Academic literature on the topic 'Citations russes'

Russel – Silver syndrome (RSS) is a hereditary disease manifesting with intrauterine growth retardation, dwarfism, and other stigmas of embryopathy. We describe this rare genetic condition in a 7-month-old baby. The changes in physical condition and neurological status, clinical signs, laboratory tests, and management strategy are addressed. A genetic condition was suggested through an arrested development and stigmas of embryopathy only at the age of 7 months. At the age of 5 months, hydrocephaly was suspected due to asymmetrical proportions of the body (the relatively large size of head compared to a small body). However, neurosonography ruled out this diagnosis. Genetic testing for microsatellite loci on chromosome 7, which identified abnormal methylation of H19 gene verified the final diagnosis. KEYWORDS: Russel – Silver syndrome, child, intrauterine growth retardation, pseudohydrocephalus, dwarfism, genetic counseling. FOR CITATION: Khafizova N.R., Merzlyakova D.R., Safina Yu.F. Russel – Silver syndrome a 7-month-old child: case report. Russian Journal of Woman and Child Health. 2021;4(1):103–105. DOI: 10.32364/2618-8430-2021-4-1-103-105.

Matisse's early dance paintings Joy of Life, Dance (I), and Dance (II) appear in countless art books in which their public receptions are repeatedly treated in a superficial manner. The fame of these works needs to be understood in a fuller context for students of dance and art. Matisse's early dance paintings are carefully examined in terms of their historical influences. His exposure to Isadora Duncan, Loïe Fuller, and the Ballets Russes is considered. The frequent citation of specific folk dances Matisse saw at the time he created these works is challenged. What becomes significant is how poetically Matisse transformed the many sources he absorbed into his own reductive style. Matisse's decades-long interest in dance is demonstrated by select examples from his dance oeuvre. Even as an invalid, Matisse continued to work with dance themes. His joy in watching dance and making dance works, including those for ballet, reflected his passion for colour, motion, and expression of the liveliness he saw in dance. It is hoped that this article can lead to more interdisciplinary scholarship and teaching between dance studies and art history.

It's not often that you are asked to come up with an article to a strict deadline but with absolutely no constraints as to the content. It's a challenge but also a luxury. Without a moment's hesitation I chose the journal as my topic. After all it is in JCS that I published my first papers; its editorial board was the first editorial board that I joined; and, of course, since I became Editor-in-Chief it has occupied a significant proportion of my waking thoughts. I was a PhD student in the laboratory of one of the Editors of the journal (now retired), and so it seemed natural that my thesis work would be published in JCS (though, come to think of it, no other options were on offer). We worked hard on my first manuscript until we had it in a form that we were satisfied with. I then left the manuscript with my advisor and, a few days later, he told me that the referees were positive and that the paper was now in press. (Oh happy days - now that I'm Editor my papers get rejected from JCS with some regularity.) While this gave me a very positive experience of science publishing in general and of JCS in particular, it did leave me completely unprepared for the more conventional review process. I was quite shocked when, as a postdoc, I submitted my first paper to a non-JCS journal (J. Cell Biol. in fact) and received referees' reports that were a) in writing, b) critical and c) took almost two months to arrive. I also discovered that JCS did not enjoy the same star billing at MIT as in Oxford and, when I rushed to the library to see my precious papers in print, it was some time before I located the journal in a dusty corner of the building. So, as we hurtle into the new Millennium, are my experiences as a PhD student relevant to publishing in JCS today? I believe that the answer is yes, for two reasons. First, because JCS still strives to be very author-friendly and, second, because any journal inevitably reflects the personalities and tastes of its Editors. JCS has always put the author first. Tangible examples of this philosophy are the open and rapid review process (ahem, I know we do slip up occasionally, so no need to interrupt my New Year hangover with any reminders), rapid, high quality publication, lack of page charges, free reprints and free colour. These features of the journal have undoubtedly benefited non-JCS authors, as competitor journals have been forced to adopt some of our policies. We are also unusual in being owned by a non-profit organisation that is committed to returning the (not inconsiderable) profits of the journal to the scientific community, through support for conferences, grants to allow scientists to visit other laboratories, and so on. While being kind to authors isn't controversial (is it?), the issue of journal content certainly is. We all grumble that such and such a journal ‘likes’ one research area and ‘dislikes’ another, and there is no doubt that for any given journal it is easier to publish some types of paper than others (thereby, of course, creating a convenient niche for new journals to fill). Here I would make two points: you can't publish papers that aren't submitted; and it is much easier to edit a journal with a modest number of submissions (JCS pre-1992) than to edit one in which the number of submissions exceeds the page allocation by a factor of greater than four (JCS at the cusp of the Millennium). As the impact factor of JCS has crept upwards, submissions have soared, but there is still a need to attract stronger papers, and so I spend a fair amount of time talking to potential authors and soliciting manuscripts, using any of the inducements at my disposal (sliding scale available on request). Along the way I seem to spend a lot of time over drinks in dingy conference bars, listening to authors' tales of cruel mistreatment at the hands of other journals; sometimes it is a struggle to remember exactly what I promised once I am safely back in my own lab. My tastes in cell biology are famously eclectic, but at some point in the last few years we no longer had space to publish all the scientifically sound papers that were being submitted. We were forced to resort to editorial rejections. This is when an Editor decides that a piece of work should not appear in the journal, even if the referees were to be positive, and therefore that the paper should not be sent out for review. Ouch! It always hurts to have a paper rejected in this way. We bend over backwards to spell out at the front of the journal the type of paper that will be editorially rejected and to explain the reasons for rejection in the decision letter to the author. An author can always appeal, in which case we will almost always send the paper out for review (and sadly the referees almost always tick the ‘too descriptive’, insufficient advance' or ‘insufficient general interest’ box on the report form). Even if space were not a limitation (and it will not be when hard copy journals disappear) there would still be the constant desire to improve the quality of the journal, the crude index of which is the impact factor. It is worth pointing out that the motivation to publish better and better science is largely the Editors' own and has almost nothing to do with the commercial success of the journal. It comes as a surprise to most scientists to discover that a large portfolio of journals with tiny circulations and mediocre content can potentially make as much money as one blockbuster journal; if the authors pay high enough page charges you enter the lucrative world of vanity publishing. Nor does it matter if a journal has a life span of only a few years; its demise is devastating for the scientists who put so much effort into it, but for the publisher it can simply be replaced with another new journal and another new title. Oops, I am beginning to sound cynical (but remember that I am writing this in 1999 and the rays of the new Millennium have yet to warm my soul). If the discrepancy between commercial success and scientific success is one issue that I brood on, the other is the growing ‘professionalisation’of science publishing. ‘Amateur’ editors, such as myself, who combine editing with running a research lab, are not quite an endangered species, but we are probably decreasing in number. We are being replaced by people who have left bench science after a PhD and, often, postdoctoral training and have taken up science publishing as a career. There have always been PhDs involved in different aspects of journal publishing, but I am thinking particularly of the growing numbers who actually