Journal articles on the topic 'DAH Theatre'

The main goal of this paper is to point out the power of the alternative and independent theatre in changing society, based on the scientific research of prof, dr Milena Dragićević-Šešić. The first part of the paper offers deliberations on the theories of reflection and shaping of Victoria de Alexander, according to which art and theatre always reflect social events. In the second part of the paper, we will analyse the work of independent theatre troupes (Dah teatar, Mim Art.) during the nineties, and their resistance to the regime of Slobodan Milošević - a significant contribution to the struggle for freedom of thought and the right of every human being to take to the streets freely. And the streets were indeed cordoned by police during the student and civil protests. This paper wants to point out the importance of the applied theatre for spreading of culture and the influence of the theatre on the audiences. The work was written based on the sociological theories of art of Victoria de Alexander, the theory of applied theatre by August Boal, and also the studies of dr Milena Dragićević Šešić: Art and Alternative, Culture of Resistance and Indian Theatre.

En el período que nos ocupa —desde 2010 hasta la actuali-dad— caracterizado como una época de crisis que todavía no ha aca-bado, debemos reflexionar sobre cómo se involucra el teatro en la crisis y actúa en paralelo, al emitir juicios, plantear preguntas y mantener un diálogo con la sociedad. El presente ensayo analiza tres creaciones tea-trales que presentan su trabajo en la escena griega y europea y que han obtenido un notable éxito. La elección del dúo de directores Azás -Tsini-coris, el grupo Station Athens de Marcopulu y el grupo Blitz, respondió a dos consideraciones: por un lado, su temática, que expone puntos co-munes como la emigración, la xenofobia, la violencia y la melancolía pro-vocada por la resistencia a un mundo cruel, y, por otro lado, sus textos, que proceden de la ficción y el documental, y que son fruto de la labor común de todo el grupo. La intertextualidad, la alegoría y el realismo del formato como documento, componen representaciones vertebradas, road movies sin desplazamiento, relatos tragicómicos de la violencia de los siglos XX y XXI, versiones de canciones con guiños bien reconocibles a la coyuntura de crisis actual. Actores amateurs y profesionales, inmi-grantes, ciudadanos de la calle, directores que cuentan con la tecnología como coprotagonista, transforman experiencias e ideas en un fecundo género metateatral.

Using examples from Toronto’s newspapers, this article examines the impact of the 1918–19 Spanish flu pandemic on the city's theatre and the changes that followed in the twenties. Like during the COVID-19 pandemic, in 1918 health boards across Ontario ordered all theatres to close. However, after two weeks, theatres opened, and productions from New York City’s Broadway, such as the musical comedy Ask Dad, appeared at the Royal Alexandra Theatre, to rave reviews. Toronto’s stages became more diverse following the Spanish flu, with productions such as Shuffle Along, the first all-Black musical on Broadway, which hit the city’s stages in 1923, and one of the first locally cast shows, Amateur Minstrel Frolics, which appeared in 1924 at the Winter Garden Theatre. This article explores how and why the theatre changed after the last pandemic and what issues, such as those related to race and gender, lingered on.

Art production and art reception play a vital role in transitional societies. However, their actual operation and patterns of impact often appear ‘messy’ to those who use and evaluate art in transitional contexts: an artwork can serve as a catalyst for peace building and transitional justice processes, but it can also obstruct such processes, or impart ambiguous meanings to them; and its modes of operation (including the art producers’ awareness of their role in transitional justice processes), its reception trends and its influence on transitional society all vary over time. Framed by transitional justice theory and an interdisciplinary approach that incorporates the insights of psychosocial cultural studies, comparative arts and the phenomenology of embodiment, this article scrutinizes this ambivalent operation in relation to the fluctuating sphere of reception in the region of the former Yugoslavia since the establishment of the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) in 1993. The author juxtaposes art practices widely different in terms of expression, format, scope, reach and ambition, but comparable insofar as they all operate in the ‘open’ and appeal to senses and repetition engagement to create patterns of affiliation. These include various types of popular music (turbo-folk, rock, hip-hop, soft pop) and the public intervention activities of the Serbian DAH Theatre and pan-regional art and theory collective Monument Group. The article argues for the development of hermeneutic and axiological thinking that befits the complex functioning of art in transition: nuanced and multilevelled, challenging inherited hierarchies and paradigms while appreciating the prolonged life/impact of art practices and the sensorial, cognitive and ideological variation in their reception. It proposes moving beyond the binary assessments and adopting a more dynamic approach to the evaluation of artworks in transition for the benefit of both scholars and practitioners in the field.

This is an (auto)ethnographic performance inspired by a conversation with my father while leaving the theater after watching Avatar back in 2009. It is intended to be performed as readers’ theater. In it, I examine the role anthropology plays in the performance of imperialist nostalgia across the stories of James Cameron's film Avatar, Ursula K. Le Guin's novella The Word for World Is Forest, and Theodora Kroeber's Ishi in Two Worlds: A Biography of the Last Wild Indian in North America. I see a performance of alternative possibilities in Le Guin's utopian speculative fiction and in recent Indigenous-led activism opposing megaresource extraction projects such as Alberta's tar sands and the pipelines that snake out from it.

This article explores contemporary Iranian theatre festivals and their relation to the whole structure of theatrical playing in the country. It examines in particular the role of the most important decision-making centre for theatre and theatre festivals: the Dramatic Arts Centre (DAC), the theatrical branch of the Ministry of Culture. The main framework of the article is based on Willmar Sauter's model of the theatrical event. Two of his four elements have been selected to develop the concept of festivals as theatrical events. The section titled ‘Organization and cultural context’ will discuss the organizational structure of festivals; and the section ‘Contextual theatricality’ will analyse the framework of the festival culture. Some fifty festivals and mini-festivals are held annually throughout the whole country. They are categorized in the article according to their genre: international, national, regional and community.

In wartime and post-war situations, the opposition of friend and enemy—based on national divisions—often condemns the dead “enemies” to be ungrievable. To grieve for the excluded others in such times means to break with the friend-enemy opposition. This article examines how the friend-enemy opposition is broken in the case of the actions of Women in Black and Dah Teatar in the context of the civil war in Yugoslavia. By analyzing the vigils of Žene u crnom (Women in Black) in Belgrade and the play Priča o čaju (The Story of Tea) by Dah Teatar, the author discusses the particular strategies through which grief was made possible beyond the friend-enemy opposition and how these strategies open a communitas of mourning. The term “communitas of mourning” refers to the concept of grievability, proposed by Judith Butler in Frames of War.

In wartime and post-war situations, the opposition of friend and enemy—based on national divisions—often condemns the dead “enemies” to be ungrievable. To grieve for the excluded others in such times means to break with the friend-enemy opposition. This article examines how the friend-enemy opposition is broken in the case of the actions of Women in Black and Dah Teatar in the context of the civil war in Yugoslavia. By analyzing the vigils of Žene u crnom (Women in Black) in Belgrade and the play Priča o čaju (The Story of Tea) by Dah Teatar, the author discusses the particular strategies through which grief was made possible beyond the friend-enemy opposition and how these strategies open a communitas of mourning. The term “communitas of mourning” refers to the concept of grievability, proposed by Judith Butler in Frames of War.

With the term dispositif this essay focuses primarily on those elements and practices of the performing arts that G. Agamben once defined as the “ungouvernable of any kind of politics”. As “ungovernable” they may be returned to general usage. For Müller Schöll the figure of the harlequin represents the ungovernable or unruly. The harlequin was the central character that single handed disturbed the disciplinary process the theatre underwent during the 18th century. His act also invites us to re-evaluate the so-called performative turn of the 1960s.

Research on drama in Indonesia is an effort to apply and express the theory in Indonesia. Naturally a theory existence from research accumulation to applied skills. It is hoped that this research can accumulate the science, mainly drama. The term of absurd was used by Martin Esslin for kind of theater that used the failure of language as main of communication. Besides, this term is popularized by Eugene Ionesco. He is a writer of absurd theater. Many of his drama already translated and performed in Indonesia. The data that already collected is analyzed by using the concept of absurdity to reveal the absurdity in Dag-Dig-Dug drama. In other side, the concept of class from Karl Marx is used to comment the domination and class resistance that are taken from Dag-Dig-Dug drama. Dag-Dig-Dug shows the social problems, mainly domination and hegemony of powerful person toward proletarian people. The domination and hegemony are in form of physics and psychology.

This article is aimed at analyzing the transformation method applied by two selected monodrama actors, Sabera Shaik in monodrama theater "Lady Swettenham" and Shahrul Mizad Asyaari in the monodrama theater "Waiting for the Green Light". This study takes into account some of the transformation methods used for conveying appreciation and visually inspiring the audience. Through the survey method of secondary and premature data and directly involved in the spectacle, the illustration is clearly detailed through scientific analysis in the performance of monodrama acting. These two presentations can illustrate the success of the transformation method and are indirectly made between the basic recommendations to the solo acting method. Using the Imitation theory approach by Albert Bandura and method acting (Stanislavski) this approach can be used as a benchmark for non-realistic acting representation.

Um die Siebtklässler der Deutschen Schule Valdivia in Chile zum Deutschlernen zu motivieren, wurden im Schuljahr 2013 zwei der insgesamt sechs wöchentlichen Deutsch als Fremdsprache (DaF)-Stunden erstmalig als Theaterkurs angeboten. Ziel des Pilotprojektes war es, die mündliche Kommunikation der Schülerinnen und Schüler1 zu verbessern und gleichzeitig ihre kreativen Ausdruckfähigkeiten zu fördern. Alle Schüler der Jahrgangsstufe erhielten so die Möglichkeit, Deutsch auf eine kreative Art zu lernen und vor allem in der Praxis anzuwenden. Im ersten Schulhalbjahr wurden zunächst viele verschiedene Bereiche des Theaters spielerisch thematisiert. Der Theaterunterricht aller drei Lerngruppen fand natürlich auf Deutsch statt, so dass einerseits das Hörverständnis der Schüler gefördert wurde, andererseits durch die eigenständige Entwicklung der späteren Dialoge für eine Aufführung die Sprachpraxis geübt wurde. Als Thema wurde das Märchen von Schneewittchen gewählt, welches von den drei Gruppen verfremdet werden sollte. So entstanden drei kurze, moderne Versionen auf Deutsch. Eine vierte Version wurde von der spanischsprachigen Theater-AG entwickelt. Die beiden Theaterlehrer führten als Jakob und Wilhelm Grimm durch den Abend und bereiteten das nicht-deutschsprachige Publikum bilingual auf Spanisch und Deutsch auf die Handlung vor. Der Erfolg des Pilotprojekts führte dazu, dass Theater im DaF-Unterricht an der Schule fest im Curriculum verankert wurde. Im Artikel wird erläutert, wie auch an anderen Schulen nach ähnlichem Schema, Theater im DaF-Unterricht die mündliche Kommunikation fördern und stärken kann.

Vom 11. bis zum 13. März 2013 fand der Kongress „Ästhetisches Lernen im DaF-Unterricht. Musik – Kunst – Film – Theater – Literatur“ an der Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM) in Mexiko-Stadt statt. Organisiert wurde diese Veranstaltung in Zusammenarbeit mit dem Fremdsprachenzentrum (Centro de Enseñanza de Lenguas Extranjeras - CELE) der selbigen Universität, dem Goethe-Institut Mexiko, dem Deutschen Akademischen Austauschdienst (DAAD), dem Österreichischen Austauschdienst (OeAD), dem Österreichischen Kulturforum Mexiko sowie dem mexikanischen Deutschlehrerverband (AMPAL). Ziel des Kongresses war es, die verschiedenen Kunstformen unter Beachtung ihrer jeweils eigenen Ästhetik in den Mittelpunkt zu stellen. Zwei zentrale Fragestellungen leiteten dabei die Diskussion: Zum einen wurde die Rolle der Künste im heutigen DaF-Unterricht hinterfragt. Zum anderen wurde erörtert, wie man das ästhetische Lernen vor dem Hintergrund der zunehmenden Kompetenzorientierung stärken kann. An dieser Stelle setzte der Eröffnungsvortrag zum Thema „Ästhetische Bildung im fremdsprachlichen Literaturunterricht als Grundlage für nachhaltiges Lernen – ein unterschätzter Zugang in DaF“ von Prof. Dr. Carmen Schier (Hochschule für angewandte Wissenschaften Coburg) an. Sie verwies darauf, dass sowohl sinnliche Wahrnehmung als auch Emotionen in der heutigen Bildung kaum eine Rolle spielten, obwohl ästhetisches Lernen vielfältige Kompetenzen wie Kreativität, emotionale Intelligenz und flexibles Denken fördere und Nachhaltigkeit erzeugen könne. Am ...

This article is about audiences’ reactions to plays at the 2013–14 Roverman Festival of Plays at the Ghana National Theatre. Using a modified version of Willmar Sauter's ‘Theatre Talks’, questionnaires and participant observation, I sought to ascertain what audiences at this festival made of two of the plays presented to them:What's My Name?andThe Day Dad Came. Audiences identified and discussed endemic corruption and domestic violence in ways that showed their keen engagement with and interpretation of the plays and their eagerness to take what was presented to them and make it their own. The discussion also reveals the audiences’ interest in the aesthetic qualities of the plays, which they shared in surprising detail. I argue that the personality of the director–playwright, Ebo Whyte, frames the audiences’ appreciation of the plays.

The first Russian theatrical production of Dostoevsky's novel The Brothers Karamazov premiered on the eve of Dostoevsky’s 20th death anniversary on January 26 (February 7) 1901 at the Theater of the Literary and Artistic Society (Maly Theater) in St. Petersburg as a benefit for Nikolay Seversky. The novel was adapted for the stage by K. Dmitriev (Konstantin Nabokov). The role of Dmitry Karamazov was performed by the famous dramatic actor Pavel Orlenev, who had received recognition for playing the role of Raskolnikov. The play, the staging, the actors’ interpretation of their roles became the subject of detailed reviews of the St. Petersburg theater critics and provoked controversial assessments and again raised the question about the peculiarities of Dostoevsky’s prose and the possibility of its presentation on stage. The production of The Brothers Karamazov at the Maly Theater in St. Petersburg and the controversy about it became an important stage in the development of Russian realistic theater and a reflection of the ideas of Dostoevsky’s younger contemporaries about the distinctive features and contents of his art. The manuscript holdings of the Vladimir Dahl State Museum of the History of Russian Literature includes Anna Dostoevskaya’s collection containing a set of documentary materials (the playbill, newspaper advertisements, reviews, feuilletons), which makes it possible to form a complete picture of the play and Russian viewers’ reaction to it. The article provides a description of the performance, and voluminous excerpts from the most informative press reviews. The published materials have not previously attracted special attention of researchers.

