Carmen for example has a map of Romania on her wall which recalls a process of disillusionment in moving to Ireland, and her new resolutions of how to live and save for her future. She originally moved to Ireland on a full work visa from Romania, to work for a cleaning company (although they did not tell her that when she interviewed in Bucharest). She lived with her husband in a house for some years, and the idea was to settle and fully participate in Irish life, eventually becoming citizens. They tried to make friends and integrate, socialising with work colleagues in pubs. Over their time in Dublin, however, they came to “live different lives”. The decision to “live” in Ireland proved fatal for their 13-year marriage, and they decided to divorce. Taking stock of their situation, they had not managed to save much, nor to buy a house, and their pub-based social lives had not blossomed into any deep friendships. They decided to move back to Romania to divorce and, having closed all their accounts in Ireland, said goodbye to everyone.

Through a process of painful realisation accompanying divorce, Carmen decided that actually, she wanted a new start. She returned to Ireland, and resolved to do things differently this time around.

When I talked to Carmen, she was intending to implement the second strategy of living in Ireland. She did not intend to socialise, spend money, and make a home. She intended to work hard, save money and build up capital in order to be able to have a house and family, probably back in Romania. In her second life in Dublin, Carmen was living in a rented bedsit in a converted Georgian house, inherited from another Romanian tenant. The main part of the room was occupied by a bed, table and single chair. In a corner was a sink and small kitchen area, where she cooked on a set of rings. In the other corner, partition walls enclosed a cramped shower and toilet. Above the fireplace was a map of Romania and the Romanian national anthem, which begins ‘Wake up Romanian’ (Desteapta te Romanule). These belonged to the previous tenant, and she purposely left them there to remind her to ‘wake up’ to her situation. The walls of her bedist are like a calculated time capsule, in which she will live for a time, barely socialising, barely emerging except to work, which will transport her to an unspecified future life and home.

Continue reading "Irish-Romanian Homes and the Anthropology of Uncertainty" »

September 11, 2008

An island of Collectors: Circulation of Heirlooms and Handicrafts on the Aegean island of Skyros, Greece


Theocharidis Andronikos, PhD student, Social Anthropology and History, University of the Aegean, Mytilene, Greece

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The typical conical shaped fireplace decorated with plates and bowls standing on the selves and jugs hanging on top. Top right: the built iconostasis and other mobile icons. Below left: Skyrian wood-carved skamnia (little chairs) positioned in front of the fireplace. Early 1920s. Photographic Archive of the Benaki Museum, Athens.


Skyros is a small island located in the northwest Aegean Archipelago and in the south of a group of islands known as Sporades of which it is a part. It has around three thousand permanent inhabitants most of them living at the capital village which is situated at the east side of the island and is built on a hillside above the coast, with Saint George’s monastery and the old Fortress standing on the rock on top of it. In Skyros, there is a long tradition of collecting various types of ceramic, glass and copper wares. From the accounts of travelers who visited the island from the middle of the 18th century onwards we know that by that time these items were plenty and were used for the house decoration in a way that they covered almost completely the walls of the house. In published and unpublished documents, mostly marriage contracts (concerning the dowry of the bride or sometimes of the groom) and to a lesser extend wills (late 16th – early 19th century), one notes an extensive account / record of a variety of objects such as household utensils, tools, bridal costumes and other locally made or imported craftworks (embroidered cotton or silk quilts, bed sheets, towels, garments, dresses, carpets, wooden carved or painted chests and varieties of tin ware). The careful description and distinct place of these objects in the contract which also includes houses, land, animals and sometimes money denotes their importance. The various ceramic and glass wares because of their number are mentioned as an entity, as the ‘aloni’ (αλώνη) of the house, at the end of the document. In certain lists where all the portable property of an individual is written these objects are mentioned one by one and it is specified along with their number, also their material, color, shape, provenance (or the previous port where they came from) and sometimes whether it is an ‘old’ item.