determine the scientific content of the journal. At their best professional Editors are unparalleled in the flair that they bring to the job - witness the legendary Miranda Robertson and Benjamin Lewin. At their worst they have the mentality of failed postdocs, their understanding of science frozen at the point where they retired, injured, from the fray. At conferences they will assiduously take notes during the talks by their former colleagues and stare blankly into space when subjects that they are unfamiliar with are presented. They become fashion junkies, unable to decide for themselves what their journal should be publishing this season. The JCS experience of ‘professionalisation’, I hasten to add, has been totally positive (otherwise this bit would have been mysteriously edited out!). By recruiting a staff editor we have been able to take new initiatives we simply didn't have the time or energy for before. Without him ‘Editorials’, ‘In This Issue’ and a constant flow of interesting review articles would never have become reality - and there are plenty of other innovations in the pipeline. I believe in a partnership between the amateurs and the professionals, with the amateurs providing an accountability and a practical perspective that can only come from being active in the lab. No article about science publishing is complete without some pontification on electronic publishing. I'm all for it (electronic publishing, that is) for all the reasons that are rehearsed ad nauseam, but also out of nostalgia for those papers I published when I was a PhD student. Electronic publication can free us from the severe restrictions that are currently imposed on the length of individual articles. Of course it is already possible to publish supplementary material, such as movies and methods, on journal web sites, but what I would like to see is a return to longer reference lists. When I was beavering away on my first JCS paper, I took great trouble to cite all the relevant literature, both recently published and ancient (i.e. more than three years old). These days, so often, in the interests of space we restrict our citations to the newest papers, the papers in the top three journals or, worse, avoid the primary publications altogether and rely on reviews. All too often the Acknowledgements at the end of an article will include a blanket apology to those authors whose work could not be cited owing to lack of space. It would be doing science a great service if we could, once more, enjoy the luxury and the responsibility of placing our own work both in the context of the papers that preceded it and in a wider context than our own narrow research area. So, happy Millennium - and thank you to all the unsung heroes of JCS: the authors, referees, Editors and board members and all the staff who miraculously turn the constant deluge of accepted papers into a rather fine journal.

"These days information is so readily available and so instant in transferral that people start to feel that they have a more active role in the process of history." -- William B. Davis, M.A. ("Cigarette Smoking Man" from The X-Files) Space is, as its history shows, an experiential phenomenon open for interpretation. The methods by which this phenomenon comes to be known are equally arbitrary and tend to vary through time (to which space is intimately related), from culture to culture, and are always specifically related to what is known about the world within these circumstances. For example, Caroline McLeod presents a story recorded by Colin Turnball about a tribe of pygmies living deep in the rainforests of Africa. Some of them once journeyed to Lake Victoria for the first time, but were unable to perceive the people on the boats in the distance. Because they had never been in an environment with large expanses of space, the pygmies had never seen an object recede into the distance. They were unable to perceive what psychologists call size constancy. After several weeks of observing the boats, however, they were able to shift their understanding of reality to include this new mode of perceptual experience, a shift producing considerable ontological change for their culture. Postmodern society represents a similar attempt to deal with a new perceptual realm made accessible through new media forms such as the Internet, and the implications of developments in quantum physics, demonstrating a subtle renegotiation of space that challenges the hegemonic ontological paradigm of the scientific establishment. That is, it represents a pull away from a model which insists that movement necessarily involves a crossing of literal, measurable space between two points. Electronic communications such as the Internet have, as the Cigarette Smoking Man notes, led to an increased sense of public responsibility in the process of history and, by their very nature, demonstrated the ethereal quality of space itself. To isolate the origin of the negotiation of space in western culture requires a short journey back to the sixth century B.C. Zeno, Parmenides's most famous pupil, was already powerfully demonstrating that the common conceptualisation of space -- although it appeared 'natural' and 'obvious' -- was actually fundamentally flawed. Suppose you want to move your cursor from this word to this one. There is about a three centimetre gap between the two. As part of the trip, you must travel half the distance between the two points -- 1.5 centimetres. To travel 1.5 centimetres, you must travel half of this distance -- 75 millimetres......and so on. Every distance can be halved, so there is always a space between you and your destination. Logically, not only can you not move the cursor from word to word, you cannot move yourself from one side of the room to the other, or move at all for that matter. The implication is that the perception that reality changes is an illusion, since distance and movement are themselves both illusory: you do step into the same river twice. What are some cultural markers of the growing acceptance of a more ethereal conceptualisation of space? The first, and perhaps most noticeable, is a marked reduction in the linear representation of time, which manifests as an unprecedentedly heterogeneous set of trends that essentially collapses the past, the future, and past representations of the future. Andrew Niccol's 1998 film, Gattaca, thus presents a fifties-style nineties version of the future. Fashion and music are clearer sites of this nonlinear trend, the influence of the forties, fifties, sixties, seventies and eighties all being observable in contemporary popular culture. And already, the nineties are beginning to take on a nostalgia all their own as the millennium draws us closer to the 'future' that 2,000 signifies and away from the 'pre-future' tension of the nineties. Another, more complex cultural effect of this renegotiation of space, apart from its implications for time, is the decline in usefulness of literalised spatial metaphor. This situation has developed in part from the ability of electronic communications, particularly the Internet, to allow active participation in nonliteral space -- cyberspace, an experience which until recently did not exist outside the fiction of writers such as William Gibson. Cyberspace is unique in its ability to electronically replicate the mystical notion of transcendence: in cyberspace, you are a figure of your own creation, existing nowhere and everywhere. Unrestrained by the physical body, 'movement' becomes both unnecessary and undesirable for participation and interaction. Cyberspace is not even genuinely 'meta-space', since space is a concept which only becomes useful as an unstable metaphor to describe an experience which exists so vividly outside of its possible parameters. The nonlocalised experience of cyberspace itself reflects the findings of recent work on sub-atomic phenomena, explored most famously by quantum physicist David Bohm. When scientists observed that, under certain conditions, subatomic particulars ('quanta') communicate with each other over vast distances instantaneously (faster than light), like twins who feel each other's pain, Bohm realised that they were observing the 'principle of nonlocality': the information was not travelling through time and space from one location to another, the subatomic particles simply existed in a dimension that rendered time and space irrelevant, and where information existed in all places at the same time (Lewels 69). Since quanta are the building blocks of matter, Bohm concluded that all matter is connected at the subatomic level. This seemed to explain, for example, why quanta only appear as solid objects, as opposed to particles or waves, when they are observed; there seems to be a profound relationship between the observer and the observed. Scientists eventually stopped trying to distinguish between one subatomic particle and another because