The first Russian theatrical production of Dostoevsky's novel The Brothers Karamazov premiered on the eve of Dostoevsky’s 20th death anniversary on January 26 (February 7) 1901 at the Theater of the Literary and Artistic Society (Maly Theater) in St. Petersburg as a benefit for Nikolay Seversky. The novel was adapted for the stage by K. Dmitriev (Konstantin Nabokov). The role of Dmitry Karamazov was performed by the famous dramatic actor Pavel Orlenev, who had received recognition for playing the role of Raskolnikov. The play, the staging, the actors’ interpretation of their roles became the subject of detailed reviews of the St. Petersburg theater critics and provoked controversial assessments and again raised the question about the peculiarities of Dostoevsky’s prose and the possibility of its presentation on stage. The production of The Brothers Karamazov at the Maly Theater in St. Petersburg and the controversy about it became an important stage in the development of Russian realistic theater and a reflection of the ideas of Dostoevsky’s younger contemporaries about the distinctive features and contents of his art. The manuscript holdings of the Vladimir Dahl State Museum of the History of Russian Literature includes Anna Dostoevskaya’s collection containing a set of documentary materials (the playbill, newspaper advertisements, reviews, feuilletons), which makes it possible to form a complete picture of the play and Russian viewers’ reaction to it. The article provides a description of the performance, and voluminous excerpts from the most informative press reviews. The published materials have not previously attracted special attention of researchers.

§ Die in Buchrezensionen vertretenen Ansichten und Meinungen sind die der jeweiligen Rezensentinnen und Rezensenten und reflektieren nicht notwendigerweise die Position von SCENARIO.§ Das Potenzial ästhetischen Lernens könnte im Fremd- und Zweitsprachenunterricht noch viel stärker genützt werden. Dies ist der Grundtenor des von Nils Bernstein und Charlotte Lerchner herausgegebenen Sammelbandes „Ästhetisches Lernen im DaF-/DaZ-Unterricht“, in dem auch gleich viele Möglichkeiten aufgezeigt werden, wie dieses Potenzial ausgeschöpft werden könnte. Der Band geht auf einen DaF-Kongress im März 2013 an der Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM) in Mexiko-Stadt zurück. Die Buchpublikation wurde um die Dimension DaZ erweitert und versammelt 25 Beiträge mit theoretischen Überlegungen, empirischen Forschungsergebnissen und vor allem vielen praktischen Anregungen zum ästhetischen Lernen im DaF/DaZ-Unterricht. Dabei wird Ästhetik nicht nur im engen Sinne einer „allgemeinen Theorie des Schönen“, sondern auch in der ursprünglich viel weiter gefassten Bedeutung des altgriechischen Begriffs aisthesis verstanden, der „erst einmal nur wertfrei Wahrnehmung“ meint (vgl. u.a. den Beitrag von Susanne Even, S. 192). So können sinnliche Wahrnehmung und die damit einhergehenden Emotionen, Gedanken, Eindrücke als Voraussetzung für die Auseinandersetzung mit künstlerischen Qualitäten analysiert und fruchtbar gemacht werden. Der Band ist in Abschnitte zu Literatur, Theater, Bildende Kunst, Musik und Film gegliedert, wobei die Grenzen ...

Aims Optimal exposure through the direct anterior approach (DAA) for total hip arthroplasty (THA) conducted on a regular operating theatre table is achieved with a standardized capsular releasing sequence in which the anterior capsule can be preserved or resected. We hypothesized that clinical outcomes and implant positioning would not be different in case a capsular sparing (CS) technique would be compared to capsular resection (CR). Methods In this prospective trial, 219 hips in 190 patients were randomized to either the CS (n = 104) or CR (n = 115) cohort. In the CS cohort, a medial based anterior flap was created and sutured back in place at the end of the procedure. The anterior capsule was resected in the CR cohort. Primary outcome was defined as the difference in patient-reported outcome measures (PROMs) after one year. PROMs (Harris Hip Score (HHS), Hip disability and Osteoarthritis Outcome Score (HOOS), and Short Form 36 Item Health Survey (SF-36)) were collected preoperatively and one year postoperatively. Radiological parameters were analyzed to assess implant positioning and implant ingrowth. Adverse events were monitored. Results At one year, there was no difference in HSS (p = 0.728), HOOS (Activity Daily Life, p = 0.347; Pain, p = 0.982; Quality of Life, p = 0.653; Sport, p = 0.994; Symptom, p = 0.459), or SF-36 (p = 0.338). Acetabular component inclination (p = 0.276) and anteversion (p = 0.392) as well as femoral component alignment (p = 0.351) were similar in both groups. There were no dislocations, readmissions, or reoperations in either group. The incidence of psoas tendinitis was six cases in the CS cohort (6%) and six cases in the CR cohort (5%) (p = 0.631). Conclusion No clinical differences were found between resection or preservation of the anterior capsule when performing a primary THA through the DAA on a regular theatre table. In case of limited visibility during the learning curve, it might be advisable to resect a part of the anterior capsule. Cite this article: Bone Joint J 2021;103-B(2):321–328.

Aims It has been suggested that the direct anterior approach (DAA) should be used for total hip arthroplasty (THA) instead of the posterior approach (PA) for better early functional outcomes. We conducted a value-based analysis of the functional outcome and associated perioperative costs, to determine which surgical approach gives the better short-term outcomes and lower costs. Methods This meta-analysis was conducted according to the Preferred Reporting Items for Systematic Reviews and Meta-Analyses (PRISMA) protocol and the Cochrane Handbook. Several online databases were searched. Non-stratified and stratified meta-analyses were conducted to test the confounding biases in the studies which were included. The mean cost and probability were used to determine the added costs of perioperative services. Results The DAA group had significantly longer operating times (p < 0.001), reduced length of hospital stay by a mean of 13.4 hours (95% confidence interval (CI) 9.12 to 18; p < 0.001), and greater blood loss (p = 0.030). The DAA group had significantly better functional outcome at three (p < 0.001) and six weeks (p = 0.006) postoperatively according to the Harris Hip Score (HHS). However, there was no significant difference between the groups for the HHS at six to eight weeks (p = 0.230), 12 weeks (p = 0.470), six months (p = 0.740), and one year (p = 0.610), the 12-Item Short Form Survey (SF-12) physical score at six weeks (p = 0.580) and one year (p = 0.360), SF-12 mental score at six weeks (p = 0.170) and one year (p = 0.960), and University of California and Los Angeles (UCLA) activity scale at 12 weeks (p = 0.250). The mean non-stratified and stratified difference in costs for the operating theatre time and blood transfusion were $587.57 (95% CI 263.83 to 1,010.29) to $887.04 (95% CI 574.20 to 1,298.88) and $248.38 (95% CI 1,003.40 to 1,539.90) to $1,162.41 (95% CI 645.78 to 7,441.30), respectively, more for the DAA group. However, the mean differences in costs for the time in hospital were $218.23 and $192.05, respectively, less for the DAA group. Conclusion The use of the DAA, rather than the PA, in THA has earlier benefits for function and pain. However, these are short-lasting, with no significant differences seen at later intervals. In addition the limited benefits were obtained with higher cumulative costs for DAA. Cite this article: Bone Joint J 2021;103-B(6):1078–1087.

ABSTRACTIn our previous study,Bacillus subtilisstrain BSK3S, containing a polymyxin biosynthetic gene cluster fromPaenibacillus polymyxa, could produce polymyxin only in the presence of exogenously addedl-2,4-diaminobutyric acid (Dab). The dependence of polymyxin production on exogenous Dab was removed by introducing anectBgene encoding the diaminobutyrate synthase ofP. polymyxainto BSK3S (resulting in strain BSK4). We found, by observing the complete inhibition of polymyxin synthesis when thespo0Agene was knocked out (strain BSK4-0A), that Spo0A is indispensable for the production of polymyxin. Interestingly, theabrB-spo0Adouble-knockout mutant, BSK4-0A-rB, and the singleabrBmutant, BSK4-rB, showed 1.7- and 2.3-fold increases, respectively, in polymyxin production over that of BSK4. These results coincided with the transcription levels ofpmxAin the strains observed by quantitative real-time PCR (qRT-PCR). The AbrB protein was shown to bind directly to the upstream region ofpmxA, indicating that AbrB directly inhibits the transcription of polymyxin biosynthetic genes. The BSK4-rB strain, producing high levels of polymyxin, will be useful for the development and production of novel polymyxin derivatives.

Gilles Deleuze posits that judgment is the crowning principle governing tragedy and modern philosophy at the same time (“Pour en finir avec le jugement,” in Critique et Clinique, 1995). Drawing on Antonin Artaud’s final radio play, Pour en finir avec le jugement de dieu [To Be Done with the Judgment of God], Deleuze argues that Artaud, like D.H. Lawrence, Kafka and Nietzsche, suffered from the judgment of others inasmuch as he was individuated; his body was made to have organs – in other words, to suffer a hierarchy between brain, stomach, anus, etc. – even though he saw himself as utterly porous, without differentiation and without hierarchy. Returning to the concept of judgment and to Artaud’s final years, this paper offers a schizoanalytic reading of this tragedy of individuation, to ask whether Artaud’s theatre of cruelty – finally manifest in Pour en finir avec le jugement de dieu – can be read as a performance philosophical act without drama and without philosophy. In other words, it asks whether we might conceive of the pure drama of disindividuation – Artaud’s vision of a porous, horizontal self – eschewing the very philosophical and dramatic acts imputed to it.

Abstract Budget public hearings are spaces for transparency and social participation. These spaces can be considered synchronous accountability forums, where the rendering of accounts and the attribution of responsibilities can co-occur, raising concerns for the responsible parties about possible accountability models. This qualitative and interpretative research analyzed the dynamics of public budget hearings organized by Brazilian municipalities using semi-structured interviews with public managers. The results indicate that those responsible for public hearings adopt strategies minimizing reputational and accountability risks at different times: (i) in the preparation stage, with the definition of participation rules and the use of an informational filter; (ii) during execution, in the form of the presentation of information and in directing the public’s attention; and, (iii) in the post-hearing stage, through low transparency and document manipulation. The research contributes to understanding hearings as forums of expected accountability, in which the expectation of the authorities can direct the dynamics of public hearings, transforming them into a theater performance. The results have implications for the courts of accounts and the legislative branch, which could exercise greater control and inspection of the hearings; for society, which could act in a more active and organized way; and also for the legislation in force, which could establish clear guidelines for holding hearings.

The Department of Defense (DoD) operates a world-wide supply chain, which in 2017 contained nearly 5 million items collectively valued at over $90 billion. Since at least 1990, designing and operating this supply chain, and adapting it to ever-changing military requirements, are highly complex and tightly coupled problems, which the highest levels of DoD recognize as weaknesses. Military supply chains face a wide range of challenges. Decisions made at the operational and tactical levels of logistics can alter the effectiveness of decisions made at the strategic level. Decisions must be made with incomplete information. As a result, practical solutions must simultaneously incorporate decisions made at all levels as well as take into account the uncertainty faced by the logistician. The design of modern military supply chains, particularly for large networks where many values are not known precisely, is recognized as too complex for many techniques found in the academic literature. Much of the literature in supply chain network design makes simplifying assumptions, such as constant per-unit transportation costs regardless of the size of the shipment, the shipping mode selected, the time available for the delivery, or the route taken. This article avoids these assumptions to provide an approach the practitioner can use when designing and adapting supply chain networks. This research proposes a simulation-based optimization approach to find a near-optimal solution to a large supply chain network design problem of the scale faced by a theater commander, while recognizing the complexity and uncertainty that the practicing military logistician must deal with.

Katrine Wiedemann er vist den eneste danske instruktør, der har fået et forestillingsbillede på forsiden af Theater Heute, 8/9, 2005. Det var i 2005 og det var for den prisbelønnede forestilling Havfruen efter H.C. Andersens eventyr. På billedet balancerer to personer i en omfavnelse på line, som en gensidig spejling og et sublimt billede af kærlighedens balanceakt.I bunden af billedet ligger en mand, som om han svæver i luften uden line. Billedet kunne være en illustration af den ophævelse af tyngdekraften, som synes at være et fundamentalt træk i Katrine Wiedemanns omgang med teatret. Katrine Wiedemann er et særpræget talent i dansk teater med sit mod på nyfortolkninger, sin udtryksform og sine præferencer. Man kunne fristes til at læse hendes iscenesættelser som et »faderopgør« med den klassiske avantgarde. For hun er tydeligvis slet ikke interesseret i at gentage den avantgardeæstetik, som har præget så mange tidligere fornyere: Anti-naturalisme, anti-psykologi, anti-koherens og anti-tekst. Som vi vil forsøge at vise, trækker hun forholdsvis ubekymret på klassiske og nyere æstetiske greb og bekymrer sig lidet om den »fornyelse«, der ligger i at opløse orden. Hun villangt hellere aflevere en godt fortalt forestilling. Til gengæld er hendes inspirationer fra andre medier og teaterformer med til at give hende en så central placering i teatret i dag.

Luis Valdez, tarım işçilerinden oluşturduğu tiyatrosunun temellerini Chicano kültürünü referans alan üç sacayağı üzerine kurmuştur: daha çok politik içerik taşıyan doğaçlama kısa oyun anlamına gelen actos, Maya ve Aztek mitoloji ve efsanelerini yansıtan mitos ve de oyuna müzik, şarkı ve dans yorumu getiren corridos. Bir Chicano kimliği yaratıp, Chicanoların öz kültürleri ile bugünkü yaşamlarını içselleştirebilmeleri Valdez’in oyunlarında yer alan temaların en çok öne çıkanlarından birisidir. Bu makalede, Valdez’in, Zoot Suit, Bandido! ve I Don’t Have to Show You No Stinking Badges! isimli seçilmiş üç oyunu ele alınmıştır. Bu oyunların incelenme nedeni, her birinin bir yandan toplumdaki Chicano önyargısını hicvederken, diğer yandan oluşturulmaya çalışılan Chicano kimliğinin şekillenmesine yardımcı olmasıdır. Bu amaç doğrultusunda Valdez’in neredeyse tüm oyunlarında, en az ana karakter kadar sahnede varlığına işaret edilen Chicano olmak “düşünce”sinin, “eylem”e dönüşümündeki süreç irdelenmektedir. Hâlihazırda var olan Chicano kimliğinin ve Chicano topluluğunun varlığını reddeden kesime tanıtılması halinde “varlık,” bir olgu olmaktan çıkıp bir eyleme yani “olay”a dönüşür. Bu bağlamda, tiyatro okuruna/izleyicisine, Chicano Tiyatrosu’nun Amerikan Tiyatrosundaki yerini özellikle sosyokültürel ve politik mesajlarla göstermeye çalışıldığı gözlemlenmektedir. ABSTRACT IN ENGLISH Reflections of Chicano Culture in Selected Plays of Luis Valdez Luis Valdez established his theater consisting of farm workers on a trivet, taking Chicano culture as a reference: actos improvised short play with more political content, mitos reflecting Maya and Aztec mythology and legends, and corridos bringing music, song, and dance interpretation in play. Creating a Chicano identity and internalizing their mother culture and present lives is one of the outstanding themes in Valdez’s plays. This paper discusses three of Valdes’s selected plays, Zoot Suit, Bandido!, and I Don’t Have To Show You No Stinking Badges!. The reason why these plays are analyzed is that each of them helps to shape the Chicano identity, while satirizing the Chicano bias in society. For this purpose, in almost all of Valdez’s plays, the process of transforming the “idea” of being Chicano, which is indicated at least as much as the protagonist’s presence on the stage, into “action” of becoming Chicano is scrutinized. In the case of introducing the already-existing Chicano identity and community to those who deny its existence, “being” turns from being a phenomenon into an “action”. In this regard, it is observed that it is tried to exhibit Chicano Theater’s place in the American Theater especially with sociocultural and political messages.

