Journal articles on the topic 'And Brassey's defence yearbook'

Kaj Thaning 4.6. 1904 - 6.6. 1994By Kim Arne Pedersen.A few days after his ninetieth birthday, Kaj Thaning died peacefully in his home in Båring, where he had been a clergyman for a generation, and where his monumental work, the thesis .Man First.... was made ready for publication in 1963. Kaj Thaning was bom into a family with roots in influential circles of Grundtvigianism, but as a young undergraduate he came into contact with the Danish Tidehverv movement which introduced the dialectic theology in Denmark. Together with a number of other young theologians Kaj Thaning was connected with both Tidehverv and Grundtvigian circles, and the group was consequently termed .Tidehverv Grundtvigianism.. Thaning became the Grundtvig interpreter within this group, and published his interpretations in a number of books and articles, and a precis of the main thoughts in his thesis was translated into a number of foreign languages in connection with Grundtvig’s anniversary in 1972. Thaning was a vicar through the greater part of his life, but was also deeply engaged in numerous other activities: establishing a folk high school, participating in debates on topical issues, and, in co-operation with the pioneers of the Grundtvig Society, working out the register of Grundtvig’s unprinted manuscripts, a work amply demonstrating his impressive abilities as a research historian. Thaning was a member of the Grundtvig Society Committee from 1948. As early as 1949 he wrote his first major article in Grundtvig Studies, and until recent years he contributed a large number of long or short papers to the yearbook, always impressive in their profundity and perspicacity. As an interpreter of Grundtvig, Thaning has reached far beyond the academic circles to which scientific research is usually restricted. Thaning’s thesis - that the modem relevance of Grundtvig’s writings is closely bound up with his struggle with his personal mixture of the human and the Christian - has had a decisive influence on the Danish cultural and theological debate in the years after World War II, in that it matches with Denmark’s development from an agricultural to an industrial and urban society, and with the decreasing influence of the religious revival movements. Thaning’s secular-theological emphasis on the separation of the human and the Christian as the essential theme in Grundtvig’s writings legitimized this development, but at the same time Thaning’s thesis bore evidence of a profound personal struggle and of a theologically thoroughly contemplated interpretation of Grundtvig, encompassing his entire work. All the same, it seems fair today to view Thaning’s thesis in the light of the theological currents he met on his way, a theological-historical view which may be understood in continuation of the criticism of Thaning’s thesis, raised by recent Grundtvig research, seeking its arguments in incarnation theology. In recent years, this criticism has paved the way for a renewed occupation with Grundtvig’s liturgical theology, and has been able to fertilize Grundtvig’s thoughts in an international, ecumenical-theological context. Thaning, however, was unaffected by this criticism; he remained forever prepared to raise objections to his critics. Thus, from recent years, the present writer remembers Thaning’s unremitting and unyielding defence of his thesis, but also his kindness and helpfulness in connection with the present writer’s first attempts in Grundtvig research.The fact that Thaning’s position has been abandoned in modem research does not weaken the greatness of his work. Thaning’s critics, too, have been - if adversely - influenced by his thesis, whose definition of the relationship between the human and the Christian has left an indelible trace in Danish theology.

Political issues, in general, focus on the content of political actors’ communication and most often describe either the main issue or several issues that are in the focus of a political actor’s statement or any other relevant text (e.g., press release, news article, tweet, etc.). The basic premise of analyzing political issues in the self-presentation of political actors is that one major goal of political actors’ communication is to place specific issues on the political agenda (Strömbäck & Esser, 2017). Political issues are most often coded based on a list of pre-defined issues that refer to different policies and sometimes also to polity or politics. The scope and detail of the individual issues depend on the purpose and the focus of the analysis. Field of application/theoretical foundation: Apart from being a common descriptive and control variable, the coding of issues in political actors’ communication can serve as the basis for more complex variables or concepts such as agenda building or issue ownership. Agenda building, at large, refers to the process of