they are all identical and encoded with the same information. When grouped in great quantities, they cease to behave as individuals (that is, independently unpredictable), and begin to demonstrate a 'group consciousness', similar to a man'o'war, which is actually a conglomerate of individual creatures operating as one. Bohm eventually concluded that a holographic model of the universe was the most useful for explaining the unpredictable behaviour of quanta, postulating that every subatomic particle may be encoded with the information necessary to replicate the entire universe (Lewels 70). Like a regular holograph, each part contains the whole. In postmodern society, too, each artefact, each act, contains the meanings of the whole, becoming inevitable signs of accumulation. In an ironic, spatial sort of way then, postmodern physics and culture have come full circle to meet up with Zeno, who, like us, apparently never actually went anywhere (indeed, the idea that he could would be contrary to his philosophy). Apart from the scientific and philosophical compulsions to renegotiate conceptualisations of space is the possibility that the traditional model is simply unuseful for articulating the wide, varying range of contemporary human experience which western culture increasingly rushes to acknowledge, from cybersex to alien abduction. So even if there is room for space in postmodern society, we may not have time for it. References Clifton, Paul. "Interview with William B. Davis." Fortean Times Sep. 1998: 66. Harvey, David. The Condition of Postmodernity. Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1989. Lewels, Joe. The God Hypothesis: Extraterrestrial Life and Its Implications for Science and Religion. Mild Spring, NC: Wild Flower, 1997. Lyotard, Jean-François. The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge. Trans. Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: U of Minneapolis P, 1988. McLeod, Caroline. "Extraordinary Experience and Research at PEER." PEER. 23 Sep. 1998. 24 Nov. 1998 <http://www.peer-mack.org/mcleod.php>. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Adam Dodd. "'The Truth Is Over There': Is There Room for Space in Postmodernity?" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 1.4 (1998). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9811/truth.php>. Chicago style: Adam Dodd, "'The Truth Is Over There': Is There Room for Space in Postmodernity?," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 1, no. 4 (1998), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9811/truth.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Adam Dodd. (1998) 'The truth is over there": is there room for space in postmodernity? M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 1(4). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9811/truth.php> ([your date of access]).

I have recently resigned from my casual job at a convenience store where I worked for over five years. During the farewells that took place as I finished my last shift, one of my co-workers asked me if I had any regrets about leaving, and whether there were any fond memories I could recall from the period of my employment. For those of you who have had the somewhat dubious pleasure of working at the lower end of the retail food chain, you'll know that my co-worker could not possibly have been expecting a serious answer to her enquiry. Working in a convenience store is mind-numbing at the best of times, and even if you think you have an iota of intelligence, there are plenty of customers and employers willing to disabuse you of this self-deluding pretension on your part. Despite the facetious quality of my co-worker's question, this article does offer her an answer, but my approach has less to do with memories about the work as such, as it does about the play that went on alongside the work, in order to endure the work. In The Practice of Everyday Life, Michel de Certeau speaks of the art of making do as practiced by individuals as they go about their everyday life. He introduces a clear distinction between his understanding of the concepts of 'strategies' and 'tactics'. De Certeau argues that while systems may implement 'strategies' to designate particular activities to specific places, 'tactics' offer innumerable ways to evade or traverse this imposed "law of the place" (29). Tactics are "a clever utilization of time" (39) that take advantage of the opportunities that momentarily present themselves as cracks in the strategies that are enacted by the "surveillance of the proprietary powers" (37). De Certeau illustrates how the mobilisation of tactics is in effect the mobilisation of "ways of using the constraining order of the place" (30) where an individual has little choice but to live and work. In this regard, de Certeau advocates the notion of a creative approach to everyday life, where the individual resorts to artisan-like inventiveness, trickery and "guileful ruse" (37), and thus introduces play into the foundations of power (39), so that she or he may survive the strategies enacted by power. Since for financial reasons I had to work in a convenience store, I always hoped, I admit rather naively, that it would be of the kind that I saw in the movies. I liked the film Grosse Point Blank for a number of reasons. First, for the point in the script where the central character, played by John Cusack, returns to his hometown and attempts to revisit the house he grew up in; in place of his family home he finds a convenience store. Aside from the poetic resonance of this scene with my own life (after five years I began to feel as though I lived at the shop, and even had the front door keys), I envied the guy who worked there -- at least initially, before the shop was turned into a fireball. The convenience store's employee had taken advantage of the absence of an owner or manager to introduce into the workplace an activity usually associated with not-working, with being a customer. He had literally introduced play into the workplace, taking the opportunity to use the shop's video game as his own personal arcade. He was ensconced in a world of his own making, complete with headphones, defiantly oblivious to the customers and the low flying bullets around him. The explicit introduction of play into the workplace is also apparent in Clerks, the film that first highlighted the dissatisfaction of the convenience store employee. In this film, work as a place is transcended in a flagrant example of 'tactics' winning bet on time over place (39), as the employee closes the shop during working hours, and takes to the roof to play a pre-organised game of hockey. Central to the antics of the characters in both films is the absence of power in the form of the owner, or a manager. In my own case, the first four years of working were invariably in the presence of the owner of the store. Given this potentially punitive restraint it was difficult to inject much in the way of overt play into the workplace; however, as soon as the owner was away from the shop, the opportunity to play was seized with both hands. I remember walking into the shop one day, and finding one of my co-workers sitting on one of the benches, formulating questions for another co-worker in anticipation of a quiz game they were going to play, based upon knowledge about the idiosyncrasies of the shop and its customers. A sample question went something like this: What are the names of [insert the name of the bread delivery man here]'s children? For extra points tell me their ages. No doubt the prize was going to be a generous, though unwitting donation from the store's owner. Until the reorganisation of my boss's schedule I had merely wished that I could stand behind the counter and indulge in the leisurely activity of reading the magazines like the employee in Clerks. The opportunities to make use of my employer's time were very fine cracks indeed, so it was true, in accordance with de Certeau, that a particular kind of inventiveness was called for. An example of a creative use of the work place in the face of considerable restraint was the existence of the 'staff lollies' jar. The jar, a re-used plastic confectionery container, appeared one day; someone had gathered all the half-opened packets of lifesavers and chewing gum scattered about under the counter, and labelled them. The effect of the appearance of this container was to sanction the consumption of confectionery that was not paid for, under the ruse that somehow if you didn't either take home, or personally finish the packet of sweets that you had opened, then you weren't stealing them. It was even more okay to finish a packet that someone else had opened, because you couldn't be held remotely responsible. The establishment of a 'staff lollies' jar is not entirely explained by de Certeau's understanding of la perruque, where an employee essentially uses the time and equipment of