Ever since Modernist and Capitalist systems started to steer human life, critical approaches towards these two phenomenon have treated as subjects in literary works. In such literary works, which question human being's perception of ethics, the relationship between power and person brings along the options of being included in the system and rejecting it. Standing against the "inevitable ending" which turns human being into an automat defined as "a bureaucratic steel cage" by Weber, Marx has relatively more optimistic attitude about the possibility of human to escape from the system.In his theatre play titled Gizler Çarşısı, Turgay Nar narrates how human is corrupted through violence and control methods of power within the scope of hierarchical relations in the world. Messages that the author aims to give to readers/audience may differ in almost every stage; yet the main theme can be read as tragedy of human being which keeps to be objectified in front of the power. The strength behind money and power ensures a control over crowds via violence, memory impairment and amnesia. The author ironically narrates how humanbeing comes into power and then systematically puts pressure on the same species in order to disidentify them and include them into the system. Accordingly, civilization does not prevent humanbeing's insanity; the one who feeds this wild order and sacrifices oneself to it is nothing else than humanbeing. In the work, it is also emphasized that humanbeing is going to face "blinding and corruption" as soon as the questioning about the world comes to an end.In his work titled Gizler Çarşısı, Turgay Nar ironically narrates how Beşikçi, an ordinary citizen, is systematically desensitized by the power and turned into a beast that does not hesitate to kill even his own child, through symbolical characters. ÖzetModernizm ve Kapitalizm sisteminin insanoğlunun hayatına yön vermeye başlamasıyla bu iki olguya yönelik eleştirel yaklaşımlar, edebî eserlerde sıkça işlenmiştir. İnsanın etik algısının da sorgulandığı bu tür eserlerde iktidar-birey arasındaki ilişki, sisteme dâhil olma veya sisteme karşı çıkma tercihlerini de beraberinde getirmektedir. Weber’in “bürokratik demir kafes” olarak tanımladığı ve insanın bir otomat haline dönüştürüldüğü “kaçınılmaz son”a karşı çıkan Marx; insanın sistemden uzaklaşabileceği konusunda daha iyimser bir tavır sergiler.Turgay Nar, Gizler Çarşısı adlı tiyatro metninde insanın dünyada hiyerarşik ilişkiler sarmalında iktidarın şiddet ve kontrol yöntemleriyle nasıl çürümeye uğratıldığını anlatır. Yazarın, okuyucuya/seyirciye vermek istediği mesajlar, hemen her sahnede değişse de ana tema iktidar karşısında nesneleşen insanın trajedisi olarak okunabilir. İktidar ve paranın gücü, kalabalıklar üzerinde şiddet, unutkanlık, hafıza kaybı gibi vasıtalarla denetim sağlar. Yazar, insanın iktidara geldikten sonra hemcinsi üzerinde sistematik bir baskı kurarak onu kimliksizleştirip sisteme dâhil ettiğini ironik bir tarzda bu eserinde işler. Buna göre, uygarlık, insanoğlunun cinnetini durduramamıştır; bu vahşi düzeni emziren ve kendini ona tutsak/kurban eden de insanın kendisidir. Eserde, dünyayla ilgili sorgulamanın kesildiği an insanın “körleşme ve çürüme”yle karşı karşıya kalacağı tehlikesi de dile getirilir.

In 1934, construction began on training centers for the upper echelons of future NS leadership: the Vogelsang in the Eifel, Krössinsee (Polish Złocieniec-Budowo) in western Pomerania, and Sonthofen in Allgäu. Through the enormous efforts of the German Labor Front (DAF) the training centres, called Ordensburgen (literally: ‘castles of the orders’), were completed in 1936. In the meantime, much literature has been published on all of the NS Ordenburgen, yet an investigation of the genesis and analysis of their form is still lacking, which this essay partially attempts to address. The intention was undoubtedly to build Ordensburgen on the southern, western and eastern fringes of the Reich distanced less than 60 kilometres from the border. Rosenberg, who had made a statement to this effect in a speech in 1934, coined the name ‘Ordensburg’ in connection with the Teutonic Order – the proud champion of ‘Germanness’. The name evoked other echoes from history: young men who were trained for warfare and administration and who lived a life closed of from outside influences. The name also recalled the medieval orders of knights who exercised their power as a military authority along the frontiers of Christianity from Spain to Palestine. If we go beyond a formal interpretation of the Ordensburgen, what can be seen in all the three structures is the important symbolic function of towers (two rectangular brick towers were erected in Kroessinsee in 1939). In all of them so-called Tingplätze were built, a kind of open-air theatre for political rallies. Moreover, the architect Clemens Klotz embraced the modern age. In adhering to contemporary thought, he blended the cosiness of the Heimatstil with the monumentality and pathos of Neoclassicism. Other forms are also found, such as oval risalites derived from ‘Neues Bauen’ or the protruding window reveal, or the use of unworked stone blocks, something that was particularly characteristic of NS architecture. Yet despite the name ’Ordensburg’, formal references to medieval architecture are sparse. The most apparent examples are seen in the Sonthofen architecture of Herman Giesler in the proportions of the main tower or the vaulted ceilings of the tavern (the so-called Fuchsbau). After 1945, the Ordensburgen became the military barracks of the victors: Vogelsang was British until 1950, then Belgian; Sonthofen was American until 1956 and then turned over to the German Bundeswehr; Krössinsee was used by the Soviet army from 1947 or 1948, and afterward became the Polish Budowo. Vogelsang was opened to the public in 2006. Today, we face ongoing questions about the preservation and new uses of the Ordensburg structures and facilities. The designation of the former NS training centres as memorial sites, in which the juncture between Ordensburgen and the NS crimes finds physical expression, will presumably be the sole way to ensure their continued existence. Between 1939 and 1940, approximately 260 Ordensjunkers (the name derived from ‘Junker’: a nobleman from the landed class) were sent from Krössinsee on military assignment to the area of Poznań (‘Warthegau’), from where up to a half a million Poles and Jews were expelled to the Government General. Further documentation shows the involvement of the Ordensjunkers in the Holocaust during 1941 in the occupied Soviet territories. In making the buildings of the Ordensburgen accessible to the public, while at the same time laying bare the reality behind the mystique, it seems necessary to proceed on a different path than that which has been taken up to now. ‘Domesticating’ the testimonies of a terror regime has been expressed in ways such as the oversized colourful pillows for visitor seating at the Wewelsburg Castle or the garish plastic forms in Vogelsang. Tus, in addition to taking stock of the buildings and making a case for their preservation, the serious question that must be asked is how to deal with this kind of legacy. (translated by Sharon Nemeth)

It was a challenge to write about my father without going through a mixture of emotions and memories. Our father-daughter relationship was far from perfect; we had our fair share of misunderstandings—him being the disciplinarian of the family, and me being the youngest and rebellious daughter. My father was an introvert— he would rarely say “I love you” or give us hugs growing up. Rather, he would show his affection for my sister and me through his subtle but caring ways. I can still vividly remember one afternoon when we were kids, he came home from the hospital and my sister and I welcomed him home with hugs, only to be rejected by him. After seeing us with sad faces (and prodding from our mother), he had to explain the reason why he didn’t return our hugs was because he didn’t want to pass on the microbes which he may have been exposed to at the clinic. In retrospect, there were a lot of times I would misinterpret his well-meaning paternal actions Youngest in a brood of four, and born of a family of lawyers, Robie Zantua chose to become the first doctor among his Velasco-Zantua roots. While his older siblings would spend secondary school in Manila, he was left in Talisay, Camarines Norte under the care of his maternal aunt for his primary schooling. He would laughingly tell us that because he was a year younger than his classmates, his teacher had to test him before accepting him in school — he was able to read “buto” (seed) without difficulty (buto is ‘penis’ in his native dialect). In hindsight, it was probably because he grew up alone and had to do things independently at a young age that as an adult, he found it hard to ask for favors from others. On one occasion while I was still a medical clerk, he invited me to observe his emergency OR (a case of foreign body impaction of a balut). When we arrived at the ER, we saw that the patient was yet to be prepared for OR— he was not yet even hooked to the I.V. fluid. To my surprise, he asked for I.V. needs from the ER nurse and inserted the I.V. catheter himself, hooked the I.V. fluid; and on to the operating theatre we went. Years later, I realised if that happened in the government hospital where I trained, it was a sure Sunday duty for the ER resident; but Tatay did not make a fuss out of it and went to address the more important matter— performing the emergency procedure. He was ‘tubong Bicol’; his original plan was to return to Camarines Norte after his ENT residency training in PGH—a promise he made to the late Dr. Mariano Caparas. This plan however had to change, to Dr. Caparas’ dismay, in order to grant my mother’s request that they build their medical practice and start a family in her hometown at Santa Rosa, Laguna. My mother and father became a huge part of each other’s lives. My parents were not expressive when it came to their emotions for each other, but it was a marriage filled with love. In fact, up to the last remaining days of my dad in the ICU, the family distantly celebrated our parents’ 41st wedding anniversary with cut flowers from the garden which he religiously tended. They shared the same undergraduate course— they were both B.S. Pre-medicine majors in UP Diliman— and then later on became classmates in the UP College of Medicine Class of 1976. Their love for each other were shown in the simplest ways, and these would turn to be the finest memories with Tatay. When they would do their morning strolls on Bagasbas beach, they would do so holding each other’s hands. Of course back then I cringed at the sight but deep inside, I hoped for the same when I became married. Later in life and especially during the pandemic, my parents would complement each other’s tasks at home; my dad would lovingly prepare meals for the household and tend the garden while my mom would mainly take care of the grandchildren. My father was a homebody, a great family man, and as my mother would say, he did simple things in extraordinary ways, especially those which involved his grandkids. When he wore his work hat, he was strict and at times difficult, especially when he was passionate about a certain topic. He could be ill-tempered and be a source of conflict, and this was because he was strong-willed, and vocal about his ideas. His boon and bane. As an ENT consultant, he became active in the academe, research and established his practice in Laguna and Manila. He was invited by the late Dr. Llamas to teach in the UST College of Medicine and helped establish ORL as an independent department. Later on, he joined the University of Perpetual Help College of Medicine along with Dr. Fita Guzman. He spent the majority of his working years as an active faculty in two institutions, a laudable feat which only the hardworking ones can pull off. He also became the president of AHNOP and was very passionate in the field of head and neck surgery. While it was very unfortunate that my father succumbed to COVID and its complications, I choose to remember him as a man whose life was dedicated to us, his family. We were blessed to have him as the head of our family, we are forever grateful for the man we call Tatay— the man who would tirelessly cook Bicolano dishes for us, the man who would patiently and lovingly make sure we were always safe and healthy, the man who would go out of his way and put himself last just to make sure his family was well taken care of. His love was definitely felt by everyone in the family, and I sure hope he felt the same way. May his legacy live on through his children and grandchildren. We love you beyond words, Tatay.

Denne artikkelen gir en kort oversikt over den historiske bakgrunnen for utviklingen av det som resulterte i etableringen av en unik kommunal film- og kinoinstitusjon i Norge. Videre ser artikkelen nærmere på de seneste endringene som har resultert i et sammensatt kinolandskap, med både en offentlig kommunalt basert kinosektor og en privat internasjonal gren. Norske kinoer sammen med kinokjeder i Skandinavia har i løpet av få år blitt innlemmet i verdens største globale kinoselskap, det i utgangspunktet amerikanske selskapet AMC, i dag eid av den kinesiske Wanda-gruppen. Artikkelen kommenterer også endringene som har funnet sted innenfor filmproduksjon og distribusjon i Norge. This article provides a brief outline of the historic background for the development of what resulted in the establishment of a unique municipal cinema institution in Norway. Thereafter the article looks more closely at the recent changes leading to a new mixed cinema landscape with both a public municipally based cinema sector and a private international branch. Norwegian movie theatres, together with movie theatre chains in Scandinavia, have within a few years been included into the largest global movie theatre company in the world, the initially American company AMC, now owned by the Chinese Wanda group. The article also comments upon changes within the field of film production and distribution in Norway.

Wie arbeiten Menschen am Theater und das Theater an ihnen? Wer macht Theater? Als was begreifen wir theatrale Räume ästhetisch, gesellschaftlich, (macht-)politisch? Solche strukturellen Fragen an die Institution Theater rücken auf kulturpolitischer, künstlerischer und theaterwissenschaftlicher Ebene in jüngster Zeit dringlicher in den Fokus. Theaterpädagogischer Arbeit – d.h. künstlerischer Arbeit mit explizit nicht-professionellen Akteur*innen – sind diese Fragen elementar eingeschrieben und sie zeigen sich dabei in der Praxis wie auch Untersuchung dieser Arbeit zugleich als ästhetische Fragen.

The project is about the conversion of two listed buildings of the former paint factory IRIS in Eleusina into a multipurpose cultural center. Like all abandoned industrial relics in the area, the two listed buildings manifest strong ties with the industrial past of Eleusina and the collective memory of its inhabitants. The repurposing of the buildings by architect Constantine Bouras produces a space for theater, cinema, music, congresses, art exhibitions and other cultural activities, while part of it is home to the Aeschylus Museum.

Neredeyse çeyrek yüzyıldır, başta Batı olmak üzere dünyanın çok çeşitli bölgelerinde üzerinde en fazla durulan kavramlar arasında İslamofobi bulunmaktadır. Benzer şekilde İslam ülkelerinde de tartışılan bu kavram, büyük ölçüde oryantalist ve self-oryantalist bakış açılarının belirleyici olduğu anlayışların bir ürünü olarak dikkat çekmektedir. Kendiliğinden olmayıp kurgulanmış bir imaj üretimi üzerinden belli bir kesimin ötekileştirilmesini – düşmanlaştırılmasını temel alan bu yaklaşım, aslında Tanzimat’tan beri Türkiye’de de süregelen bir düşünce ve davranış biçiminin adıdır da. Bununla birlikte, özellikle Cumhuriyet’in kurulması sonrasında başlayan ulus – kimlik inşa sürecinde resmi (Kemalist) ideolojinin kitlelere tanıtılıp kabullenilmesinin sağlanması çalışmaları “Osmanlı”nın ve “İslam”ın” değersizleştirilip ötekileştirilmesini gerektirirken; islamofobik unsurların kitlelere enjekte edilip islama ve müslümanlara dair olumsuz imajın bir kanaat olarak belletilmesi çabaları da başvurulan yöntemlerin başında gelmekteydi. Bu noktada özelde sanat genelde ise tiyatronun güçlü bir şekilde araçsallaştırıldığı; oyun metinlerinin de bu amaç doğrultusunda, doğrudan ya da dolaylı olarak İslamofobik eğilimlerle yapılandırıldıkları net olarak söylenebilir. Son kertede, baskın olarak Cumhuriyet’in erken evresinde söz konusu olan bu durum, daha sonraki dönemlerde de, özellikle mizah ağırlıklı oyunların başat eğilimi olmaya devam etmiştir.