The examination of the remaining such objects in contemporary houses, local and national museums and antique shops, in relation to the relevant literature, shows that some of these imported objects were even at the time when they were first acquired, luxury or semi-luxury items not only for the Skyrian upper class of the time but more widely in Europe and the Ottoman empire of which Skyros was a part from 1538 until 1830. Some of these are Italian Maiolica from the 17th to the early 19th century, Iznik ware from the 17th century and Kutahya ware of the 18th century, two of the main ceramic industries of the Ottoman empire, as well as European industrialized porcelain of the late 18th century and the 19th century, other varieties of ceramics from Italian, French and Dutch workshops of the 19th century and Tsanak kale ware, made by Greek potters in Asia Minor during the 19th century.

The upper class of the island, mainly literate landowners and merchants involved in the local administration, and the clergy connected to the monastery of St. George in Skyros, started to loose gradually their previous power and influence after 1830 when Skyros was incorporated to the newly formed Kingdom of Greece. The extended intervention of the Greek state and the overall social and economic changes led them to new means for acquiring economic and symbolic capital and many of them became doctors, high-rank officers, lawyers and professors or extended their mercantile activities. Their collections though of the various table wares retained their value and some of the merchants opened shops in the main city of the island and in so doing continued the import of these objects. The wealthiest of the shepherds and farmers had now greater access to such items which in the past constituted mostly the privilege of the upper class. Furthermore, as some of the families of the upper class moved to Athens they sold some of these valuable heirlooms to antique dealers and peddlers who were active in Skyros and in Athens. The interior of the Skyrian houses were these objects were displayed became more sophisticated with the adjustment of curved shelves and other constructions which the local carpenters and woodcarvers made. By the end of the 19th century and even more at the interwar period the local market of such ‘antiques’ (παλαιά, literally means of old) or ‘antiquities’ (αρχαία), as they are called in Skyros, was at its peak and during this period and later on in the second world war and in the 1950s and 1960s when more of the upper class families migrated to Athens, many such heirlooms changed hands between the Skyrian families or were purchased by outside dealers and found their way to antique shops or museums. At the same time new decorative wares of similar qualities kept coming into the island and these together with the local products of the ceramists (which started as copies of the ‘antiques’ in the 1920s and later created its own interpretations and variations) replaced the loss.

The interwar period was also the time when Skyros became more widely known to the Greek public and to an international circle of poets and intellectuals. The book of the folklorist Aggeliki Hatzimichali, published in 1925, in which she described the ‘Skyrian house’ and the local ‘folk art’ was one of the first studies in Greece which dealt with the ‘vernacular’ architecture and the so called ‘material life’(υλικός βίος) of ‘folk culture’ and her overall activity had a great influence on the aesthetic choices of a certain part of the Athenian upper class. The ‘Association of Greek Folk Art’ in Athens of which she was a leading member and the ‘Union of Skyrians’, founded at 1922 by a Skyrian elite who was living in Athens, helped to promote the Skyrian customs and handicrafts. The work of Skyrian woodcarvers won a distinction at the International Exhibition of Thessalonica in 1932 and at other national festivals. Also, many Greek poets and painters visited the island at the time and were inspired by its natural environment and its culture. The event that brought all those activities together and attracted the attention of the media of the time was the festival that took place at the island on the 5th of April 1931 for the occasion of the unveiling of the monument of the English poet Rupert Brook (1887-1915) who was buried in Skyros. The president of Greece Eleutherios Venizelos was present at the event along with Greek, English, Belgian and Egyptian scholars and politicians. The local municipality in collaboration with the ‘Union of Skyrians’ took great care in preparing the city for the reception of the honored guests, the journalists and the other visitors and founded a local archeological museum and a folklore museum which was actually a replica of the ‘Skyrian house’ and included an exhibition of local handicrafts.

With such a launching it is no wonder that from the middle of the 1950s and on, when the tourist industry start to grow in Greece and with the renewed interest in crafts internationally, Skyros and its local arts (mainly woodcarvings, ceramics and embroidery) came once again at the epicenter of the national crafts market. Especially the woodcarvings were very popular during the 1970s and 1980s when the use of ‘Skyrian’ furniture in the living rooms of many middle class apartments in various urban centers in Greece was a fashion. The embroideries were mostly popularized as images through the reprod