how media content is shaped by societal forces (Lang & Lang, 1981). With regard to analyses of politicians’ self-presentation, most work focuses on the processes of communication by which political actors aim to obtain media coverage for their issues (Norris et al., 1999; Seethaler & Melischek, 2019). Analyses on agenda building usually compare issue agendas between at least two different forms of communication, e.g., between channels where political actors have high control (such as press releases, party manifestos, social media messages) and journalistic outlets where political actors have less control (e.g., Harder et al., 2017; Kiousis et al., 2006; Seethaler & Melischek, 2019). Content analyses on agenda building usually start by, first, identifying relevant issue fields and categories (inductively or deductively). Second, the dominant political issues in political actors’ communication and/or other forms of communication (e.g., news articles) are coded according to predefined lists. Third, the occurrence of specific issues or issue agendas are compared between the different forms of communication, often over time (see, e.g., Seethaler & Melischek, 2019). Issue ownership, in broad terms, means that some parties are considered by the public in general as being more adept to deal with, or more attentive to, certain issues (Lachat, 2014; Petrocik, 1996; Walgrave et al., 2015). Traditionally, issue ownership has been analyzed from a demand-side perspective, based on surveys, as the connection between issues and parties in voters’ minds. Definitions of issue ownership usually comprise at least two dimensions: competence issue ownership (parties’ perceived capacity to competently handle or solve a certain issue) and associative issue ownership (the spontaneous link between some parties and some issues) (Walgrave et al., 2015). Content analyses build on these definitions to investigate to what extent political actors focus on issues that they (respectively their parties) own and what factors may explain the (non-)reliance on owned issues (e.g., Dalmus et al., 2017; Peeters et al., 2019). Other content analyses use issue ownership as an independent variable, for example, to explain user reactions to parties’ social media messages (e.g., Staender et al., 2019). Content analyses on issue ownership usually start by, first, identifying relevant issue fields and categories (inductively or deductively). Second, the dominant political issues in political actors’ communication are coded according to predefined lists. Third, political actors are assigned issue ownership for specific issues based on theoretical considerations, existing literature, and/or survey data. Fourth, an index for owned issues is calculated at the statement or text level based on the coded issues and the predefined ownership for specific issues. References/combination with other methods of data collection: Political issues can be analyzed using both manual and automated content analysis (e.g. topic modeling or dictionary approach). Analyses use both inductive or deductive approaches and/or a combination of both to identify issue categories and extend or amend previous lists of political issues. Example studies: Dalmus et al. (2019), Peeters et al. (2019); Seethaler & Melischek (2019) Table 1: Summary of a selection of studies on agenda building and/or issue ownership Author(s) Sample Unit of Analysis Values Reliability Seethaler & Melischek (2019) Content type: parties’ news releases and tweets, media reports Country: Austria Political actors: all parliamentary parties (ÖVP, SPÖ, FPÖ, Grüne, NEOS, Liste Pilz) Outlets: all party news releases, parties’ and top candidates’ twitter accounts, five legacy media outlets Sampling period: 6 weeks before the national election day in 2017 (4 September 2017–14 October 2017) Sample size: 1,009 news releases, 9,088 tweets, 2,422 news stories Unit of analysis: individual news releases, tweets, and news stories Level of analysis: issue agendas Dominant issue: 13 issue areas based on the Comparative Agendas Project: civil rights, government operations, law and crime, international affairs and defence, European integration, macroeconomics, domestic commerce, transportation and technology, environment and agriculture, education, labour, social welfare and housing, health Cohen’s Kappa between .91 and .95 Harder, Sevenans, & Van Aelst (2017) Content type: newspaper, television, radio, news website, and Twitter items featuring a political topic, a domestic political actor, or an election-specific term Country: Belgium (Political) actors: tweets by 678 professional journalists, 44 accounts affiliated with legacy media organizations, 467 politicians, 19 civil society organizations, 109 “influentials” Outlets: 5 print newspapers, 3 news websites, 2 daily television newscasts, 6 daily radio newscasts, current affairs tv programs, and election-specific tv shows