an employer for her or his own means, without actually stealing goods; that's what reading the New Weekly, then returning it to the magazine rack is about. Having a 'staff lollies' jar is an extension of using "tactical ruses and surprises: clever tricks of the weak on the adversary on his [sic] own turf, hunter's tricks, maneuverable, polymorph mobilities, jubilant, poetic and warlike discoveries" (40), which arise in response to a particular rational system. Although when one first begins to work in the type of shop I have been discussing, one is the proverbial kid in a candy store, the conditions of employment are such that it is not acceptable, or even legal, to freely consume the goods. There were however, a variety of refinements of the practice of not-stealing in my former workplace that made it possible to play further, but within the expectations of compliance to legal constraints. Such trickery extended to the trial of new products; how could we respond effectively to customer enquiries about newly arrived products if we hadn't sampled them? In the most subtle manifestation of this ruse, the first aid kit, although ostensibly provided by my employer, was in fact stocked from the shelves by the employees. All in the name of workplace health and safety we provided ourselves with a never-ending supply of nail polish remover, cotton balls, under-arm deodorant and body sprays, tampons, vitamin C and garlic tablets, glucodin energy supplements (like we needed more sugar!), and at any given time, at least three boxes each of the more usual fare of Band-Aids and headache relief capsules. A less subtle and more obviously jubilant manifestation of our ways of using the store's goods resulted in a meandering trail of Australian salamander species -- toys procured from the Kinder surprise-like Yowies -- which were blu-tacked to the inside of a window frame behind the shop's counter in a semi-permanent ligne d'erre: a squiggle of our consumption, our way of using the constraining order of the work place. There are many more examples of play, insofar as that means taking delight in inventiveness, trickery, guile, and ruse, than I can explore within the limits of this article, that the convenience store employee utilises to make do within the framework of subservience in which she or he operates. While I have only dealt with aspects of the employer and employee relationship here, there are certainly many tactics that are employed by the employee to deal with her or his similarly subservient position to the store's customers. For an insight into the dynamics of this relationship Clerks provides an all too brief expose of weird and unreasonable customer behaviour, in response to which the convenience store employee must, at least on the surface, appear to adopt the maxim 'the customer is always right'. Of course, as maxims go, this one is patently not true, but I'll leave it to you to reflect on your own experiences in the convenience store, so that you might ascertain how the person serving you is using tactics. References De Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life. Trans. Steven Rendall. Berkeley and Los Angeles: U of California P, 1984. Clerks. Dir. Kevin Smith. Artificial Eye: 1994. Grosse Point Blank. Dir. George Armitage. Buena Vista: 1997. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Kirsty Leishman. "At Our Convenience: Working and Playing in the Convenience Store." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 1.5 (1998). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9812/store.php>. Chicago style: Kirsty Leishman, "At Our Convenience: Working and Playing in the Convenience Store," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 1, no. 5 (1998), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9812/store.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Kirsty Leishman. (1998) At our convenience: working and playing in the convenience store. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 1(5). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9812/store.php> ([your date of access]).

The Big Pineapple, Big Banana, the Big Potato , Australia positively groans under the weight of big things littered along the highway like jokes awaiting their punch-lines. These commercial road-side enterprises are a constant source of bemusement among Australians and this paper seeks to explore the attraction of the gargantuan and why Australians consider big things to be so funny. Discovering that big things not only give form to national icons but also celebrate the nation's tendency to larrikinism and the associated sardonic, ironic and anti-establishment humour, we are left to consider the role big things may play in the Australian national psyche and how their function as low art turns their collectivity into some strange, impulsive attempt at establishing a system of totems that comes to terms with this big land and its contested ownership. Historically big things like the Colossus of Rhodes, the Pyramids or the Great Wall of China have been physical manifestations of empire and dominion. No laughing matter. But in the United States from the 1920s, particularly in Southern California, we begin to see a profusion of "roadside vernacular architecture" including a big coffee percolator, a big pig, a big corn ear, a big teapot, a big Spanish dancer, a big duck, a big fish and many big hot dogs and big chilli bowls (Heimann and Georges). "Imaginana" is another way to conceptualise these strange forms of cultural production that replicate familiar, safe everyday items (Amdur 12). Early big things, particularly in the United States, had a clearly pragmatic function: to lure car-bound consumers off the highways and into local commercial enterprises with simple, one-to-one signification bringing function to form and high art to low purposes (Gebhard 14). The aim of these big things was to shock, startle and amuse the passing motorist and they took on a humourous edge due to the incongruity of scale and the surreal surprise of reality warping out of all proportion. While big things have a commercial purpose they achieve that purpose because they can be read playfully, always reminding us of the paradox they entail: they act dualistically as both the media and the message, both the referent and the real (Barcan 38). Reading big things as jokes in Freudian terms, we see how they may be eruptions of the unconscious into the mundane (Krahn 158). The first big thing in Australia was the Big Banana, built in Coffs Harbour by an American entomologist, John Landi (Negus). From that time on Australia has had a quirky relationship with big things. The banana is innately funny. The bent phallus, the unique shape, the skin as the standard slapstick cue to pratfall; everything about the banana is an invitation to laugh. Soon the banana was emulated by other funny produce such as the pineapple, the prawn and the lobster and within a decade monstrous agricultural products proliferated beside Australian highways regardless of their innate humour. They were joined by a variety of iconic figures, usually with an obvious connection such as the Big Penguin at the town of Penguin. Big things reinforce notions of national and regional identity: on the national level Australia is portrayed as a land of plenty, a fact emphasized by the sheer vastness of these creations; regionally, these totems function as identity markers and place makers (Barcan 31). Many big things were constructed by migrants and thus can be interpreted as optimistic acts of home making in the vast emptiness of the continent (Barcan 36). There is concern that big things obscure, or even obliterate, the history of regions and the whole continent: the incarcerations, land-grabbing, labour conflicts, corruption and failure. Instead it could be argued that big thing function to both signpost white history and subvert it at the same time: the Big Ned Kelly calling for revolution, the big goldminer looking ever expectant and ever disappointed, the Big Captain Cook in Cairns giving what appears to be a Nazi salute, all point to a larrikin refusal to take the brief and minor white history too seriously. The Australian larrikin sense of humour is mischievous, depreciatory and anti-authoritarian. This sense of humour arises from certain characteristics of the Australian "legend" identified by Ward such as scepticism, egalitarianism and derision towards affectation that are evident in larrikins' confrontations with authority, elaborate practical jokes on each other and the community at large and a "propensity for vulgarising the arts" (Reekie 97). This larrikinism is evident in the way dangerous nuisances (the big crocodile, the big red back spider) and mundane objects (the big jam tin, the big stubby holder, the big mower) are given the same treatment as national icons. There is also the variability of effort and attention to detail, where