Die Rechte und die darstellende Kunst sind seit Jahrhunderten zusammen. Die griechischen Tragödien zeigten die Fälle, die vor den Gerichten präsentiert wurden und eine enge Verbindung zwischen den beiden zeigten. Im Laufe der Jahre spiegeln die Theaterstücke oft die Unstimmigkeiten von gerichtsgerichtlichen Entscheidungen oder Gesetzen wider, die ungerecht oder ineffektiv angewandt werden. Die darstellenden Künste werden verwendet, um das Bachelor-Recht zu unterstützen, die Erfahrungen des Berufs durch die Simulation von Gerichten zu erleben, überwacht, wo es einen Bedarf für Inszenierung. Es wird jedoch betont, dass die Absicht ist, den Schüler auf die verschiedenen Situationen vorzubereiten, die der Schüler durch die Ausübung seiner Aktivitäten durchlaufen kann. In diesem Zusammenhang werden öffentliche Institutionen und ihre Besonderheiten beachtet. Diese zeichnen angesichts der derzeit auftretenden Probleme wie Korruption und Ineffizienz der Unternehmensführung ein abgenutztes Image auf, die bei der Suche nach möglichen Lösungen für die Langsamkeit bei der Erbringung von Dienstleistungen stärker angegangen werden. Schließlich wird darauf hingewiesen, dass es die Möglichkeit gibt, Theater und öffentliche Einrichtungen in Beziehung zu setzen, um die Rolle seiner Akteure bei der Verwaltung der erbrachten Dienstleistungen aufzuklären. Stichworte: Theater, öffentliche Institution, Langsamkeit.

Background: Direct anterior approach (DAA) to hip replacement is increasingly popular. Despite the well-published benefits of early recovery, the approach can be associated with a number of complications that may be underreported. We aim to report the incidence of some of these complications in a large retrospective case series. Methods: 270 consecutive DAA hip replacements are studied which are performed by a single high-volume hip surgeon from 2013 to 2015, not including the surgeon’s learning curve. Operation and consultation records were screened, and focused questioning via telephone was employed to capture specific complications including dislocations, wound infections, lateral femoral cutaneous nerve (LFCN) injury and revision surgery. Results: 240 of 270 patients or family were contactable. The mean age and body mass index of the cohort was 66 (range 30–89) years and 27 (range 18–40) kg/m2 respectively. The mean follow-up was 3.7 years. Wound issues were encountered in 24 patients (8.8%). There were 9 dislocations (3%). 27 (10%) patients needed revision surgery in the follow-up period. Reasons for revision included leg-length discrepancies, dislocations, ongoing pain and aseptic loosening. 9 (3.4%) patients had to return to operating theatre for reasons other than revision surgery. Symptoms of lateral femoral cutaneous nerve injury was reported by 54 patients (21%). Conclusions: While the short-term benefits of DAA have been widely reported, our review shows a relatively high rate of revision surgery. We feel that the enthusiasm for DAA should be tempered until further evidence is available.

Sociologisk Forskning publicerar inte enbart forskningsartiklar utan ger också utrymme för andra typer av artiklar som berör sociologins och sociologers villkor och utmaningar. Detta nummer innehåller två samtal mellan sociologer i Sverige om aktuella samtidsfenomen som påverkar utbildning och forskning i sociologiämnet: etikprövning och digital undervisning. I den första av dessa texter samtalar Jonas Edlund, Sara Eldén, David Wästerfors och Lena Sohl om de utmaningar sociologisk forskning ställs inför i en tid av byråkratiserad etikprövning. Under senare år har processen för etikprövning genomgått stora förändringar. Mer forskning anses i dag behöva etikprövas. Ansökningsförfarandet har blivit mer omfattande samtidigt som det är utformat utifrån etiska överväganden som främst är relevanta för medicinsk forskning. I samtalet diskuteras vad dessa stora förändringar innebär för möjligheten att bedriva vissa typer av sociologisk forskning. Hur undervisningen i sociologi har påverkats av övergången till digital undervisning under covid-19-pandemin diskuteras av Martin Berg, Ida Lidegran, Ulrika Schmauch, Glenn Sjöstrand och Zhanna Kravchenko. Vad innebär användandet av Zoom och andra internetbaserade verktyg för interaktionen mellan lärare och studenter? Vilka möjligheter finns det med digital undervisning som kan vara värda att ta tillvara även efter pandemin? Tidskriftens redaktion vill med detta samtal ge mer plats för texter som handlar om undervisning och lärande inom sociologiämnet och välkomnar därför sociologikollegor att inkomma med förslag till sådana artiklar eller färdiga manus. Detta nummer innehåller fyra forskningsartiklar. I Helena Holgerssons artikel ”The sociological craft through the lens of theatre. A call for imaginative critical research” diskuteras vad sociologin som disciplin kan vinna på att närma sig olika former av kultur. Utifrån egna erfarenheter av ett samarbete med dramatikern Mattias Andersson, vilket resulterade i pjäsen The mental states of Gothenburg, argumenterar Holgersson för att sociologer inte ska undvika sådana samarbeten av rädsla för att framstå som ”ovetenskapliga” samt för att de snarare kan utveckla det sociologiska hantverket. Magnus Boström ställer i artikeln ”Social relations and challenges to consuming less in a mass consumption society” frågan hur det är möjligt att ”växla ner” i ett samhälle där människor ständigt uppmanas att fortsätta med sina konsumtionsvanor. Utifrån en intervjustudie undersöks de sociala utmaningar som människor ställs inför när de försöker ändra sin livsstil genom att minska den egna konsumtionen. Marita Flisbäck och Margareta Carlén undersöker i sin artikel ”Livspolitik och existentiell mening i ett alternativsamhälle på landsbygden. Exemplet Uddebo” människors drivkrafter för att söka sig till en plats bortom det omgivande samhällets normer om lönearbete och konsumtion. I artikeln visar de hur intervjupersonerna försöker få makt över sin tid och framtid genom att utveckla ”en vardaglig livspolitik på landsbygden, bortom det kapitalistiska samhällets hets, som ger tänkbara svar på deras existentiella sökande”. I artikeln ”Barns perspektiv på svensk vardagsrasism” ger Markus Lundström en inblick i ”hur vardagsrasism verkar i den skolmiljö där rasism officiellt motverkas”. Med utgångspunkt i åtta fokusgruppsintervjuer med mellanstadieelever och en grupp medforskande elvaåringar visar han i sin artikel hur ”rasistiska mikroaggressioner avsiktligt eller oavsiktligt bidrar till rangordnande särskiljning” i skolvardagen. Numret innehåller också två recensioner av nyligen försvarade avhandlingar i sociologi. Malcom Fairbrother recenserar Philip Creswells Chains of trust. Networks of persistent resistance in digital activism. I denna avhandling undersöks de sociala banden inom hacktivistkollektivet Anonymous med utgångspunkt i en flerårig etnografisk studie. Det framkommer att aktivisterna utsätter sig själva för risker, som att bli åtalade, samtidigt som de genom emotionellt arbete hjälper varandra att klara av stressen den digitala aktivismen skapar. Fairbrother ser i studien ett viktigt bidrag till den digitala sociologin då den visar att starka band och kollektiv handlande även kan uppstå i internetbaserade gemenskaper. Ulf Bjereld menar att Alexandra Franzéns avhandling Brottslingar av en mycket speciell sort. Spionskandalen som en maktkamp mellan visselblåsare, grävande journalister och underrättelsetjänster är kreativ, självständig och bidrar till ”diskussionen om hur ett fritt och öppet samhälle bäst skyddar sig mot demokratins fiender utan att de metoder som används urholkar just friheten och öppenheten”. Men Bjereld har också invändningar om huruvida det som Franzén kallar teori verkligen är en sådan, eller om det snarare rör sig om ett begrepp. Vi vill även uppmana er att sända oss era artikelmanus, forskningsnotiser, förslag på recensioner och gärna idéer för framtida temanummer. Sociologisk Forskning publicerar bidrag på svenska och övriga skandinaviska språk samt på engelska. Sociologisk Forskning tillämpar anonymiserad kollegial granskning (double blind peer review) och alla artiklar publiceras med omedelbar öppen tillgång (open access) på tidskriftens hemsida. Lena Sohl och Magnus WennerhagRedaktörer för Sociologisk Forskning

The following article is in response to a research project that took the form of a road trip from Perth to Lombadina re-enacting the journey undertaken by the characters in the play Bran Nue Dae by playwright Jimmy Chi and Broome band Kuckles. This project was facilitated by the assistance of a Creative and Research Publication Grant from the Faculty of Communications and Creative Industries, Edith Cowan University, Western Australia. The project was carried out by researchers Kara Jacob and Margaret Hair. One thing is plainly clear. Aboriginal art expresses the possibility of human intimacy with landscapes. This is the key to its power: it makes available a rich tradition of human ethics and relationships with place and other species to a worldwide audience. For the settler Australian audience, caught ambiguously between old and new lands, their appreciation of this art embodies at least a striving for the kind of citizenship that republicans wanted: to belong to this place rather than to another (Marcia Langton in Watson 191). Marcia Langton is talking here about painting. My question is whether this “kind of citizenship” can also be accessed through appreciation of indigenous theatre, and specifically through the play Bran Nue Dae, by playwright Jimmy Chi and Broome band Kuckles, a play closely linked to the Western Australian landscape through its appropriation of the road trip genre. The physical journey taken by the characters metaphorically takes them also through the contact history of black and white Australians in Western Australia. Significantly, the non-indigenous characters experience the redemptive power of “human intimacy with landscapes” through travelling to the traditional country of their road trip companions. The road trip genre typically places its characters on a quest for knowledge. American poet Gary Snyder says that the two sources of human knowledge are symbols and sense-impressions (vii). Bran Nue Dae abounds with symbols, from the priest’s cassock and mitre to Roebourne prison; however, the sense impressions, which are so strong in the performance of the play, are missing from the written text, apart from ironic comments on the weather. In my efforts to understand Bran Nue Dae, I undertook the road trip from Perth to the Kimberley myself in order to discover those missing sense-impressions, as they form part of the “back story” of the play. In the play there is a void between the time the characters leave Perth and reach first Roebourne, where they are locked up, and then Roebuck Plains, not far from Broome, yet in the “real world” they would have travelled more than two thousand kilometres. What would they have seen and experienced on this journey? I took note of Krim Benterrak, Paddy Roe and Stephen Muecke’s Reading the Country, a cross-cultural and cross-textual study on Roebuck Plains, near Broome. Muecke talks about “stories being contingent upon place … Aboriginal storytellers have a similar policy. If one is not prepared to take the trouble to go to the place, then its story can only be given as a short version” (72). In preparing for the trip, I collected tourist brochures and maps. The use of maps, seemingly essential on any road trip as guides to “having a look at” country (Muecke ibid.), was instantly problematic in itself, in that maps represent country as colonised space. In Saltwater People, Nonie Sharp discusses the “distinction between mapping and personal journeying”: Maps and mapping describe space in a way that depersonalises it. Mapping removes the footprints of named creatures – animal, human, ancestral – who belong to this place or that place. A map can be anywhere. ‘Itineraries’, however, are actions and movements within a named and footprinted land (Sharp 199-200). The country journeyed through in Bran Nue Dae, which privileges indigenous experience, could be designated as the potentially dangerous liminal space between the “map” and the “itinerary”. This “space between” resonates with untold stories, with invisibilities. One of the most telling discoveries on the research trip was the thoroughness with which indigenous people have been made to disappear from the “mapped” zones through various colonial policies. It was very evident that indigenous people are still relegated to the fringes of town, as in Onslow and Port Hedland, in housing situations closely resembling the old missions and reserves. Although my travelling companion and I made an effort in every place we visited to pay our respects by at least finding out the language group of the traditional owners, it became clear that a major challenge in travelling through post-colonial space is in avoiding becoming complicit in the disappearance of indigenous people. We wanted our focus to be “on the people whose bodies, territories, beliefs and values have been travelled though” (Tuhiwai Smith 78) but our experience was that finding even written guides into the “footprinted land” is not easy when few tourist pamphlets acknowledge the traditional owners of the country. Even when “local Aboriginal” words are quoted, as in the CALM brochure for Nambung National Park (i.e., the Pinnacles), the actual language or language group is not mentioned. In many interpretive brochures and facilities, traditional owners are represented as absent, as victims or as prisoners. The fate of the “original inhabitants of the Greenough Flats”, the Yabbaroo people, is alluded to in the Greenough River Nature Walk Trail Guide, under the title, “A short history of Greenough River from the Rivermouth to Westbank Road”: The Gregory brothers, exploring for pastoral land in 1848, peacefully met with a large group of Aborigines camped beside a freshwater spring in a dense Melaleuca thicket. They named the spring Bootenal, from the Nyungar word Boolungal, meaning pelican. Gregory’s glowing reports of good grazing prompted pastoralists to move their flocks to Greenough, and by 1852 William Criddle was watering cattle for the Cattle Company at the Bootenal Spring. The Aborigines soon resented this intrusion and in 1854, large numbers with many from surrounding tribes, gathered in the relative safety of the Bootenal thicket. Making forays at night, they killed cattle and sheep and attacked homesteads. The pastoralists retaliated by forming a posse at Glengarry under the command of the Resident Magistrate. On the night of the 4th/5th July they rode to Bootenal and drove the Aborigines from the thicket. No arrests were made and no official report given of casualties. Aboriginal resistance in the area was finished. The fact that the extract actually describes a massacre while purporting to be a “history of Greenough River” subverts the notion that the land can ever really be “depersonalised”. At the very heart of the difference lie different ways of being human: in Aboriginal classical tradition the person dwells within a personified landscape which is alive, named, inscribed by spiritual and human agents. It is a ‘Thou’ not an ‘It’, and I and Thou belong together (Sharp 199-200). Peter Read’s book Belonging: Australians, Place and Aboriginal Ownership contains a section titled “The Past Embedded in the Landscape” in which Read discusses whether the land holds the memory of events enacted upon it, so forming a tangible link between the dispossessed and the possessors. While discussing Judith Wright’s poem Bora Ring, Read states: “The unlaid violence of dispossession lingers at the sites of evil or old magic”, bringing to mind Wright’s notion of Australia as “a haunted country” (14). It is not surprising that the “unlaid violence of dispossession lingers” at the sites of old prisons and lock-ups, since it is built into the very architecture. The visitor pamphlet states that the 1890s design by George Temple Poole of the third Roebourne gaol, further up the great Northern Highway from Greenough and beautifully constructed from stone, “represents a way in which the state ideology of control of a remote and potentially dangerous population could be expressed in buildings”. The current Roebourne prison, still holding a majority of Aboriginal inmates, does away with any pretence of architectural elegance but expresses the same state ideology with its fence topped with razor wire. Without a guide like Bran Nue Dae’s Uncle Tadpole to keep us “off the track”, non-indigenous visitors to these old gaols, now largely museums, may be quickly led by the interpretation into the “mapped zone” – the narrative of imperialist expansion. However, we can follow Paul Carter’s injunction to “deepen grooves” and start with John Pat’s story at the Roebourne police lock-up, or the story of any indigenous inmate of the present Roebuck prison, spiralling back a century to the first Roebuck prison in settler John Withnell’s woolshed (Weightman 4). Then we gain a sense of the contact experience of the local indigenous peoples. John Withnell and his wife Emma are represented as particularly resourceful by the interpretation at the old Roebourne gaol (now Roebourne Visitors Centre and Museum). The museum has a replica of a whalebone armchair that John Withnell built for his wife with vertebrae as the seat and other bones as the back and armrests. The family also invented the canvas waterbag. The interpretation fails to mention that the same John Withnell beat an Aboriginal woman named Talarong so severely for refusing to care for sheep at Withnell’s Hillside Station that “she retreated into the bush and died of her injuries two days later”. No charges were brought against Withnell because, according to the Acting Government Resident, of the “great provocation” by Talarong in the incident (Hunt 99-100). Such omissions and silences in the official record force indigenous people into a parallel “invisible country” and leave us stranded on the highways of the “mapped zone”, bereft of our rights and responsibilities to connect either to the country or to its traditional owners. Roebourne, and its coastal port Cossack, stand on the hauntingly beautiful country of the Ngarluma and seaside Yapurarra peoples. Settlers first arrived in the 1860s and Aboriginal people began to be officially imprisoned soon after, primarily as a result of their resistance to being “blackbirded” and exploited as labour for the pearling and pastoral industries. Prisoners were chained by the neck, day and night, and forced to build roads and tramlines, ostensibly a “civilising” practice. As the history pamphlet for The Old Roebourne Gaol reads: “It was widely believed that the Roebourne Gaol was where the ‘benefit’ of white civilisation could be shown to the ‘savage’ Aboriginal” (Weightman 2). The “back story” I discovered on this research trip was one of disappearance – indigenous people being made to disappear from their countries, from non-indigenous view and from the written record. The symbols I surprisingly most engaged with and which most affected me were the gaols and prisons which the imperialists used as tools of their trade in disappearance. The sense impressions I experienced – extreme beauty, isolation, heat and sandflies – reinforced the complexity of Western Australian contact history. I began to see the central achievement of Bran Nue Dae as being the return of indigenous people to country and to story. This return, so beautifully realised in when the characters finally reach Lombadina and a state of acceptance, is critical to healing the country and to the attainment of an equitable “kind of citizenship” that denotes belonging for all. References Aboriginal Tourism Australia. Welcome to Country: Respecting Indigenous Culture for Travellers in Australia. 2004. Benterrak, Krim, Stephen Muecke, and Paddy Roe. Reading the Country. Perth: Fremantle Arts Centre Press, 1984. Carter, Paul. The Lie of the Land. London: Faber & Faber, 1996. Dalton, Peter. “Broome: A Multiracial Community. A Study of Social and Cultural Relationships in a Town in the West Kimberleys, Western Australia”. Thesis for Master of Arts in Anthropology. Perth: University of Western Australia, 1964. Hunt, Susan Jane. Spinifex and Hessian: Women’s Lives in North-Western Australia 1860–1900. Nedlands, WA: U of Western Australia P, 1986. Read, Peter. Belonging: Australians, Place and Aboriginal Ownership. UK: Cambridge UP, 2000. Reynolds, Henry. North of Capricorn: The Untold History of Australia’s North. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2003. Reynolds, Henry. Why Weren’t We Told? Ringwood, Victoria: Penguin Books Australia, 1999. Sharp, Nonie. Saltwater People: The Waves of Memory. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2002. Shire of Greenough. Greenough River Nature Walk Trail Guide. 2005. Tuhiwai Smith, Linda. Decolonizing Methodologies. Dunedin, New Zealand: U of Otago P, 1999. Watson, Christine. Piercing the Ground. Perth: Fremantle Arts Centre P, 2003. Weightman, Llyrus. The Old Roebourne Gaol: A History. Pilbara Classies & Printing Service. Wright, Judith. The Cry for the Dead. 1981. 277-80. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Hair, Margaret. "Invisible Country." M/C Journal 8.6 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0512/09-hair.php>. APA Style Hair, M. (Dec. 2005) "Invisible Country," M/C Journal, 8(6). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0512/09-hair.php>.