Sampling period: Belgian 2014 election campaign (1 May to 24 May 2014) Sample size: n = 9,935 Unit of analysis: news items and tweets Level of analysis: news items (n = 5,260) / news stories (n = 414) Issues (up to three issues per item): list of 28 broad issues based on the Comparative Agendas Project Categorization of news stories: inductive coding of individual time- and place-specific events based on news items from traditional news outlets. Non-news items and tweets were then assigned to the already-identified news stories Krippendorff’s alpha = .70 Krippendorff’s alpha = .76 (for assigning news story to tweet) Dalmus, Hänggli, Bernhard (2019) Content type: party manifestos, party press releases, and newspaper coverage Countries: CH, DE, FR, UK Political actors: parties Outlets: 1 quality newspaper and 1 tabloid per country, all party press releases and manifestos Sampling period: election campaigns between 2010 and 2013 (8 weeks prior to the respective election days) Sample size: 4,191 Unit of analysis: Actor statements on issues concerning national politics and containing either an explicitly mentioned position or interpretation/ elaboration on the issue Level of analysis: text level Main issue: Economy, Welfare, Budget, Freedom and Rights, Europe/ Globalization, Education, Immigration, Army, Security, Ecology, Institutional Reforms, Infrastructure, Elections and Events (each of these top-issue categories is made up of several more detailed sub-issues leading to a total of 127 issue options) Issue emphasis: percentage of statements devoted to a certain issue Issue ownership: issue fully belongs to one party (1), issue belongs to center-left / center-right parties (0.5), issue is unowned (0) (based on Seeberg, 2016; Tresch et al., 2017, for more details see the paper) Cohen’s Kappa ?.3 for sub-issues; Cohen’s Kappa ?.5 for top-issues Peeters, Van Aelst, & Praet (2019) Content type: politicians’ tweets, online media coverage, and parliamentary documents Country: Belgium (Flemish part) Political actors: 144 MPs from the 6 parties represented in the Flemish and federal parliament Outlets: 13 Flemish news outlets Sampling period: 1 January to 1 September, 2018 Sample size: n = 51,691 tweets, n = 8,857 articles, n = 12,638 parliamentary documents Unit of analysis: text level Level of analysis: issue agendas Index for issue concentration: Herfindahl index (to assess how diverse/ concentrated the individual issue agendas are across platforms) Issues: automated coding of 20 issue topics using the Dutch dictionary based on the Comparative Agendas Project Issue ownership: operationalization based on survey data; relative party ownership scores for each politician were assigned based on the percentage of respondents that linked a certain party with the topic NA (A manual check on 200 randomly selected documents shows that a little over 70% of the automated non-codings were in fact non-classifiable documents. For the other 30%, the dictionary was not able to properly classify the documents.) References Dalmus, C., Hänggli, R., & Bernhard, L. (2017). The charm of salient issues? Parties’ strategic behavior in press releases. In P. van Aelst & S. Walgrave (Eds.), How Political Actors Use the Media: A Functional Analysis of the Media’s Role in Politics (pp. 187–205). Springer International Publishing. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-60249-3_10 Harder, R. A., Sevenans, J., & van Aelst, P. (2017). Intermedia Agenda Setting in the Social Media Age: How Traditional Players Dominate the News Agenda in Election Times. The International Journal of Press/Politics, 22(3), 275–293. https://doi.org/10.1177/1940161217704969 Kiousis, S., Mitrook, M., Wu, X., & Seltzer, T. (2006). First- and Second-Level Agenda-Building and Agenda-Setting Effects: Exploring the Linkages Among Candidate News Releases, Media Coverage, and Public Opinion During the 2002 Florida Gubernatorial Election. Journal of Public Relations Research, 18(3), 265–285. https://doi.org/10.1207/s1532754xjprr1803_4 Lachat, R. (2014). Issue ownership and the vote: the effects of associative and competence ownership on issue voting. Swiss Political Science Review, 20(4), 727–740. https://doi.org/10.1111/spsr.12121 Lang, G.E., & Lang, K. (1981). Watergate: An exploration of the agenda-building process. In: Wilhoit, G.C., & De Bock, H. (Eds.). Mass Communication Review Yearbook. SAGE, pp. 447–468. Norris, P., Curtice, J., Sanders, D., et al. (1999). On Message: Communicating the Campaign. SAGE. Peeters, J., van Aelst, P., & Praet, S. (2019). Party ownership or individual specialization? A comparison of politicians’ individual issue attention across three different agendas. Party Politics, 55(4), 135406881988163. https://doi.org/10.1177/1354068819881639 Petrocik, J.R. (1996). Issue ownership in presidential elections, with a 1980 case study. American Journal of Political Science, 40(3), 