Aussie "ingenuity" and bush carpentry have been used to turn a good idea into reality in the shortest possible time to produce a very impressionist big koala or just the blob of concrete that is the big strawberry. Ignatius Jones explains: "get your local surfboard maker to cast you a giant prawn in fibreglass and you end up with the cicada that ate Yamba" (Negus). The early documentation of Australian big things was also carried out in a larrikin spirit (Amdur) including the claim that big things are part of an alien conspiracy to make us feel small (Stockwell). Every big thing requires a visionary, a postmodern artist with the passion and the obsession to realise their vision. It is a form of low art, a form of trash culture. But to many who do not frequent galleries and museums, low art is their available form of art and thus becomes their actual art. City planners and the upper middle class tend to denigrate these structures so at odds with their images of beautiful cities, so blatantly bastions of commercialism and so big that they run the risk of obscuring and obliterating real art (Gerbhard 25). Big things are criticised as ugly, kitsch, tacky and giving a wrong impression of a town. There are further concerns that big things allow the tourist to learn without knowing by presenting only one side of the story (Cross 51) and that they make observers minuscule in their presence, dominating the landscape and the attention of tourists (Krahn 165). But looking beyond the aesthetics of the individual instance it becomes apparent that big things also function as a network (Barcan 32), inviting the tourist along the highway of "the arrested fairground (in the) oxymoron of movement" (Krahn 157), offering the hyperreal adventure of collecting the experience, and small mementos, of more big things (Eco 1986). Big things are carnival, inverting social rules, promising some weird utopia (Krahn 171). As a collectivity, the larger psycho-political and metaphysical roles of big things become apparent. For Australia, the crucial question big things raise is the nature of our relationship with the land. Most of white Australia, huddled in cities on the seaboard, has a fear of the empty space at the heart of the continent. Big things are an attempt to assert that the settlers can match the dimensions of the land as, community by community, we write ourselves upon the land. The problem that big things highlight rather than obscure, the problem that can never be sublimated, that constantly erupts from the collective unconscious is that the ownership of the land remains contested, sometimes in the courts, sometimes in the streets, but most importantly in the hearts and dreams of the whole Australian people. All this land once had its own indigenous stories and big things may be seen as a pathetic attempt to replace, re-define and retell those stories by the interlopers now living on the land. "...Big things work allegorically, effacing, most notably, Aboriginal definitions of regional, tribal, spiritual, linguistic or other space" (Barcan 37). There is a sense in which big things are white trash barely obscuring black deaths (Nyoongah 12-14). But like a student's job-work over an old master's self portrait, big things invite us to peek through to the real totems of this land, totems enshrined in the creation myths of the indigenous dreaming. This is big things' contribution to the reconciliation process, to remind us of the fragile hold of white Australia on the land and to demand respect for the stories big things seek to displace. And that is the real big thing for white Australia in the reconciliation process, to accept these stories as our own so the land owns us. This is a much bigger leap than just saying sorry but in some strange way it has already commenced in the massive, mega-fauna that even now are rising from the land like the harbingers of a new dreamtime. A number of authors complain that, intentionally or otherwise, big things exclude indigenous flora and fauna and suggest that this points to a denial of history (Amdur 13, Barcan 36). But in recent years there has been a flood of big indigenous icons, many owned by indigenous corporations: big koalas, big kangaroos, big crocodiles, big bunyips and big barramundi. There is still the potential for indigenous artists to turn the joke around by creating big ancestral beings including rainbow serpents and the like. As Krahn (163) says: "I fear there must have been a Big Aboriginal Elder somewhere, gazing wistfully from the edge of town. But why a chicken?" Works Cited Amdur, Mark. It Really Is A Big Country . Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1981. Barcan, Ruth. "Big Things: Consumer Totemism and Serial Monumentality." Linq 23.2 (1996): 31-39. Cane Toad Collective. "Big Things." Cane Toad Times 1 1983: 18-23. Eco, Umberto. Travels in Hyperreality. San Diego: Harcourt Brace, 1986. Gebhard, David. "Introduction." California Crazy: Roadside Vernacular Architecture . Eds. Jim Heimann and Rip Georges. San Francisco: Chronicle, 1985. 11-25. Heimann, Jim and Rip Georges. California Crazy: Roadside Vernacular Architecture . San Francisco: Chronicle, 1985. Krahn, Uli "The Arrested Fairground, or, Big Things as Oxymoron of Movement." Antithesis 13 (2002): 157-176. Negus, George, "Big Things", New Dimensions (In Time) . 21 July 2003. 26 September 2003 < http://www.abc.net.au/dimensions/dimensions_in_time/Transcripts/2003_default.htm >. Nyoongah, Janine Little. "'Unsinkable' Big Things: Spectacle, Race, and Class through Elvis, Titanic, O.J. and Sumo." Overland 148 (1997): 12-15. Reekie, Gail. "Nineteenth-Century Urbanization." Australian Studies: A Survey. Ed. James Walter. Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1989. Stockwell, Stephen. "Cairns Collossi." Cane Toad Times 2 1984: 21. Ward, Russel. The Australian Legend . Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1989. Links http://members.ozemail.com.au/~arundell/bigthing.htm http://www.alphalink.com.au/~richardb/page4.htm http://www.general.uwa.edu.au/u/rpinna/big/big_things_intro.html http://www.bigthings.com.au/ http://www.alphalink.com.au/~richardb/page4.htm Citation reference for this article MLA Style Stockwell, Stephen & Carlisle, Bethany. "Big Things" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture <http://www.media-culture.org.au/0311/6-stockwell-carlisle-big-things.php>. APA Style Stockwell, S. & Carlisle, B. (2003, Nov 10). Big Things. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 6, <http://www.media-culture.org.au/0311/6-stockwell-carlisle-big-things.php>

I’ve always thought that I should have been a baker. The profession, as I imagine it, appeals to my romantic sense of the art: the thrill of being awake before everyone else with my fingers in a pliant ball of dough; the warmth of the baking ovens at my back, imagining, in between sips of espresso, the joy my fresh baked goods will bring the world as the people in it start their day. Destiny saw fit to set me on another path – that of tenure-track, assistant professor of American literature – and doomed my dreams of a baking career, along with the opportunity for any regular home cooking. With the exception of holiday and special occasion cooking, the nearest I come to my romanticised notion of being a baker is the seasonal session of jam-making. I choose jam-making over jelly-making because in making jam you utilise the whole fruit, as opposed to using only the juice of the fruit to make jelly. However, I console myself with the thought that it is now pointless for me, in this era, to wish to be either a baker or a jam-maker, since both jobs are far from my romanticised notions of them, having succumbed, for the most part, commercially, to the site of the factory and the industrialisation of the assembly line. In fact, why does anyone bother to make homemade jams when they can drive to the neighbourhood supermarket and buy a jar of it for less than half the price of what it might cost to make it at home? The answer to this question calls us to investigate the contemporary foodways of home fruit preservation and canning as they gesture to jam as a cultural sign system whose meaning surpasses mere physical nourishment. From the sixteenth century (when sugar became readily available to the general populace in Europe) until the Industrial Revolution, cooks “put up” seasonal fruits, as jam- and jelly-making used to be called, for three main reasons: in order to 1) enjoy them at other times of the year, 2) preserve an abundant harvest from going to waste, and 3) store them for possible future times of scarcity (see Wilson and Eden). However, with the Industrial Revolution came commercially prepared products at prices below the cost of the total ingredients for home preparation of such items (Hunter 140). In fact, cookbooks written and published after the mid-eighteen hundreds contain far fewer recipes for jams