A főúri palota mint sajátos épületfajta rendeltetéséből következően azon túl, hogy egy-egy család lakóhelyéül szolgált, az arisztokrácia társadalmi helyzetét, rangját is reprezentálta. A palota az ókor óta a legvagyonosabb és uralkodó társadalmi réteg városi lakóhelye, hatalmának, jelenlétének reprezentatív szimbóluma volt. A város társadalmi életének újkori fejlődése az arisztokráciát vidéki birtokairól a sűrűbb városi tartózkodásra ösztönözte. A politikai és hatalmi életben való részvétel mellett a városi tartózkodás együtt járt a „szezon” (báli szezon, színházi évad, lóverseny) eseményein való személyes reprezentálással is. Az arisztokrácia városi lakóhelyeinek a településen belüli elhelyezése, rendeltetéselemeinek építészeti diszpozíciója (elrendezése), az építtetők sajátos életmódjával összefüggésben, elsősorban viselkedésszociológiai szempontú megközelítéssel válik igazán értelmezhetővé, mert az elhelyezés és az elrendezés változatai a jellegzetes életforma reprezentatív „építészeti leképezéseként” tűnnek fel a nagyvárosi szövetben. A 18–19. században a főúri életforma változása az arisztokrácia társadalmi osztályában a főnemesség történeti-jogi és viselkedésszociológiai értelemben is vett elválását, rétegképző hatását mutatja. Ez a városi környezetben a palotáknak a városi központ köré centralizálódó, ide csoportosuló, illetve koncentrálódó vagy a városfalakon kívüli, elkülönült térbeli elhelyezkedésében és sajátosan izolált építészeti kialakításában jelent meg hazánkban, valamint a hazai előképül szolgáló – példaként kiemelt – jelentős európai nagyvárosokban is. Pozsony és Pest-Buda esetében a 18–19. században kialakított hatalmi központok – a királyi várpalota és az országgyűlés üléstermei – voltak a főúri politizálás és hatalomgyakorlás elsődleges helyszínei. A magánpaloták nagy számban ezért ezek köré rendeződtek, ugyanakkor kedvelt volt a városfalakon kívüli, de ahhoz közeli terület is, amely a 17. század végétől alkalmasnak bizonyult tágas kertekkel övezett paloták felépítésére. A palo-tákhoz kapcsolódó kertek kialakítására a sűrű városi szövetben csak igen korlátozott lehetőség volt, amely alól szinte páratlan kivétel a prágai várhegy déli lejtőit elfoglaló, teraszos kialakítású főúri magánkertek pompás csoportja. A paloták térbeli elrendezésének előzményei már a 13–14. századi itáliai városokban megtalálhatók. A típusalkotó épületek Firenzében jelentek meg a 15. század közepén, a hazánkban mintaadó változataikat a 16–17. században Rómában, a 17–18. században pedig Párizsban és Bécsben érlelték ki.The noble palace as a special type of building – due to its function – served as the residence of a family, and also represented the social position and the rank of the nobility. Since the ancient times the palace was considered as the urban residence of the wealthiest and ruling social class and as the representative symbol of its power and presence. The development of the social life in the city in modern times encouraged the nobility to stay rather in urban areas than in rural estates. In addition to participating in political and executive functions, the stay in the city was considered also as a personal representation at the events of the “season” (ball season, theater season, horse racing). The disposition (location) within the city and the architectural arrangement and design of the urban residences of the nobility, i. e. the palaces are related to the specific lifestyle of the builders. It can be interpreted and understood from a sociological point of view, because the palaces appear as the representative “architectural depiction” of a characteristic way of life in the urban area. In the 18th and 19th centuries the change in the way of noble life within the social class of the aristocracy indicates the separation and the stratifying effect of the nobility in historical-legal and sociological meaning. In the urban environment this is reflected either in the centralized location of the palaces around the city center or in the separate spatial location outside the city walls which was applied in Hungary as well as in the major European cities which served as role models for the Hungarian towns. As for Pressburg and Pest-Buda, the seats of ruling power – namely the royal palace and the rooms of the parliament – which were established in the 18th and 19th centuries, were the primary sites of noble politics and exercising power. Therefore a large number of private palaces were arranged around them. At the same time there were popular areas outside the city walls, but close to them, too, which proved to be suitable for building palaces surrounded by spacious gardens from the end of the 17th century. In the dense urban areas there were only very limited opportunities to create gardens connecting directly to the palaces. An almost unique exception for that is the group of the terraced private noble gardens occupying the southern slopes of Prague Castle Hill. The forerunners of such spatial arrangements of the palaces can be found in the Italian cities in the 13th and 14th centuries. The type of these buildings emerged in Florence in the middle of the 15th century, their first versions in Hungary were based on the buildings in Rome in the 16th and 17th centuries, and in Paris and Vienna in the 17th and 18th centuries.Der Adelspalast als besonderer Gebäudetyp diente aufgrund seiner Funktion als Wohnsitz einer Familie und repräsentierte auch die soziale Lage und den Rang des Adels. Seit der Antike galt der Palast als städtische Residenz der reichsten und herrschenden sozialen Klasse und als repräsentatives Symbol ihrer Macht und Präsenz. Die Entwicklung des gesellschaftlichen Lebens in der Stadt ermutigte den Adel in der Neuzeit, sich eher in Stadtgebieten als in ländlichen Gebieten aufzuhalten. Außer der Teilnahme an politischen und exekutiven Funktionen wurde der Aufenthalt in der Stadt auch als persönliche Vertretung bei den Veranstaltungen der „Saison“ (Ballsaison, Theatersaison, Pferderennen) angesehen. Die Disposition (Lage) innerhalb der Stadt und die architektonische Anordnung und Gestaltung der städtischen Residenzen des Adels, d.h. der Paläste beziehen sich auf den spezifischen Lebensstil der Bauherren. Es kann unter soziologischen Gesichtspunkten interpretiert und verstanden werden, daß die Paläste als repräsentative „architektonische Darstellungen“ einer charakteristischen Lebensweise in dem großstädtischen Gefüge erscheinen. In 18. und 19. Jahrhunderten zeigte die Veränderung der Art des Hochadelslebens innerhalb der sozialen Klasse der Aristokratie eine Trennung und Schichtung des Hochadels in historisch-rechtlicher und soziologischer Bedeutung. Im städtischen Umfeld spiegelt sich dies entweder in der zentralisierten Lage der Paläste rund um die Innenstadt oder in der getrennten räumlichen Lage außerhalb der Stadtmauern wider, das wurde auch in Ungarn sowie in den europäischen Großstädten, die als Vorbilder für Ungarn dienten, angewendet. Was Preßburg und Pest-Buda betrifft, da wurden die im 18. und 19. Jahrhunderten errichteten Regierungssitze – nämlich der königliche Palast und das Parlament – die Hauptorte der edlen Politik und der Ausübung von Macht. Daher wurden eine große Anzahl privater Paläste um diese Gebäude angeordnet. Zur gleichen Zeit gab es beliebte Gebiete außerhalb der Stadtmauern, aber in ihrer Nähe, die sich ab dem Ende des 17. Jahrhunderts als geeignet erwiesen, Paläste, die von weitläufigen Gärten umgegeben waren, zu bauen. In den dichten städtischen Gebieten gab es nur sehr begrenzte Möglichkeiten, Gärten, die mit den Palästen verbunden waren, zu schaffen. Eine fast einzigartige Ausnahme bildet die Gruppe der terrassierten privaten Hochadelsgärten an den Südhängen des Prager Burgbergs. Die Vorläufer solcher räumlichen Anordnungen der Paläste konnten in den italienischen Städten in 13. und 14. Jahrhunderten gefunden werden. Der Typ der Paläste entstand in der Mitte des 15. Jahrhunderts in Florenz. Die ersten Versionen der Paläste in Ungarn basierten auf der Struktur der Gebäude in Rom aus den 16. und 17. Jahrhunderten sowie in Paris und Wien aus den 17. und 18. Jahrhunderten.