825–850. Seeberg, H. B. (2017). How stable is political parties’ issue ownership? A cross-time, cross-national analysis. Political Studies, 65(2), 475–492. https://doi.org/10.1177/0032321716650224 Seethaler, J., & Melischek, G. (2019). Twitter as a tool for agenda building in election campaigns? The case of Austria. Journalism, 20(8), 1087–1107. https://doi.org/10.1177/1464884919845460 Staender, A., Ernst, N., & Steppat, D. (2019). Was steigert die Facebook-Resonanz? Eine Analyse der Likes, Shares und Comments im Schweizer Wahlkampf 2015. SCM Studies in Communication and Media, 8(2), 236–271. https://doi.org/10.5771/2192-4007-2019-2-236 Strömbäck, J., & Esser, F. (2017). Political Public Relations and Mediatization: The Strategies of News Management. In P. van Aelst & S. Walgrave (Eds.), How Political Actors Use the Media: A Functional Analysis of the Media’s Role in Politics (pp. 63–83). Springer International Publishing. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-60249-3_4 Tresch, A., Lefevere, J., Walgrave, S. (2018). How parties’ issue emphasis strategies vary across communication channels: The 2009 regional election campaign in Belgium. Acta Politica, 53(1), 25–47. https://doi.org/10.1057/s41269-016-0036-7 Walgrave, S., Tresch, A., & Lefevere, J. (2015). The Conceptualisation and Measurement of Issue Ownership. West European Politics, 38(4), 778–796. https://doi.org/10.1080/01402382.2015.1039381

While the term “visual literacy” has grown in popularity in the last 50 years, its meaning remains nebulous. It is described variously as: a vehicle for aesthetic appreciation, a means of defence against visual manipulation, a sorting mechanism for an increasingly data-saturated age, and a prerequisite to civic inclusion (Fransecky 23; Messaris 181; McTigue and Flowers 580). Scholars have written extensively about the first three subjects but there has been less research on how visual literacy frames civic life and how it might help the public as a tool to address disadvantage and assist in removing social and cultural barriers. This article examines a forerunner to visual literacy in the push to create an international symbol language born out of popular education movements, a project that fell short of its goals but still left a considerable impression on graphic media. This article, then, presents an analysis of visual literacy campaigns in the early postwar era. These campaigns did not attempt to invent a symbolic language but posited that images themselves served as a universal language in which students could receive training. Of particular interest is how the concept of visual literacy has been mobilised as a pedagogical tool in design, digital humanities and in broader civic education initiatives promoted by Third Space institutions. Behind the creation of new visual literacy curricula is the idea that images can help anchor a world community, supplementing textual communication. Figure 1: Visual Literacy Yearbook. Montebello Unified School District, USA, 1973. Shedding Light: Origins of the Visual Literacy Frame The term “visual literacy” came to the fore in the early 1970s on the heels of mass literacy campaigns. The educators, creatives and media theorists who first advocated for visual learning linked this aim to literacy, an unassailable goal, to promote a more radical curricular overhaul. They challenged a system that had hitherto only acknowledged a very limited pathway towards academic success; pushing “language and mathematics”, courses “referred to as solids (something substantial) as contrasted with liquids or gases (courses with little or no substance)” (Eisner 92). This was deemed “a parochial view of both human ability and the possibilities of education” that did not acknowledge multiple forms of intelligence (Gardner). This change not only integrated elements of mass culture that had been rejected in education, notably film and graphic arts, but also encouraged the critique of images as a form of good citizenship, assuming that visually literate arbiters could call out media misrepresentations and manipulative political advertising (Messaris, “Visual Test”). This movement was, in many ways, reactive to new forms of mass media that began to replace newspapers as key forms of civic participation. Unlike simple literacy (being able to decipher letters as a mnemonic system), visual literacy involves imputing meanings to images where meanings are less fixed, yet still with embedded cultural signifiers. Visual literacy promised to extend enlightenment metaphors of sight (as in the German Aufklärung) and illumination (as in the French Lumières) to help citizens understand an increasingly complex marketplace of images. The move towards visual literacy was not so much a shift towards images (and away from books and oration) but an affirmation of the need to critically investigate the visual sphere. It introduced doubt to previously