and jellies than previous cookbooks do, indicating the move away from home preservation of fruit condiments because of the ready availability of commercial ones (Hunter 140). By the twentieth century, it became simply unnecessary for homemakers to prepare jams and jellies at home. By this time, most Western countries offered consumers a year-round supply of fresh fruits (flown, shipped, or trucked in from somewhere else), as well as an array of choices in cheap, factory-processed condiments; and few households would have stockpiled jams and jellies to safeguard against food scarcity when agricultural subsidies by national governments guaranteed a surplus of production. So why is it that home canning, specifically the making of jams, has not disappeared entirely as a cooking practice? Its continued existence suggests that jam-making, as an art, has cultural symbolism beyond its mere preservation of fruit, and that a growing distrust of factory food products has provided a new rationale for jam-making at home, signifying it one of those “clandestine forms taken by the dispersed, tactical, and make-shift creativity of groups or individuals already caught in the net of ‘discipline,’” one of those “procedures and ruses of consumers [that] compose the network of an antidiscipline” (de Certeau xiv-xv). With the ready availability of jams at supermarkets, with no nutritional requirements of dietary sugar that require our daily consumption of it, and with no further need of it as a “travel” food (in its earlier history, jam was used to aid travel by sea without incurring scurvy, and as a food for military troops), the continued practice of jam-making in the home emerges in the twenty-first century with a different cultural identity. C. Anne Wilson, in her introduction to “Waste Not, Want Not”: Food Preservation from Early Time to the Present Day, identifies the apparent stakes in the continued practice of making jam at home when she states that freezing produce and making jam are probably the two kinds of preservation most often carried out at home. To some extent they link up with other present-day food trends, such as concern about the use of chemicals in growing and processing the factory-produced versions. Some of those who blanch and freeze their own vegetables have chosen to grow them organically in the first place because so many of the vegetables on sale in shops, whether fresh or frozen, contain the residues of chemical fertilisers and pesticides. (3-4) The stakes noted above by Wilson are part of a growing trend of resistance to industrialised process of food production. Another author in Wilson’s edited collection, Lynette Hunter, provides the historical context for reading jam-making as a form of cultural resistance. She states that Eliza Acton, a radical journalist, published her 1857 cookery book The English Bread Book as a way to take back control of bread baking processes; in other words, she wrote the cookbook “to address the problem of the adulteration of shop-bought bread by encouraging people to make their own” (141). Indicative of a large-scale historical shift in foodways, Hunter finds that Acton makes a similar argument about fruit preserving in her Modern Cookery book of 1868: Acton feels the need to make the same intentions clear for her section on preserving and scathingly criticises the ‘unwholesome [preserved] fruit vended and consumed in very large quantities’ by the shop-buying public. Acton’s stress on the ‘wholesome’ is a significant precursor of the direction that preserving recipes will take when they re-enter cookery books at the end of the nineteenth century. No longer can the housewife claim to be frugal when she uses preserving skills, but she can claim to produce more nutritious and healthy food. (141) Thus, Acton’s cookbook reveals a trend away from conceiving home preserving as a means to save money and toward viewing it as a healthier alternative to commercially produced preserves because the consumer maintains control over all steps in the process. However, in the twenty-first century, there is no nutritional need for jam-making in the home: contemporary proponents of healthy eating proclaim the nutritional values of fresh fruits, not those preserved in sugar, and marketing trends in jams reflect this with the advertisement of many “low sugar” or “no sugar” varieties. Hunter states that making jam at home appeals to cooks at the end of the twentieth-century because “there is the confidence of knowing exactly what has gone into the foodstuff: home preserving is the only sure way of evading major additives and of controlling sugar content, and so on” (153). However, with new varieties of low or no sugar jams available at this time, and with familiar brand names, as well as organic farms, producing organic lines of jam (many offering these for sale at local farmer’s markets or via the internet), Hunter’s argument no longer reflects a primary concern of the home jam-maker. Instead, consumers do not want a relationship with a faceless jar of jam whose conditions of production are beyond their control and whose ingredients and labour come from somewhere else. They want to maintain a relationship with their local landscapes. As Hunter writes, jam-making in the home permits us “to recognise quite precisely how the network of food distribution and supply, quality and quantity, changes from year to year” (153). The exchange of homemade foodstuffs may even suggest an economy of barter that thwarts the exchange of capital for goods. Thus, home jam-making in the twenty-first century breaks with earlier methods of this practice and comes to represent this contemporary historical moment. The practice of making jam at home is counterculture and radical if it seeks to resist the heavily advertised and marketed brand name jams and provide the consumer with a sense of agency and control over the processes of production. Although it may cost cooks more money and take more time than simply purchasing jam at the supermarket, every jar of jam they make themselves is an act of defiance, however small, because it refuses to put money into the pockets of multinational corporations. Here, to use the terms of Michel de Certeau in the Practice of Everyday Life, the consumer unmakes his own domination by developing practices of everyday life that “poach … on the property” of the corporation and factory owners. Making jam at home is one of the “‘ways of operating’ [that] form the counterpart, on the consumer’s … side, of the mute processes that organise the establishment of socioeconomic order” (xiv). Contrary to the romantic notion of baking with which I began this essay, where I imagine getting up early in the pre-dawn darkness to practice my craft, jam-making disturbs my sleep on the other end of the day: if I start a batch of jam at night after everyone is out of my way in the kitchen, I am frequently up until one or two o’clock in the morning with my fingers, hands, arms, apron, stove, and countertop coated with sticky smudges of jam, my face roasted from the heat of the hot steam coming off the liquid fruit and sugar mixture, and my stirring hand burned from its proximity to the rolling boil, imagining, as I sip my espresso, the joy my mattress and pillow would bring me if I were using them to sleep. Due to the amount of time, money, scrubbing, and lack of sleep associated with my late-night jam-making sessions, my relationship with homemade jam is a conflicted one; but one that I always manage to value whenever I offer a friend, neighbour, or relative a jar of homemade jam. This communal or social aspect of the place of homemade jam in gift-giving is perhaps one of the most enjoyable ways in which jam-making in the home thwarts global capitalism. References De Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: U of California P, 1984. Eden, Trudy. “The Art of Preserving: How Cooks in Colonial Virginia Imitated Nature to Control It.” Eighteenth-Century Life 23.2 (1999): 13-23. Hunter, Lynette. “Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Trends in Food Preserving: Frugality, Nutrition or Luxury.” “Waste Not, Want Not”: Food Preservation from Early Times to the Present Day. Ed. C. Anne Wilson. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 1991. 134-158. Wilson, C. Anne. “Waste Not, Want Not”: Food Preservation from Early Times to the Present Day. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 1991. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Houston, Lynn. "Putting Up with “Putting Up”: A Cultural Analysis of Homemade Jam in the Twenty-First Century." M/C Journal 9.6 (2006). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0612/06-houston.php>. APA Style Houston, L. (Dec. 2006) "Putting Up with “Putting Up”: A Cultural Analysis of Homemade Jam in the Twenty-First Century," M/C Journal, 9(6). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0612/06-houston.php>.