Phillip Noyce is one of Australia’s most prominent film makers—a successful feature film director with both iconic Australian narratives and many a Hollywood blockbuster under his belt. Still, his beginnings were quite humble and far from his role today when he grew up in the midst of the counterculture of the late sixties. Millions of young people his age joined the various ‘movements’ of the day after experiences that changed their lives—mostly music but also drugs or fashion. The counterculture was a turbulent time in Sydney artistic circles as elsewhere. Everything looked possible, you simply had to “Do It!”—and Noyce did. He dived head-on into these times and with a voracious appetite for its many aspects—film, theatre, rallies, music, art and politics in general. In fact he often was the driving force behind such activities. Noyce described his personal epiphany occurring in 1968: A few months before I was due to graduate from high school, […] I saw a poster on a telegraph pole advertising American 'underground' movies. There was a mesmerising, beautiful blue-coloured drawing on the poster that I later discovered had been designed by an Australian filmmaker called David Perry. The word 'underground' conjured up all sorts of delights to an eighteen-year-old in the late Sixties: in an era of censorship it promised erotica, perhaps; in an era of drug-taking it promised some clandestine place where marijuana, or even something stronger, might be consumed; in an era of confrontation between conservative parents and their affluent post-war baby-boomer children, it promised a place where one could get together with other like-minded youth and plan to undermine the establishment, which at that time seemed to be the aim of just about everyone aged under 30. (Petzke 8) What the poster referred to was a new, highly different type of film. In the US these films were usually called “underground”. This term originates from film critic Manny Farber who used it in his 1957 essay Underground Films. Farber used the label for films whose directors today would be associated with independent and art house feature films. More directly, film historian Lewis Jacobs referred to experimental films when he used the words “film which for most of its life has led an underground existence” (8). The term is used interchangeably with New American Cinema. It was based on a New York group—the Film-Makers’ Co-operative—that started in 1960 with mostly low-budget filmmakers under the guidance of Jonas Mekas. When in 1962 the group was formally organised as a means for new, improved ways of distributing their works, experimental filmmakers were the dominant faction. They were filmmakers working in a more artistic vein, slightly influenced by the European Avant-garde of the 1920s and by attempts in the late 1940s and early 1950s. In film history, this era is also known as the Third Avant-garde. In their First Statement of the New American Cinema Group, the group drew connections to both the British Free Cinema and the French Nouvelle Vague. They also claimed that contemporary cinema was “morally corrupt, aesthetically obsolete, thematically superficial, temperamentally boring” (80). An all-encompassing definition of Underground Film never was available. Sheldon Renan lists some of the problems: There are underground films in which there is no movement and films in which there is nothing but movement. There are films about people and films about light. There are short, short underground films and long, long underground films. There are some that have been banned, and there is one that was nominated for an Academy Award. There are sexy films and sexless films, political films and poetical films, film epigrams and film epics … underground film is nothing less than an explosion of cinematic styles, forms and directions. (Renan 17) No wonder that propelled by frequent serious articles in the press—notably Jonas Mekas in the Village Voice—and regular screenings at other venues like the Film-makers’ Cinemathèque and the Gallery of Modern Art in New York, these films proved increasingly popular in the United States and almost immediately spread like bush fires around the world. So in early September 1968 Noyce joined a sold-out crowd at the Union Theatre in Sydney, watching 17 shorts assembled by Ubu Films, the premier experimental and underground film collective in 1960s Australia (Milesago). And on that night his whole attitude to art, his whole attitude to movies—in fact, his whole life—changed. He remembered: I left the cinema that night thinking, "I’m gonna make movies like that. I can do it." Here was a style of cinema that seemed to speak to me. It was immediate, it was direct, it was personal, and it wasn’t industrial. It was executed for personal expression, not for profit; it was individual as opposed to corporate, it was stylistically free; it seemed to require very little expenditure, innovation being the key note. It was a completely un-Hollywood-like aesthetic; it was operating on a visceral level that was often non-linear and was akin to the psychedelic images that were in vogue at the time—whether it was in music, in art or just in the patterns on your multi-coloured shirt. These movies spoke to me. (Petzke 9) Generally speaking, therefore, these films were the equivalent of counterculture in the area of film. Theodore Roszak railed against “technocracy” and underground films were just the opposite, often almost do-it-yourself in production and distribution. They were objecting to middle-class culture and values. And like counterculture they aimed at doing away with repression and to depict a utopian lifestyle feeling at ease with each imaginable form of liberality (Doggett 469). Underground films transgressed any Hollywood rule and convention in content, form and technique. Mobile hand-held cameras, narrow-gauge or outright home movies, shaky and wobbly, rapid cutting, out of focus, non-narrative, disparate continuity—you name it. This type of experimental film was used to express the individual consciousness of the “maker”—no longer calling themselves directors—a cinematic equivalent of the first person in literature. Just as in modern visual art, both the material and the process of making became part of these artworks. Music often was a dominant factor, particularly Eastern influences or the new Beat Music that was virtually non-existent in feature films. Drug experiences were reflected in imagery and structure. Some of the first comings-out of gay men can be found as well as films that were shown at the appropriately named “Wet Dreams Festival” in Amsterdam. Noyce commented: I worked out that the leading lights in this Ubu Films seemed to be three guys — Aggy Read, Albie Thoms and David Perry […They] all had beards and […] seemed to come from the basement of a terrace house in Redfern. Watching those movies that night, picking up all this information, I was immediately seized by three great ambitions. First of all, I wanted to grow a beard; secondly, I wanted to live in a terrace house in the inner city; and thirdly, I wanted to be a filmmaker. (Ubu Films) Noyce soon discovered there were a lot of people like him who wanted to make short films for personal expression, but also as a form of nationalism. They wanted to make Australian movies. Noyce remembered: “Aggy, Albie and David encouraged everyone to go and make a film for themselves” (Petzke 11). This was easy enough to do as these films—not only in Australia—were often made for next to nothing and did not require any prior education or training. And the target audience group existed in a subculture of people willing to pay money even for extreme entertainment as long as it was advertised in an appealing way—which meant: in the way of the rampaging Zeitgeist. Noyce—smitten by the virus—would from then on regularly attend the weekly meetings organised by the young filmmakers. And in line with Jerry Rubin’s contemporary adage “Do it!” he would immediately embark on a string of films with enthusiasm and determination—qualities soon to become his trademark. All his films were experimental in nature, shot on 16mm and were so well received that Albie Thoms was convinced that Noyce had a great career ahead of him as an experimental filmmaker. Truly alternative was Noyce’s way to finally finance Better to Reign in Hell, his first film, made at age 18 and with a total budget of $600. Noyce said on reflection: I had approached some friends and told them that if they invested in my film, they could have an acting role. Unfortunately, the guy whose dad had the most money — he was a doctor’s son — was also maybe the worst actor that was ever put in front of a camera. But he had invested four hundred dollars, so I had to give him the lead. (Petzke 13) The title was taken from Milton’s poem Paradise Lost (“better to reign in hell than serve in heaven”). It was a film very much inspired by the images, montage and narrative techniques of the underground movies watched at Ubu. Essentially the film is about a young man’s obsession with a woman he sees repeatedly in advertising and the hallucinogenic dreams he has about her. Despite its later reputation, the film was relatively mundane. Being shot in black and white, it lacks the typical psychedelic ingredients of the time and is more reminiscent of the surrealistic precursors to underground film. Some contempt for the prevailing consumer society is thrown in for good measure. In the film, “A youth is persecuted by the haunting reappearance of a girl’s image in various commercial outlets. He finds escape from this commercial brainwashing only in his own confused sexual hallucinations” (Sydney Filmmakers Co-operative). But despite this advertising, so convincingly capturing the “hint! hint!” mood of the time, Noyce’s first film isn’t really outstanding even in terms of experimental film. Noyce continued to make short experimental films. There was not even the pretence of a story in any of them. He was just experimenting with his gear and finding his own way to use the techniques of the underground cinema. Megan was made at Sydney University Law School to be projected as part of the law students’ revue. It was a three-minute silent film that featured a woman called Megan, who he had a crush on. Intersection was 2 minutes 44 seconds in length and shot in the middle of a five-way or four-way intersection in North Sydney. The camera was walked into the intersection and spun around in a continuous circle from the beginning of the roll of film to the end. It was an experiment with disorientation and possibly a comment about urban development. Memories was a seven-minute short in colour about childhood and the bush, accompanied by a smell-track created in the cinema by burning eucalyptus leaves. Sun lasted 90 seconds in colour and examined the pulsating winter sun by way of 100 single frame shots. And finally, Home was a one-and-a-half-minute single frame camera exploration of the filmmaker’s home, inside and out, including its inhabitants and pets. As a true experimental filmmaker, Noyce had a deep interest in technical aspects. It was recommended that Sun “be projected through a special five image lens”, Memories and Intersection with “an anamorphic lens” (Sydney Filmmakers Co-operative). The double projection for Better to Reign in Hell and the two screens required for Good Afternoon, as well as the addition of the smell of burning leaves in Memories, were inroads into the subgenre of so-called Expanded Cinema. As filmmaking in those days was not an isolated enterprise but an integral part of the all-encompassing Counterculture, Noyce followed suit and became more and more involved and politiced. He started becoming a driving force of the movement. Besides selling Ubu News, he organised film screenings. He also wrote film articles for both Honi Soit and National U, the Sydney University and Canberra University newspapers—articles more opinionated than sophisticated. He was also involved in Ubu’s Underground Festival held in August and in other activities of the time, particularly anti-war protests. When Ubu Films went out of business after the lack of audience interest in Thoms’s long Marinetti film in 1969, Aggy Read suggested that Ubu be reinvented as a co-operative for tax reasons and because they might benefit from their stock of 250 Australian and foreign films. On 28 May 1970 the reinvention began at the first general meeting of the Sydney Filmmakers Cooperative where Noyce volunteered and was elected their part-time manager. He transferred the 250 prints to his parents’ home in Wahroonga where he was still living he said he “used to sit there day after day just screening those movies for myself” (Petzke 18). The Sydney University Film Society screened feature films to students at lunchtime. Noyce soon discovered they had money nobody was spending and equipment no one was using, which seemed to be made especially for him. In the university cinema he would often screen his own and other shorts from the Co-op’s library. The entry fee was 50 cents. He remembered: “If I handed out the leaflets in the morning, particularly concentrating on the fact that these films were uncensored and a little risqué, then usually there would be 600 people in the cinema […] One or two screenings per semester would usually give me all the pocket money I needed to live” (Petzke 19). Libertine and risqué films were obviously popular as they were hard to come by. Noyce said: We suffered the worst censorship of almost any Western country in the world, even worse than South Africa. Books would be seized by customs officers at the airports and when ships docked. Customs would be looking for Lady Chatterley’s Lover. We were very censored in literature and films and plays, and my film [Better to Reign in Hell] was banned from export. I tried to send it to a film festival in Holland and it was denied an export permit, but because it had been shot in Australia, until someone in the audience complained it could still be screened locally. (Castaway's Choice) No wonder clashes with the law happened frequently and were worn like medals of honour in those days of fighting the system, proving that one was fighting in the front line against the conservative values of law and order. Noyce encountered three brushes with the law. The first occurred when selling Ubu Films’ alternative culture newspaper Ubu News, Australia’s first underground newspaper (Milesago). One of the issues contained an advertisement—a small drawing—for Levi’s jeans, showing a guy trying to put his Levis on his head, so that his penis was showing. That was judged by the police to be obscene. Noyce was found guilty and given a suspended sentence for publishing an indecent publication. There had been another incident including Phil’s Pill, his own publication of six or eight issues. After one day reprinting some erotic poems from The Penguin Collection of Erotic Poetry he was found guilty and released on a good behaviour bond without a conviction being recorded. For the sake of historical truth it should be remembered, though, that provocation was a genuine part of the game. How else could one seriously advertise Better to Reign in Hell as “a sex-fantasy film which includes a daring rape scene”—and be surprised when the police came in after screening this “pornographic film” (Stratton 202) at the Newcastle Law Students Ball? The Newcastle incident also throws light on the fact that Noyce organised screenings wherever possible, constantly driving prints and projectors around in his Mini Minor. Likewise, he is remembered as having been extremely helpful in trying to encourage other people with their own ideas—anyone could make films and could make them about anything they liked. He helped Jan Chapman, a fellow student who became his (first) wife in December 1971, to shoot and edit Just a Little Note, a documentary about a moratorium march and a guerrilla theatre group run by their friend George Shevtsov. Noyce also helped on I Happened to Be a Girl, a documentary about four women, friends of Chapman. There is no denying that being a filmmaker was a hobby, a full-time job and an obsessive religion for Noyce. He was on the organising committee of the First Australian Filmmakers’ Festival in August 1971. He performed in the agit-prop acting troupe run by George Shevtsov (later depicted in Renegades) that featured prominently at one of Sydney’s rock festival that year. In the latter part of 1971 and early 1972 he worked on Good Afternoon, a documentary about the Combined Universities’ Aquarius Arts Festival in Canberra, which arguably was the first major manifestation of counterculture in Australia. For this the Aquarius Foundation—the cultural arm of the Australian Union of Students—had contracted him. This became a two-screen movie à la Woodstock. Together with Thoms, Read and Ian Stocks, in 1972 he participated in cataloguing the complete set of films in distribution by the Co-op (see Sydney Filmmakers Cooperative). As can be seen, Noyce was at home in many manifestations of the Sydney counterculture. His own films had slowly become more politicised and bent towards documentary. He even started a newsreel that he used to screen at the Filmmakers’ Cooperative Cinema with a live commentary. One in 1971, Springboks Protest, was about the demonstrations at the Sydney Cricket Ground against the South African rugby tour. There were more but Noyce doesn’t remember them and no prints seem to have survived. Renegades was a diary film; a combination of poetic images and reportage on the street demonstrations. Noyce’s experimental films had been met with interest in the—limited—audience and among publications. His more political films and particularly Good Afternoon, however, reached out to a much wider audience, now including even the undogmatic left and hard-core documentarists of the times. In exchange, and for the first time, there were opposing reactions—but as always a great discussion at the Filmmakers’ Cinema, the main venue for independent productions. This cinema began with those initial screenings at Sydney University in the union room next to the Union Theatre. But once the Experimental Film Fund started operating in 1970, more and more films were submitted for the screenings and consequently a new venue was needed. Albie Thoms started a forum in the Yellow House in Kings Cross in May 1970. Next came—at least briefly—a restaurant in Glebe before the Co-op took over a space on the top floor of the socialist Third World Bookshop in Goulburn Street that was a firetrap. Bob Gould, the owner, was convinced that by first passing through his bookshop the audience would buy his books on the way upstairs. Sundays for him were otherwise dead from a commercial point of view. Noyce recollected that: The audience at this Filmmakers’ Cinema were mightily enthusiastic about seeing themselves up on the screen. And there was always a great discussion. So, generally the screenings were a huge success, with many full houses. The screenings grew from once a week, to three times on Sunday, to all weekend, and then seven days a week at several locations. One program could play in three different illegal cinemas around the city. (Petzke 26) A filmmakers’ cinema also started in Melbourne and the groups of filmmakers would visit each other and screen their respective films. But especially after the election of the Whitlam Labor government in December 1972 there was a shift in interest from risqué underground films to the concept of Australian Cinema. The audience started coming now for a dose of Australian culture. Funding of all kind was soon freely available and with such a fund the film co-op was able to set up a really good licensed cinema in St. Peters Lane in Darlinghurst, running seven days a week. But, Noyce said, “the move to St. Peters Lane was sort of the end of an era, because initially the cinema was self-funded, but once it became government sponsored everything changed” (Petzke 29). With money now readily available, egotism set in and the prevailing “we”-feeling rather quickly dissipated. But by the time of this move and the resulting developments, everything for Noyce had already changed again. He had been accepted into the first intake of the Interim Australian Film & TV School, another one of the nation-awareness-building projects of the Whitlam government. He was on his “long march through the institutions”—as this was frequently called throughout Europe—that would bring him to documentaries, TV and eventually even Hollywood (and return). Noyce didn’t linger once the alternative scene started fading away. Everything those few, wild years in the counterculture had taught him also put him right on track to become one of the major players in Hollywood. He never looked back—but he remembers fondly…References Castaway’s Choice. Radio broadcast by KCRW. 1990. Doggett, Peter. There’s a Riot Going On: Revolutionaries, Rock Stars and the Rise and Fall of ’60s Counter-Culture. Edinburgh: Canongate, 2007. Farber, Manny. “Underground Films.” Negative Space: Manny Farber on the Movies. Ed. Manny Farber. New York: Da Capo, 1998. 12–24. Jacobs, Lewis. “Morning for the Experimental Film”. Film Culture 19 (1959): 6–9. Milesago. “Ubu Films”. n.d. 26 Nov. 2014 ‹http://www.milesago.com/visual/ubu.htm›. New American Cinema Group. “First Statement of the New American Cinema Group.” Film Culture Reader. Ed. P. Adams Sitney. New York: Praeger, 1970. 73–75. Petzke, Ingo. Phillip Noyce: Backroads to Hollywood. Sydney: Pan McMillan, 2004. Renan, Sheldon. The Underground Film: An Introduction to Its Development in America. London: Studio Vista, 1968. Roszak, Theodore. The Making of Counter Culture. New York: Anchor, 1969. Stratton, David. The Last New Wave: The Australian Film Revival. Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 1980. Sydney Filmmakers Co-operative. Film Catalogue. Sydney: Sydney Filmmakers Co-operative, 1972. Ubu Films. Unreleased five-minute video for the promotion of Mudie, Peter. Ubu Films: Sydney Underground Movies 1965-1970. Sydney: UNSW Press, 1997.