upheld hierarchies of perception. Sight, to Kant the “noblest of the senses” (158), was no longer the sense “least affected” by the surrounding world but an input centre that was equally manipulable. In Kant’s view of societal development, the “cosmopolitan” held the key to pacifying bellicose states and ensuring global prosperity and tranquillity. The process of developing a cosmopolitan ideology rests, according to Kant, on the gradual elimination of war and “the education of young people in intellectual and moral culture” (188-89). Transforming disparate societies into “a universal cosmopolitan existence” that would “at last be realised as the matrix within which all the original capacities of the human race may develop” and would take well-funded educational institutions and, potentially, a new framework for imparting knowledge (Kant 51). To some, the world of the visual presented a baseline for shared experience. Figure 2: Exhibition by the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum in Vienna, photograph c. 1927. An International Picture Language The quest to find a mutually intelligible language that could “bridge worlds” and solder together all of humankind goes back to the late nineteenth century and the Esperanto movement of Ludwig Zamenhof (Schor 59). The expression of this ideal in the world of the visual picked up steam in the interwar years with designers and editors like Fritz Kahn, Gerd Arntz, and Otto and Marie Neurath. Their work transposing complex ideas into graphic form has been rediscovered as an antecedent to modern infographics, but the symbols they deployed were not to merely explain, but also help education and build international fellowship unbounded by spoken language. The Neuraths in particular are celebrated for their international picture language or Isotypes. These pictograms (sometimes viewed as proto-emojis) can be used to represent data without text. Taken together they are an “intemporal, hieroglyphic language” that Neutrath hoped would unite working-class people the world over (Lee 159). The Neuraths’ work was done in the explicit service of visual education with a popular socialist agenda and incubated in the social sphere of Red Vienna at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum (Social and Economic Museum) where Otto served as Director. The Wirtschaftsmuseum was an experiment in popular education, with multiple branches and late opening hours to accommodate the “the working man [who] has time to see a museum only at night” (Neurath 72-73). The Isotype contained universalist aspirations for the “making of a world language, or a helping picture language—[that] will give support to international developments generally” and “educate by the eye” (Neurath 13). Figure 3: Gerd Arntz Isotype Images. (Source: University of Reading.) The Isotype was widely adopted in the postwar era in pre-packaged sets of symbols used in graphic design and wayfinding systems for buildings and transportation networks, but with the socialism of the Neuraths’ peeled away, leaving only the system of logos that we are familiar with from airport washrooms, charts, and public transport maps. Much of the uptake in this symbol language could be traced to increased mobility and tourism, particularly in countries that did not make use of a Roman alphabet. The 1964 Olympics in Tokyo helped pave the way when organisers, fearful of jumbling too many scripts together, opted instead for black and white icons to represent the program of sports that summer. The new focus on the visual was both technologically mediated—cheaper printing and broadcast technologies made the diffusion of image increasingly possible—but also ideologically supported by a growing emphasis on projects that transcended linguistic, ethnic, and national borders. The Olympic symbols gradually morphed into Letraset icons, and, later, symbols in the Unicode Standard, which are the basis for today’s emojis. Wordless signs helped facilitate interconnectedness, but only in the most literal sense; their application was limited primarily to sports mega-events, highway maps, and “brand building”, and they never fulfilled their role as an educational language “to give the different nations a common outlook” (Neurath 18). Universally understood icons, particularly in the form of emojis, point to a rise in visual communication but they have fallen short as a cosmopolitan project, supporting neither the globalisation of Kantian ethics nor the transnational socialism of the Neuraths. Figure 4: Symbols in use. Women's bathroom. 