Sitting in near darkness about eighteen inches from the screen, he turned the channel selector every half minute or so, sometimes much more frequently. He wasn't looking for something that might sustain his interest. Hardly that. He simply enjoyed jerking the dial into fresh image-burns. He explored content to a point. The tactile visual delight of switching channels took precedence, however, transforming even random moments of content into pleasing territorial abstractions. -- Don DeLillo (16) DeLillo captures in a few lines key aspects of a cultural narrative concerning how technology has sped up human lives. The speeds at which forms are transmitted and affect the ways we apprehend the world. Speed is enjoyable. Speed abstracts. Speed is visceral. Speed fragments. We are both agents of its processes and subject to its force. Like DeLillo's channel surfer then you may explore the content of this 'speed' issue of M/C with a certain mobility, and yet you are constrained to pass through at some speed. If you're interested please hang around for a while... This issue acknowledges the reification of speed, its elevation into a mysterious quality continuous with general cultural conditions. It has ceased to be a variable among and equal to others, or one that gains its value from local happenings. It is a cultural dominant. And in this usage speed has, of course, come to stand for high speed, not slow or any speed. Virilio, the founder of dromology, is perhaps the outstanding contemporary theorist of inherent speed culture. He urges that political analysis must start from a recognition of speed, viewing it as intertwined with current conditions of technology and capitalism. The force of speed needs thinking through though. Is it Virilio's generalised tyranny, a global accident? What is at stake? One possible answer to this question can be drawn from the very definition of 'speed': as anyone who has ever rushed to make a date they were late to would know, speed expresses a relationship between space and time, between a distance covered and a time elapsed. As the noted Polish sociologist Zygmunt Bauman writes, "'distance' is a social product; its length varies depending upon the speed with which it may be overcome (and, in a monetary economy, on the cost involved in the attainment of that speed" (12). The higher the speed, the greater the distance covered in any given time period -- and the secret to attaining the speed is the ability to pay the price. For those who can meet the price, space is dematerialised: communication, movement, the satisfaction of desires, is instantaneous. The residents of the first world who are empowered by the new economic processes, who can pay for the speed, "live in a perpetual present, ... are constantly busy and perpetually 'short of time'". For those who -- for whatever reason -- cannot afford the speed, time is decomposed by space, trapped by and in space. As Bauman argues, those without the access to speed are "marooned in the opposite world ... crushed under the burden of abundant, redundant and useless time they have nothing to fill with" (88). As Bauman succinctly and pithily puts it: "rather than homogenising the human condition, the technological annulment of temporal/spatial distances tends to polarise it" (18). Speed is a cultural dominant because its possession -- or the lack thereof -- defines people's social and economic future: it marks one's cards, determines one's destiny, more precisely, more forcefully and more thoroughly than any genetic sequence identified by the Human Genome Project ever could. In this light, our contributors take us through an excursus of the range, limits and functions of speed. Our feature writer, Esther Milne, takes a historical perspective on the perceptual reconfigurations of space and time that come with changes in communications and transport technologies. She observes how twentieth-century commentators including Marinetti, Harvey and Castells have heralded the arrivals of new temporal regimes on the basis of technological and economic changes. However, by examining eighteenth- and nineteenth-century English reactions to the use of the mail coach, train and telegraph to relay messages, she identifies a longer tradition of commentary on communication technologies, which sets up themes -- such as the possible alienation of messages from physical bodies -- that are still applied today. Claudia Mesch, in her contribution "Racing Berlin: the Games of Run Lola Run", takes us into the Berlin of Tom Tykwer's recent movie Run Lola Run. Playfully using the multiple narrative style of the movie, Mesch alternately discusses the film's narrative and visual form to comment upon its characterisations; its physical and spatial location to comment upon its intra- and extra-diagetic textualities; and its filmic tropes and conventions to comment upon the historical, geo-political and mythic existence of Berlin as a lived space. In a timely review article of Virilio's latest book The Information Bomb, John Armitage reflects upon Virilio's current thinking about speed, digital technologies and the state of the world. He outlines the metaphors of the militarisation of information that Virilio is using to describe the social and political effects of an explosively fast technoculture, and contrasts Virilio's thinking with that of Negroponte and Baudrillard. Sadeq Rahimi explores the shrinking of time and the virtualisation of space to question how identity is redefined in the postmodern condition. Utilising the work of Helga Nowotny, Paul Virilio, Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, amongst others, Rahimi argues that the self-identity constructed by these changing social conditions can no longer be described as human -- bound as this is by both space and time -- and calls for the theoretical and philosophical development of a new, posthuman theory of identity. Writing at the time of millennium fever McKenzie Wark takes a 'detour' away from the incessant media multiplication of a single moment by contemplating the enduring architectural media of ancient Egypt. Wark is thereafter able to put into relief how the twentieth century mummified change itself and in doing so has created new media empires designed to extend their dominion through momentary saturations of space. The tour stops by Valery, Innis, Microsoft, Time-Warner and the London Millennium Dome. Brian Ward draws our attention to the social and cultural experience of speed, and the ways to which speed is the result of an obsession, under capitalist rationalities, with notions of progress, advancement and unique sensation. Discussing the function of speed within the proto-Fascist philosophy of the Italian Futurist movement, Ward points to the way its overt fascination with speed foregrounds a more latent, yet no less obsessive, preoccupation with speed and progress within contemporary Western metaphysics. In "Fleshing Out the Maelstrom" Paul Taylor shows how the recent Biopunk fiction of Jeff Noon and Michael Marshall Smith plays out a contemporary ontological confusion between the physical and the informational. Going beyond Cyberpunk's exaggeration of digital abstractions, Biopunk metaphorises information's colonisation of the physical world as a "an alarming maelstrom of biological uncertainty" in which