In rejoinder to a New York Times’s article claiming, “the value of used pianos, especially uprights, has plummeted … Instead of selling them … , donating them … or just passing them along … , owners are far more likely to discard them” (Walkin), artists Kathleen Irwin (scenography) and Jeff Morton (sound/composition) responded to this ignoble passing with an installation playing with the borders delineating music, theatre, digital technology, and economies of value using two upright red pianos, sound and video projection—and the sensibility of relational aesthetics. The installation was a collaboration between two artists who share a common interest in the performative qualities of public space and how technological augmentation is used in identificatory and embodied art processes as a means of extending the human body and enhancing the material space of person-to-person interaction. The title of the installation, PLAY, referenced the etymology of the word itself and how it has been variously understood over time, across artistic disciplines, and in digital and physical environments. Fundamentally, it explored the relative value of a material object (the piano) and how its social and cultural signification persists, shifts, is diminished or augmented by technology. The installation was mounted at the Dunlop Art Gallery, in the Regina Public Library (Saskatchewan, Canada, 14 June - 25 August 2013) and, as such, it illustrated the Library’s mandate to support all forms of literacy through community accessibility and forms of public outreach, social arrangements, and encounters. Indirectly, (as this was not the initial focus), it also exemplified the artists’s gentle probing of the ways, means, claims, and values when layering information and enhancing our visual experience as we interact with (literally, walk through) our physical landscapes and environments—“to see the world for what it is,” as Matt Turbow says “and to see the elements within” (Chapeau). The installation reflected on, among other things, the piano as a still potent cultural signifier, the persistent ability of our imagination to make meaning and codify experience even without digital overlay, and the library as an archive and disseminator of public knowledge. The artists questioned whether old technologies such as the piano will lose their hold on us entirely as technological augmentation develops the means to enhance or colonize the natural world, through graphics, sounds, haptic feedback, smell and, eventually, commodified experiences. This paper intends to reflect on our work and initiate a friendly (playful) interdisciplinary discussion about material objects in the age of physical and digital interactivity, and the terms of augmentation as we chose to understand it through our installation. In response to the call proposed by this journal on the subject of augmentation, we considered: 1. How audio/visual apparatuses in the gallery space augmented the piano’s expressivity; 2. How the piano augmented the social function of its physical situation; 3. How the technology augmented random and fragmentary musical phrases, creating a prolonged musical composition; 4. How each spectator augmented the art through his/her subjective engagement: how there is always meaning generated in excess of the artists’s intention. Image 1: Piano installed outside Dunlop Gallery/ Regina Public Library (photo credit: Jeff Morton) To begin, a brief description of the site of the installation is in order. The first of the red pianos was installed outside the main doors of the Central Library, located in the city’s downtown. The library’s entrance is framed within a two-story glass atrium and the red piano repeated the architecture’s function to open the space by breaking down perceived barriers, and beckoning the passersby inside. Reflecting Irwin’s community-oriented, site-specific practice, this was the relational catalyst of the work—the piano made available for anyone to play and enjoy, day or night, an invitation to respond to an object inserted into the shared space of the sidewalk: to explore, as Nicolas Bourriaud suggests, “the art as a state of encounter” (16). It was the centerpiece of the exhibition's outreach, which included the exhibition’s vernissage featuring new music and performance artists in concert, a costume and prop workshop for a late night public choir procession, and a series of artist talks. This was, arguably, a defining characteristic of the work, underscoring how the work of art, in this case the piano itself, its abjection illustrated by the perfunctory means typically used to dispose of them, is augmented or gains value through its social construction, over-and-above any that is originally ascribed to it. As Bourriaud writes, any kind of production takes on a social form which no longer has anything to do with its original usefulness. It acquires exchange value that partly covers and shrouds its primary “nature”. The fact is that a work of art has no a priori useful function—not that it is socially useless, but because it is available and flexible, and has an “infinite tendency”. (42) In the Dunlop’s press release, curator Blair Fornwald also confers a supplemental value ascribed to the reframed material object. She describes how the public space in front of the library, as a place of social interaction and cultural identification—of “being seen”—is augmented by the red piano: its presence in an unfamiliar setting underscores the multitude of creative and performative possibilities inherent within it, possibilities that may extend far beyond playing a simple melody. By extension, its presence asserts that the every day is a social, cultural, and physical environment rich with potentiality and promise. (Fornwald) Juxtaposed with the first red piano, the second was dramatically staged within the Dunlop gallery. The room, painted black, formally replicated the framing and focusing conventions of the theatre: its intention to propose other ways of “being seen” and to suggest the blurring of lines between “on stage and off,” and by extension, “on line and off.” A camera embedded in the front of the piano and a large projection screen in the space provided a celebrity moment for anyone approaching the instrument and implied, arguably, the ubiquitous surveillance associated with public space. Indeed, a plausible way of reading the red piano in the darkened gallery was as a provocation to think about how the digital and physical are increasingly enmeshed in our daily lives (Jurgenson). Lit by a chandelier and staged on a circular red carpet, this piano was also available to be played. Unlike the one outside of the building, it was augmented by speakers, a microphone, and a webcam. Through a custom-built digital system (using MaxMSP software), it recorded and played back the sound and image of everyone who sat down to perform, then repeated and superimposed these over similar previously captured material. Enhanced by the unusual stark acoustics of the gallery, the sound filled the reverberant space. Affixed to the gallery’s back wall was the projection screen made up of sheet music (Bach, Debussy and Mozart) taken from the Irwin family’s piano bench, a veritable time capsule from the 1950s. Image 2: Piano installed inside Dunlop Gallery (photo credit: Jeff Morton) In addition to the centrally placed piano, a miniature red piano was situated near the gallery entrance. It and a single red chair placed near the screen, repeated the vivid colour and drew the eye into and around the space underscoring its theatrical quality. The toy piano functioned as a lighthearted invitation, as well as a serious citation of other artists—Eikoh Sudoh, Margaret Leng Tan, John Cage, and Charles M. Schulz’s “Schroeder”—who have employed the miniature instrument to great advantage. It was intended as an illustration of the infinite resonances that material objects may provide and the diverse ways they may signify contingent on the viewer. Considered in a historical context, in the golden age of the upright and at the turn of the twentieth-century, piano lessons signified for many, the formation of a modern citizen schooled in European culture and values. Owning one of these intricately engineered and often beautiful machines, as one in five households did, reflected the social aspirations of its owners and marked their upward economic mobility (Canadian Encyclopedia). One hundred years later, pianos are often relegated to the basement or dump. Irretrievably out of tune, their currency as musical instruments largely devalued. Nonetheless, their cultural and social value persists, no longer the pervasive marker of status, but through the ways they are mediated by artists who prepare, deconstruct, and leave them to deteriorate in beautiful ways. They seem to retain their hold on us through the natural impulse to engage them kinetically, ergonomically, and metaphorically. Built to be an extension of the human hand, body, and imagination, they are a sublime human-scale augmentation of a precise musical system of notation, and a mechanism evolved over centuries through physical augmentations meant to increase the expressivity of both instrument and player. In PLAY, the use of the pianos referenced both their traditional role in public life, and our current relationship with forms of digital media that have replaced these instruments as our primary means of being linked, informed, and entertained—an affirmation of the positive attributes of technology and a reminder of what we may have lost. Indeed, while this was not necessarily clear from the written responses in the Gallery’s guest book (Gorgeous!: Neat!; Too, too cool!; etc.), we surmised that memory might have played a key role in the experience of the installation, set in motion by the precise arrangement of the few material objects – red piano, the piano bench, red chair, and toy piano, each object designed to fit the shape of the body and hold the memory of physical contact. These were designed to trigger a chain of recollections, each chasing the next; each actively participating in what follows. In the Gallery’s annual exhibition catalogue, Ellen Moffat suggests that the relationship the piano builds with the player is important: “the piano plays and is played by the performer. Performing the piano assigns a posture for the performer in relation to the keyboard physically and figuratively” (Moffat 80). Technically, the piano is the sum of many parts, understandable finally as a discrete mechanical system, but unbounded in imagination and limited only by our capacity to play it. Functionally, it acts as an affective repository of memory and feeling, a tool to control the variables of physical and expressive interaction. In PLAY, the digital system in the gallery piano captured, delayed and displayed audio and video clips according to a rubric of cause and effect. Controlled by computer software designed by Morton, the installation captured musical phrases played randomly by individuals and augmented these notes by playing them back at variable speeds and superimposing one over another—musical phrases iterated and reiterated. The effect was fugue-like—an indeterminate composition with a determinant structure, achieved by intertwining physical and digital systems with musical content supplied by participants. The camera hidden in the front of the piano recorded individuals as they sat at the instrument and, immediately, they saw themselves projected in extreme close up onto the screen behind. As the individual struck a note, their image faded and the screen was filled again with the image of a previous participant abstracted and in slow motion. The effect, we suggest, was dreamlike—an echo or a fleeting fragment of something barely remembered. Like the infinite variations the piano permits, the software was also capable of expressing immense variety—each sound and image adding to an expanding archive in an ever-changing improvised composition developed through iterative call and response. Drawing on elements of relational aesthetics, scenographic representation, and digital technology, in PLAY we attempted to cross disciplines in ways that distinguished it from the other piano projects seen over the past several years. Indeed, the image of the upright piano has resonated in the zeitgeist of the international art scene with colourful uprights placed in public places in urban centers across Europe and North America. Wherever they are, individuals engage enthusiastically with them and they, in turn, become the centre of attention: this is part of their appeal. The pianos seem to evoke a utopian sense of community, however temporary, providing opportunities to rediscover old neighbours and make new friends. In PLAY, we posed two different social and aesthetic encounters—one analogue, real, “off-line” and one digital, theatrical, and “on-line,” illustrating less a false binary between two possible realities that ascribes more value to one than the other, than a world where the digital and the physical comingle. Working within a public library, this was a germane train of thought considering how these institutes struggle to stay relevant in the age of Google search and the promise of technological augmentation. The piano also represents a dichotomy: both a failure to represent and an excess of meaning. For decades replete with social signification, they have now become an encumbrance, fit only for the bone yard. As these monumental relics come to the end of their mechanical life, there is more money made in their disposal than in musical production, and more value in their recycled metals, solid wooden bodies, and ivory keys then in their tone and function. The industry that supported their commodification collapsed years ago, as has the market for their sale and the popular music publishing industry that accompanied it. Of course, pianos will be with us for a long time in one form or another, but their history, as a culturally potent object, has diverged. The assumption could easily follow that they have been rendered useless as an aesthetic, generative, and social object. What this installation offered was the possibility of an alternative ending to the story of this erstwhile entertainment console even as we seek our amusement by other means and through other devices. Not surprisingly, the title of the installation suggests that the consideration of “play,” as social and recuperative engagement, is significant. In his seminal work, Homo Ludens, Johan Huizinga discusses the importance of play, suggesting that it is primary to and a necessary condition of the making of culture. He writes, “In play there is something in play, which transcends the immediate needs of life and imparts meaning to the action” (Huizinga 97). According to games theorist Mary Flanagan, playing may serve as a way of creating something beautiful, offering frameworks for new ways of thinking, exploring divergent logic, or for imaging what is possible. She writes, “Games, both digital and analog, offer a space to explore creativity, agency, representation and emergent behaviour” (Flanagan 2010). In reaching out to Regina’s downtown community, the Dunlop Art Gallery dispersed some of the playfulness of PLAY in planned and accidental ways, as the outdoor piano became a daily destination for individuals who live rough or in the city’s hostels, some of whom who have enviable musical skills and considerable stage presence. One man came daily with sheet music in hand to practice on the indoor piano—ignoring the inevitable echo and repeat that the software triggered. Another young woman appeared regularly to perform at the outdoor piano, her umbrella raised against sun and rain, wedged under her arm to keep both hands free. Children invariably drew parents to it as they entered or exited the library—for some it may have been the first time they had touched such an instrument. Overall, in press, blogs, and the visitors’s book, responses to the pianos were enthusiastic and positive. One blogger wrote in response to an online publication, Art, Music, News (Beatty), chapeau June 13, 2013 at 11:51am this is most definitely up and running, and it would be interesting to see/hear all that will go on with that red piano. my two-and-a-half year old daughter and i jammed a bit yesterday morning, while a stranger watched and listened, then insisted that i play the same mostly crappy c-blues again while he sang! so i did, and he did, and my daughter and i learned a bit about what he feels about his dog via his singing. it was the highlight of the day for us—I mean really, jamming outside on a very red upright piano with strangers—good times! (Simpson) As evidence of public approbation, for the better part of the summer it stood unprotected on the sidewalk in front of the library encountering only one minor incident of defacement—a rather fragile tag in white spray paint, someone’s name in proper cursive writing. Once repaired and retuned, it became a dynamic focus for the annual Folk Festival that takes over the area for a week in August. In these ways, PLAY fulfilled the Library’s aim of encouraging literacy and reinforcing a sense of community—a social augmentation, in a manner of speaking. As Moffat writes, it encourages the social dimension of participation through community-engagement and dialogic practices. It blurs distinctions between spectator and participant, professional and amateur. It generates relationships between people or social actions. (Moffat 76) Finally, PLAY toyed with the overtones of the word itself—as verb, noun, and adjective—signifier, and metaphor. The title illustrated its obvious current potential and evoked the piano’s past, referencing the glittering world of the stage. While many may have more memories of seeing pianos in disrepair than in the concert hall, its iconic stage setting is never far from the imagination, although this too changes as people from other cultures and backgrounds recognize little cultural capital in such activity. In current vernacular, the word “play” also implies the re-imagination of ourselves in the digital overlays of the future. So we ask, what will be the fate of the piano and its meme in the 22nd century? Will the augmentation of reality enhance our experience of the world in inverse proportion to a loss of social interaction? Conclusion In her essay, Moffat notes that as digital technology replaces the analog piano, a surplus of second-hand uprights has become available. Citing artists Luke Jerram, Monica Yunus, and Camille Zamora (among others), she argues that the use of them as public art coincides with their disappearance, suggesting a farewell or memorial to a collective cultural icon (Moffat 76). What is there in this piece of furniture that speaks to us in art practice? The answer, it would seem, is potential. In a curatorial interview, Irwin suggested the possibility that beyond the artist’s initial meaning, there is always something more—an augmentation. The pleasure of discovering this supplement is part of the pleasure of the subjective experience of the spectator. Similarly, the aleatoric in music composition, refers to the pursuit of chance as a formal determinant and its openness to individual interpretation at the moment of reception. For Morton, the randomness of memory and affect are key components in composition. They cannot be predicted, controlled or quantified; nor can they be denied. There is no correct interpretation or response to music or, indeed, to relational art practice. Moffat concludes, as a multi-faceted media installation, PLAY proposed “a suite, chorus or a polyphony of things” (Moffat 76). Depending on your point of reference, the installation provided a dynamic venue for considering our relationships with material objects, with each other and with new technologies asking how they may or may not augment our reality in ways that supplement real-time, person-to-person interaction. References Beatty, Gregory. “Exciting Goings-On at Central Library.” Prairie Dog Blog 11 June 2013. Bourriaud, Nicolas. Relational Aesthetics. Trans. Simon Pleasance and Fronza Woods. Paris: Les Presses du Réel, 1998. Canadian Encyclopedia. “Piano Building.” ‹http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.com/en/article/piano-building-emc/›. Chapeau [David Simpson]. “One Response to ‘Exciting Goings-On at Central Library.’” Prairie Dog Blog 13 June 2013. Fornwald, Blair. PLAY. Regina, Saskatchewan: Dunlop Art Gallery. 2013. Flanagan, Mary. “Creating Critical Play.” In Ruth Catlow, Marc Garret and Corrado Morgana, eds., Artists Rethinking Games. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2010. 49-53. Huizinga, Johan. Homo Ludens. Boston: Beacon Press, 1995. Jerram, Luke. Play Me, I’m Yours. Site-Specific Piano Installation. Multiple Venues. 2008-2013. Jurgenson, Nathan. “Digital Dualism versus Augmented Reality.” Cybergology: The Society Pages 24 Feb. 2011. 1 Dec. 2013 ‹http://thesocietypages.org/cyborgology/2011/02/24/digital-dualism-versus-augmented-reality/›. Moffat, Ellen. “Stages and Players” in DAG 2 (2013). Regina: Dunlop Art Gallery, 2013. 75-87. Walkin, Daniel J. “For More Pianos, Last Note Is Thud in the Dump.” New York Times 29 June 2012. Yunus, Monica, and Camille Zamora. Sing for Hope Pianos. Site-Specific Piano Installation and Performance. New York City. 2013.