1964 Tokyo Olympics. (Source: The official report of the Organizing Committee.) Counter Education By mid-century, the optimism of a universal symbol language seemed dated, and focus shifted from distillation to discernment. New educational programs presented ways to study images, increasingly reproducible with new technologies, as a language in and of themselves. These methods had their roots in the fin-de-siècle educational reforms of John Dewey, Helen Parkhurst, and Maria Montessori. As early as the 1920s, progressive educators were using highly visual magazines, like National Geographic, as the basis for lesson planning, with the hopes that they would “expose students to edifying and culturally enriching reading” and “develop a more catholic taste or sensibility, representing an important cosmopolitan value” (Hawkins 45). The rise in imagery from previously inaccessible regions helped pupils to see themselves in relation to the larger world (although this connection always came with the presumed superiority of the reader). “Pictorial education in public schools” taught readers—through images—to accept a broader world but, too often, they saw photographs as a “straightforward transcription of the real world” (Hawkins 57). The images of cultures and events presented in Life and National Geographic for the purposes of education and enrichment were now the subject of greater analysis in the classroom, not just as “windows into new worlds” but as cultural products in and of themselves. The emerging visual curriculum aimed to do more than just teach with previously excluded modes (photography, film and comics); it would investigate how images presented and mediated the world. This gained wider appeal with new analytical writing on film, like Raymond Spottiswoode's Grammar of the Film (1950) which sought to formulate the grammatical rules of visual communication (Messaris 181), influenced by semiotics and structural linguistics; the emphasis on grammar can also be seen in far earlier writings on design systems such as Owen Jones’s 1856 The Grammar of Ornament, which also advocated for new, universalising methods in design education (Sloboda 228). The inventorying impulse is on display in books like Donis A. Dondis’s A Primer of Visual Literacy (1973), a text that meditates on visual perception but also functions as an introduction to line and form in the applied arts, picking up where the Bauhaus left off. Dondis enumerates the “syntactical guidelines” of the applied arts with illustrations that are in keeping with 1920s books by Kandinsky and Klee and analyse pictorial elements. However, at the end of the book she shifts focus with two chapters that examine “messaging” and visual literacy explicitly. Dondis predicts that “an intellectual, trained ability to make and understand visual messages is becoming a vital necessity to involvement with communication. It is quite likely that visual literacy will be one of the fundamental measures of education in the last third of our century” (33) and she presses for more programs that incorporate the exploration and analysis of images in tertiary education. Figure 5: Ideal spatial environment for the Blueprint charts, 1970. (Image: Inventory Press.) Visual literacy in education arrived in earnest with a wave of publications in the mid-1970s. They offered ways for students to understand media processes and for teachers to use visual culture as an entry point into complex social and scientific subject matter, tapping into the “visual consciousness of the ‘television generation’” (Fransecky 5). Visual culture was often seen as inherently democratising, a break from stuffiness, the “artificialities of civilisation”, and the “archaic structures” that set sensorial perception apart from scholarship (Dworkin 131-132). Many radical university projects and community education initiatives of the 1960s made use of new media in novel ways: from Maurice Stein and Larry Miller’s fold-out posters accompanying Blueprint for Counter Education (1970) to Emory Douglas’s graphics for The Black Panther newspaper. Blueprint’s text- and image-dense wall charts were made via assemblage and they were imagined less as charts and more as a “matrix of resources” that could be used—and added to—by youth to undertake their own counter education (Cronin 53). These experiments in visual learning helped to break down old hierarchies in education, but their aim was influenced more by countercultural notions of disruption than the universal ideals of cosmopolitanism. From Image as Text to City as Text For a brief period in the 1970s, thinkers like Marshall McLuhan (McLuhan et al., Massage) and artists like Bruno Munari (Tanchis and Munari) collaborated fruitfully with graphic designers to create books that mixed text and image in novel ways. Using new compositional methods, they broke apart traditional printing lock-ups to superimpose photographs, twist text, and bend narrative frames. The most famous work from this era is, undoubtedly, The Medium Is the Massage (1967), McLuhan’s team-up with graphic designer Quentin Fiore, but it was followed by dozens of other books intended to communicate theory and scientific ideas with popularising graphics. Following in the footsteps of McLuhan, many