a fecund capitalism breeds mergers, images, and a smorgasbord of private products that overrun social life. In "Waiting for Instantaneity" Maya Drozdz reflects upon the temporal paradoxes of cyberspace. She questions Virilio's and Baudrillard's suppositions of realtime mediation arguing that movement in cyberspace is "subordinate to connection speed and loadtime", which means all online content is mediated by the temporalities of its transmission. She outlines online narratives that have arisen to accommodate and investigate the discrepancy between transmission time 'as it happens' and its perception and draws parallels with filmic techniques for creating temporal continuity. Kate Eichhorn also examines speed of the Net applying it to arguments about the effectivity of hate speech. She shows how the "speed and subsequent loss of orientation" that Virilio associates with virtual environments may actually prove the grounds for its recuperation. While cyberhate may still injure, the speed at which it may be recontextualised by parody, critique and the mobility of the reader disrupt its perlocutionary effects. In contrast to Ward, Gwendolyn Stansbury argues against the speed of contemporary life. Extrapolating the Slow Food movement's critique of fast food, she posits the negative effect that the modern pace of life has on the communal experience of preparing and eating food together. Finally, as a special feature this issue, we bring you a recording of a seminar recently presented by the noted Dutch media activist and theorist Geert Lovink at the Media and Cultural Studies Centre at the University of Queensland. Entitled "Directions for Cyberculture in the New Economy", it reprises a paper he presented at the "Tulipomania" conference held not long ago in Amsterdam, exploring the changes and potential of online activism and culture as it speeds headlong towards complete commercialisation. Greg Hearn and David Marshall respond to Lovink's views, and a lively audience discussion, ranging from AOL users to cyberwarriors, follows. Geert Lovink visited Brisbane as a participant in Alchemy, an International Masterclass for New Media Artists and Curators, which was organised by the Australian Network for Art and Technology in association with the Brisbane Powerhouse -- Centre for the Live Arts from 8 May to 9 June 2000. M/C and the Media and Cultural Studies Centre are highly grateful to ANAT and Geert Lovink as well as the Australian Key Centre for Cultural and Media Policy for making this event possible. Guy Redden & Sean Aylward Smith -- 'Speed' Issue Editors References Baudrillard, Jean. "The Ecstasy of Communication." The Anti-Aesthetic. Essays on Postmodern Culture. Ed. Hal Foster. Washington: Bay Press, 1983. Bauman, Zygmunt. Globalization: The Human Consequences. New York: Columbia UP, 1998. DeLillo, Don. Players. New York: Random House, 1989. Jameson, Frederic. "Postmodernism, or The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism." New Left Review 146 (1984). Citation reference for this article MLA style: Guy Redden, Sean Aylward Smith. "Editorial: 'Speed'." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3.3 (2000). [your date of access] <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0006/edit.php>. Chicago style: Guy Redden, Sean Aylward Smith, "Editorial: 'Speed'," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3, no. 3 (2000), <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0006/edit.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Guy Redden, Sean Aylward Smith. (2000) Editorial: 'speed'. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3(3). <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0006/edit.php> ([your date of access]).

Notre sujet de recherche est l'étude du phénomène citationnel dans les titres d'articles de la presse russe contemporaine. Les citations présentes dans les titres renvoient à différentes références culturelles textuelles : des citations d'oeuvres littéraires, d'écrits politiques, de textes de chansons, de titres ou de répliques de films, etc. La présente étude est réalisée sur 25 journaux et magazines des années 2002-2004 touchant un lectorat très large, du fait de leur tirage allant de 50000 à 3 millions d'exemplaires. Nous démontrons dans notre étude que ces citations appartiennent au phénomène appelé dans la langue russe "krylatye slova" (paroles ailées) qui désigne le phénomène des citations courantes. Ce phénomène, qui existe dans d'autres langues, n'a jamais été jusqu'à présent l'objet d'étude en tant que phénomène linguistique et culturel en France. L'utilisation de ces citations courantes, connues d'un large public à une époque donnée, dans un pays donné, est un marqueur d'identification nationale pour les locuteurs, qui n'ont pu avoir accès à la majorité de ces références que par l'exposition à une éducation commune et à une vie dans un champ culturel commun. Notre étude de l'utilisation de ces citations dans les titres d'article de la presse russe contemporaine donne donc un aperçu sur les références qui constituent le fonds culturel commun des Russes d'aujourd'hui. Notre étude propose également un instrument accessible à tous permettant de découvrir et recenser ces références, actualisées à une époque donnée
The subject of our research work is the study of the quotations phenomena that appear in the articles titles of the contemporary russian press. These quotations refer to source texts belonging to different categories of the culture : literary works, political works, songs, movies,... Our research work is based on the analysis of articles published in 25 russian newspapers and magazines, mainly on the period 2002-2004. These newspapers and magazines address a wide public, with prints up to 3 millions. We demonstrate in our work that the quotations that may be found in the article titles are "krylatye slova" (winged words, that is to say usual quotations). This phenomena exist as such in russian and german linguistics but has not been studied until now as a specific phenomena in french linguistics. The usage of winged words, quotations widely known by the general public at a given period of time in a specific country, is a sign of national identification for the speakers, as these quotations refer to cultural knowledge they could acquire only through a common education and exposure to life in the same country. Our work gives an overview of the common cultural references of the contemporary russian people, and proposes a tool, accessible to everybody, to discover these references, actualized at a specific period of time

This chapter examines the ways in which Lawrence contributed extensive and innovative literary engagements with dance in the modernist period. Lawrence’s citations of dance are most widely associated with the liberation of the body and identity through early twentieth-century dance practices such as social dance, Greek dance, and the work of Isadora Duncan. Yet, as this chapter explores, Lawrence’s narratives also reflect the aesthetics initiated by the innovations of the Ballets Russes, European Expressionism, and, latterly, the ritual dance of the American South - of Native and Pueblo Indian forms. In his late work Lawrence especially invokes dance experimentally to formulate a new literary critique of a failing European culture.