of these texts sought not just to explain an issue but to self-consciously reference their own method of information delivery. These works set the precedent for visual aids (and, to a lesser extent, audio) that launched a diverse, non-hierarchical discourse that was nonetheless bound to tactile artefacts. In 1977, McLuhan helped develop a media textbook for secondary school students called City as Classroom: Understanding Language and Media. It is notable for its direct address style and its focus on investigating spaces outside of the classroom (provocatively, a section on the third page begins with “Should all schools be closed?”). The book follows with a fine-grained analysis of advertising forms in which students are asked to first bring advertisements into class for analysis and later to go out into the city to explore “a man-made environment, a huge warehouse of information, a vast resource to be mined free of charge” (McLuhan et al., City 149). As a document City as Classroom is critical of existing teaching methods, in line with the radical “in the streets” pedagogy of its day. McLuhan’s theories proved particularly salient for the counter education movement, in part because they tapped into a healthy scepticism of advertisers and other image-makers. They also dovetailed with growing discontent with the ad-strew visual environment of cities in the 1970s. Budgets for advertising had mushroomed in the1960s and outdoor advertising “cluttered” cities with billboards and neon, generating “fierce intensities and new hybrid energies” that threatened to throw off the visual equilibrium (McLuhan 74). Visual literacy curricula brought in experiential learning focussed on the legibility of the cities, mapping, and the visualisation of urban issues with social justice implications. The Detroit Geographical Expedition and Institute (DGEI), a “collective endeavour of community research and education” that arose in the aftermath of the 1967 uprisings, is the most storied of the groups that suffused the collection of spatial data with community engagement and organising (Warren et al. 61). The following decades would see a tamed approach to visual literacy that, while still pressing for critical reading, did not upend traditional methods of educational delivery. Figure 6: Beginning a College Program-Assisting Teachers to Develop Visual Literacy Approaches in Public School Classrooms. 1977. ERIC. Searching for Civic Education The visual literacy initiatives formed in the early 1970s both affirmed existing civil society institutions while also asserting the need to better inform the public. Most of the campaigns were sponsored by universities, major libraries, and international groups such as UNESCO, which published its “Declaration on Media Education” in 1982. They noted that “participation” was “essential to the working of a pluralistic and representative democracy” and the “public—users, citizens, individuals, groups ... were too systematically overlooked”. Here, the public is conceived as both “targets of the information and communication process” and users who “should have the last word”. To that end their “continuing education” should be ensured (Study 18). Programs consisted primarily of cognitive “see-scan-analyse” techniques (Little et al.) for younger students but some also sought to bring visual analysis to adult learners via continuing education (often through museums eager to engage more diverse audiences) and more radical popular education programs sponsored by community groups. By the mid-80s, scores of modules had been built around the comprehension of visual media and had become standard educational fare across North America, Australasia, and to a lesser extent, Europe. There was an increasing awareness of the role of data and image presentation in decision-making, as evidenced by the surprising commercial success of Edward Tufte’s 1982 book, The Visual Display of Quantitative Information. Visual literacy—or at least image analysis—was now enmeshed in teaching practice and needed little active advocacy. Scholarly interest in the subject went into a brief period of hibernation in the 1980s and early 1990s, only to be reborn with the arrival of new media distribution technologies (CD-ROMs and then the internet) in classrooms and the widespread availability of digital imaging technology starting in the late 1990s; companies like Adobe distributed free and reduced-fee licences to schools and launched extensive teacher training programs. Visual literacy was reanimated but primarily within a circumscribed academic field of education and data visualisation. Figure 7: Visual Literacy; What Research Says to the Teacher, 1975. National Education Association. USA. Part of the shifting frame of visual literacy has to do with institutional imperatives, particularly in places where austerity measures forced strange alliances between disciplines. What had been a project in alternative education morphed into an uncontested part of the curriculum and a dependable budget line. This shift was already forecasted in 1972 by Harun Farocki who, writing in Filmkritik, noted that funding for new film schools would be difficult to obtain but money might be found for “training in media education … a discipline that could persuade ministers of education, that would at the same time turn the budget restrictions into an advantage, and that would match the functions of art schools” (98). Nearly 50 years later educators are still using media education (rebranded as visual or media literacy) to make the case for fine arts and humanities education. While earlier iterations of visual literacy education were often too reliant on the idea of cracking the “code” of images, they did promote ways of learning that were a deep departure from the rote methods of previous generations. Next-gen curricula frame visual literacy as largely supplemental—a resource, but not a program. By the end of the 20th century, visual literacy had changed from a scholarly interest to a standard resource in the “teacher’s toolkit”, entering into school programs and influencing museum education, corporate training, and the development of public-oriented media (Literacy). An appreciation of image culture was seen as key to creating empathetic global citizens, but its scope was increasingly limited. With rising austerity in the education sector (a shift that preceded the 2008 recession by decades in some countries), art educators, museum enrichment staff, and design researchers need to make a case for why their disciplines were relevant in pedagogical models that are increasingly aimed at “skills-based” and “job ready” teaching. Arts educators worked hard to insert their fields into learning goals for secondary students as visual literacy, with the hope that “literacy” would carry the weight of an educational imperative and not a supplementary field of study. Conclusion For nearly a century, educational initiatives have sought to inculcate a cosmopolitan perspective with a variety of teaching materials and pedagogical reference points. Symbolic languages, like the Isotype, looked to unite disparate people with shared visual forms; while educational initiatives aimed to train the eyes of students to make them more discerning citizens. The term ‘visual literacy’ emerged in the 1960s and has since been deployed in programs with a wide variety of goals. Countercultural initiatives saw it as a prerequisite for popular education from the ground up, but, in the years since, it has been formalised and brought into more staid curricula, often as a sort of shorthand for learning from media and pictures. The grand cosmopolitan vision of a complete ‘visual language’ has been scaled back considerably, but still exists in trace amounts. Processes of globalisation require images to universalise experiences, commodities, and more for people without shared languages. Emoji alphabets and globalese (brands and consumer messaging that are “visual-linguistic” amalgams “increasingly detached from any specific ethnolinguistic group or locality”) are a testament to a mediatised banal cosmopolitanism (Jaworski 231). In this sense, becoming “fluent” in global design vernacular means familiarity with firms and products, an understanding that is aesthetic, not critical. It is very much the beneficiaries of globalisation—both state and commercial actors—who have been able to harness increasingly image-based technologies for their benefit. To take a humorous but nonetheless consequential example, Spanish culinary boosters were able to successfully lobby for a paella emoji (Miller) rather than having a food symbol from a less wealthy country such as a Senegalese jollof or a Morrocan tagine. This trend has gone even further as new forms of visual communication are increasingly streamlined and managed by for-profit media platforms. The ubiquity of these forms of communication and their global reach has made visual literacy more important than ever but it has also fundamentally shifted the endeavour from a graphic sorting practice to a critical piece of social infrastructure that has tremendous political ramifications. Visual literacy campaigns hold out the promise of educating students in an image-based system with the potential to transcend linguistic and cultural boundaries. This cosmopolitan political project has not yet been realised, as the visual literacy frame has drifted into specialised silos of art, design, and digital humanities education. It can help bridge the “incomplete connections” of an increasingly globalised world (Calhoun 112), but it does not have a program in and of itself. Rather, an evolving visual literacy curriculum might be seen as a litmus test for how we imagine the role of images in the world. 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