Stand-up is a global phenomenon. It is Australia’s most significant form of advocatorial theatre and a major platform for challenging stigma and prejudice. In the twenty-first century, Australian stand-up is transforming into a more culturally diverse form and extending the spectrum of material addressing human rights. Since the 1980s Australian stand-up routines have moved beyond the old colonial targets of England and America, and Indigenous comics such as Kevin Kopinyeri, Andy Saunders, and Shiralee Hood have gained an established following. Additionally, the turn to Asia is evident not just in trade agreements and the higher education market but also in cultural exchange and in the billing of emerging Asian stand-ups at mainstream events. The major cultural driver for stand-up is the Melbourne International Comedy Festival (MICF), Australia’s largest cultural event, now over 30 years old, and an important site for dissecting constructs of democracy and nationhood. As John McCallum has observed, popular humour in post-World War II Australia drew on widespread feelings of “displacement, migration and otherness—resonant topics in a country of transplanted people and a dispossessed indigenous population arguing over a distinct Australian identity” (205–06). This essay considers the traditional comic strategies of first and second generation immigrant stand-ups in Australia and compares them with the new wave of post 9/11 Asian-Australian and Middle-Eastern-Australian stand-ups whose personas and interrogations are shifting the paradigm. Self-identifying Muslim stand-ups challenge myths of dominant Australian identity in ways which many still find confronting. Furthermore, the theories of incongruity, superiority, and psychological release re-rehearsed in traditional humour studies, by figures such as Palmer (1994) and Morreall (2009), are predicated on models of humour which do not always serve live performance, especially stand-up with its relational dependence on audience interaction.Stand-ups who immigrated to Australia as children or whose parents immigrated and struggled against adversity are important symbols both of the Australian comedy industry and of a national self-understanding of migrant resilience and making good. Szubanski and Berger hail from earlier waves of European migrants in the 1950s and 1960s. Szubanski has written eloquently of her complex Irish-Polish heritage and documented how the “hand-me-down trinkets of family and trauma” and “the culture clash of competing responses to calamity” have been integral to the development of her comic success and the making of her Aussie characters (347). Rachel Berger, the child of Polish holocaust survivors, advertises and connects both identities on her LinkedIn page: “After 23 years as a stand-up comedian, growing up with Jewish guilt and refugee parents, Rachel Berger knows more about survival than any idiot attending tribal council on reality TV.”Anh Do, among Australia’s most famous immigrant stand-ups, identifies as one of the Vietnamese “boat people” and arrived as a toddler in 1976. Do’s tale of his family’s survival against the odds and his creation of a persona which constructs the grateful, happy immigrant clown is the staple of his very successful routine and increasingly problematic. It is a testament to the power of Do’s stand-up that many did not perceive the toll of the loss of his birth country; the grinding poverty; and the pain of his father’s alcoholism, violence, and survivor guilt until the publication of Do’s ironically titled memoir The Happiest Refugee. In fact, the memoir draws on many of the trauma narratives that are still part of his set. One of Do’s most legendary routines is the story of his family’s sea journey to Australia, told here on ABC1’s Talking Heads:There were forty of us on a nine metre fishing boat. On day four of the journey we spot another boat. As the boat gets closer we realise it’s a boatload of Thai pirates. Seven men with knives, machetes and guns get on our boat and they take everything. One of the pirates picks up the smallest child, he lifts up the baby and rips open the baby’s nappy and dollars fall out. And the pirate decides to spare the kid’s life. And that’s a good thing cos that’s my little brother Khoa Do who in 2005 became Young Australian of the Year. And we were saved on the fifth day by a big German merchant ship which took us to a refugee camp in Malaysia and we were there for around three months before Australia says, come to Australia. And we’re very glad that happened. So often we heard Mum and Dad say—what a great country. How good is this place? And the other thing—kids, as you grow up, do as much as you can to give back to this great country and to give back to others less fortunate.Do’s strategy is apparently one of genuflection and gratitude, an adoption of what McCallum refers to as an Australian post-war tradition of the comedy of inadequacy and embarrassment (210–14). Journalists certainly like to bill Do as the happy clown, framing articles about him with headlines like Rosemary Neill’s “Laughing through Adversity.” In fact, Do is direct about his gallows humour and his propensity to darkness: his humour, he says, is a means of countering racism, of “being able to win people over who might have been averse to being friends with an Asian bloke,” but Neill does not linger on this, nor on the revelation that Do felt stigmatised by his refugee origins and terrified and shamed by the crippling poverty of his childhood in Australia. In The Happiest Refugee, Do reveals that, for him, the credibility of his routines with predominantly white Australian audiences lies in the crafting of himself as an “Aussie comedian up there talking about his working-class childhood” (182). This is not the official narrative that is retold even if it is how Do has endeared himself to Australians, and ridding himself of the happy refugee label may yet prove difficult. Suren Jayemanne is well known for his subtle mockery of multiculturalist rhetoric. In his 2016 MICF show, Wu-Tang Clan Name Generator, Jayemanne played on the supposed contradiction of his Sri Lankan-Malaysian heritage against his teenage years in the wealthy suburb of Malvern in Melbourne, his private schooling, and his obsession with hip hop and black American culture. Jayemanne’s strategy is to gently confound his audiences, leading them slowly up a blind alley. He builds up a picture of how to identify Sri Lankan parents, supposedly Sri Lankan qualities such as an exceptional ability at maths, and Sri Lankan employment ambitions which he argues he fulfilled in becoming an accountant. He then undercuts his story by saying he has recently realised that his suburban background, his numerical abilities, his love of black music, and his rejection of accountancy in favour of comedy, in fact prove conclusively that he has, all along, been white. He also confesses that this is a bruising disappointment. Jayemanne exposes the emptiness of the conceits of white, brown, and black and of invented identity markers and plays on his audiences’ preconceptions through an old storyteller’s device, the shaggy dog story. The different constituencies in his audiences enjoy his trick equally, from quite different perspectives.Diana Nguyen, a second generation Vietnamese stand-up, was both traumatised and politicised by Pauline Hanson when she was a teenager. Hanson described Nguyen’s community in Dandenong as “yellow Asian people” (Filmer). Nguyen’s career as a community development worker combating racism relates directly to her activity as a stand-up: migrant stories are integral to Australian history and Nguyen hypothesises that the “Australian psyche of being invaded or taken over” has reignited over the question of Islamic fundamentalism and expresses her concern to Filmer about the Muslim youths under her care.Nguyen’s alarm about the elision of Islamic radicalism with Muslim culture drives an agenda that has led the new generation of self-identified Muslim stand-ups since 9/11. This post 9/11 world is described by Wajahat as gorged with “exaggerated fear, hatred, and hostility toward Islam and Muslim [. . . ] and perpetuated by negative discrimination and the marginalisation and exclusion of Muslims from social, political, and civic life in western societies.” In Australia, Aamer Rahman, Muhamed Elleissi, Khaled Khalafalla, and Nazeem Hussain typify this newer, more assertive form of second generation immigrant stand-up—they identify as Muslim (whether religious or not), as brown, and as Australian. They might be said to symbolise a logical response to Ghassan Hage’s famous White Nation (1998), which argues that a white supremacism underlies the mindset of the white elite in Australia. Their positioning is more nuanced than previous generations of stand-up. Nazeem Hussain’s routines mark a transformation in Australian stand-up, as Waleed Aly has argued: “ethnic comedy” has hitherto been about the parading of stereotypes for comfortable, mainstream consumption, about “minstrel characters” [. . .] but Hussain interrogates his audiences in every direction—and aggravates Muslims too. Hussain’s is the world of post 9/11 Australian Muslims. It’s about more than ethnic stereotyping. It’s about being a consistent target of political opportunism, where everyone from the Prime Minister to the Foreign Minister to an otherwise washed-up backbencher with a view on burqas has you in their sights, where bombs detonate in Western capitals and unrelated nations are invaded.Understandably, a prevalent theme among the new wave of Muslim comics, and not just in Australia, is the focus on the reading of Muslims as manifestly linked with Islamic State (IS). Jokes about mistaken identity, plane crashes, suicide bombing, and the Koran feature prominently. English-Pakistani Muslim, Shazia Mirza, gained comedy notoriety in the UK in the wake of 9/11 by introducing her routine with the words: “My name’s Shazia Mirza. At least that’s what it says on my pilot’s licence” (Bedell). Stand-ups Negin Farsad, Ahmed Ahmed, and Dean Obeidalla are all also activists challenging prevailing myths about Islam, skin colour and terrorism in America. Egyptian-American Ahmed Ahmed acquired prominence for telling audiences in the infamous Axis of Evil Comedy Tour about how his life had changed much for the worse since 9/11. Ahmed Ahmed was the alias used by one of Osama Bin Laden’s devotees and his life became on ongoing struggle with anti-terrorism officials doing security checks (he was once incarcerated) and with the FBI who were certain that the comedian was among their most wanted terrorists. Similarly, Obeidalla, an Italian-Palestinian-Muslim, notes in his TEDx talk that “If you have a Muslim name, you are probably immune to identity theft.” His narration of a very sudden experience of becoming an object of persecution and of others’ paranoia is symptomatic of a shared understanding of a post 9/11 world among many Muslim comics: “On September 10th 2001 I went to bed as a white American and I woke up an Arab,” says Obeidalla, still dazed from the seismic shift in his life.Hussain and Khalafalla demonstrate a new sophistication and directness in their stand-up, and tackle their majority white audiences head-on. There is no hint of the apologetic or deferential stance performed by Anh Do. Many of the jokes in their routines target controversial or taboo issues, which up until recently were shunned in Australian political debate, or are absent or misrepresented in mainstream media. An Egyptian-Australian born in Saudi Arabia, Khaled Khalafalla arrived on the comedy scene in 2011, was runner-up in RAW, Australia’s most prestigious open mic competition, and in 2013 won the best of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival for Devious. Khalafalla’s shows focus on racist stereotypes and identity and he uses a range of Middle Eastern and Indian accents to broach IS recruitment, Muslim cousin marriages, and plane crashes. His 2016 MICF show, Jerk, was a confident and abrasive routine exploring relationships, drug use, the extreme racism of Reclaim Australia rallies, controversial visa checks by Border Force’s Operation Fortitude, and Islamophobia. Within the first minute of his routine, he criticises white people in the audience for their woeful refusal to master Middle Eastern names, calling out to the “brown woman” in the audience for support, before lining up a series of jokes about the (mis)pronunciation of his name. Khalafalla derives his power on stage by what Oliver Double calls “uncovering.” Double contends that “one of the most subversive things stand-up can do is to uncover the unmentionable,” subjects which are difficult or impossible to discuss in everyday conversation or the broadcast media (292). For instance, in Jerk Khalafalla discusses the “whole hating halal movement” in Australia as a metaphor for exposing brutal prejudice: Let me break it down for you. Halal is not voodoo. It’s just a blessing that Muslims do for some things, food amongst other things. But, it’s also a magical spell that turns some people into fuckwits when they see it. Sometimes people think it’s a thing that can get stuck to your t-shirt . . . like ‘Oh fuck, I got halal on me’ [Australian accent]. I saw a guy the other day and he was like Fuck halal, it funds terrorism. And I was like, let me show you the true meaning of Islam. I took a lamb chop out of my pocket and threw it in his face. And, he was like Ah, what was that? A lamb chop. Oh, I fucking love lamb chops. And, I say you fool, it’s halal and he burst into flames.In effect, Khalafalla delivers a contemptuous attack on the white members of his audience, but at the same time his joke relies on those same audience members presuming that they are morally and intellectually superior to the individual who is the butt of the joke. Khalafalla’s considerable charm is a help in this tricky send-up. In 2015 the Australian Department of Defence recognised his symbolic power and invited him to join the Afghanistan Task Force to entertain the troops by providing what Doran describes as “home-grown Australian laughs” (7). On stage in Australia, Khalafalla constructs a persona which is an outsider to the dominant majority and challenges the persecution of Muslim communities. Ironically, on the NATO base, Khalafalla’s act was perceived as representing a diverse but united Australia. McCallum has pointed to such contradictions, moments where white Australia has shown itself to be a “culture which at first authenticates emigrant experience and later abrogates it in times of defiant nationalism” (207). Nazeem Hussain, born in Australia to Sri Lankan parents, is even more confrontational. His stand-up is born of his belief that “comedy protects us from the world around us” and is “an evolutionary defence mechanism” (8–9). His ground-breaking comedy career is embedded in his work as an anti-racism activist and asylum seeker supporter and shaped by his second-generation migrant experiences, law studies, community youth work, and early mentorship by American Muslim comic trio Allah Made Me Funny. He is well-known for his pioneering television successes Legally Brown and Salam Café. In his stand-up, Hussain often dwells witheringly on the failings and peculiarities of white people’s attempts to interact with him. Like all his routines, his sell-out show Fear of the Brown Planet, performed with Aamer Rahman from 2004–2008, explored casual, pathologised racism. Hussain deliberately over-uses the term “white people” in his routines as a provocation and deploys a reverse racism against his majority white audiences, knowing that many will be squirming. “White people ask me how can Muslims have fun if they don’t drink? Muslims have fun! Of course we have fun! You’ve seen us on the news.” For Hussain stand-up is “fundamentally an art of protest,” to be used as “a tool by communities and people with ideas that challenge and provoke the status quo with a spirit of counterculture” (Low 1–3). His larger project is to humanise Muslims to white Australians so that “they see us firstly as human beings” (1–3). Hussain’s 2016 MICF show, Hussain in the Membrane, both satirised media hype and hysterical racism and pushed for a better understanding of the complex problems Muslim communities face in Australia. His show also connected issues to older colonial traditions of racism. In a memorable and beautifully crafted tirade, Hussain inveighed against the 2015 Bendigo riots which occurred after local Muslims lodged an application to Bendigo council to build a mosque in the sleepy Victorian town. [YELLING in an exaggerated Australian accent] No we don’t want Muslims! NO we don’t want Muslims—to come invade Bendigo by application to the local council! That is the most bureaucratic invasion of all times. No place in history has been invaded by lodging an application to a local council. Can you see ISIS running around chasing town planners? Of course not, Muslims like to wait 6–8 months to invade! That’s a polite way to invade. What if white people invaded that way? What a better world we’d be living in. If white people invaded Australia that way, we’d be able to celebrate Australia Day on the same day without so much blood on our hands. What if Captain Cook came to Australia and said [in a British accent] Awe we would like to apply to invade this great land and here is our application. [In an Australian accent] Awe sorry, mate, rejected, but we’ll give you Bendigo.As Waleed Aly sees it, the Australian cultural majority is still “unused to hearing minorities speak with such assertiveness.” Hussain exposes “a binary world where there’s whiteness, and then otherness. Where white people are individuals and non-white people (a singular group) are not” (Aly). Hussain certainly speaks as an insider and goes so far as recognising his coloniser’s guilt in relation to indigenous Australians (Tan). Aly well remembers the hate mail he and Hussain received when they worked on Salam Café: “The message was clear. We were outsiders and should behave as such. We were not real Australians. We should know our place, as supplicants, celebrating the nation’s unblemished virtue.” Khalafalla, Rahman, Elleissi, and Hussain make clear that the new wave of comics identify as Muslim and Australian (which they would argue many in the audiences receive as a provocation). They have zero tolerance of racism, their comedy is intimately connected with their political activism, and they have an unapologetically Australian identity. No longer is it a question of whether the white cultural majority in Australia will anoint them as worthy and acceptable citizens, it is a question of whether the audiences can rise to the moral standards of the stand-ups. The power has been switched. For Hussain laughter is about connection: “that person laughs because they appreciate the point and whether or not they accept what was said was valid isn’t important. What matters is, they’ve understood” (Low 5). ReferencesAhmed, Ahmed. “When It Comes to Laughter, We Are All Alike.” TedXDoha (2010). 16 June 2016 <http://tedxtalks.ted.com/video/TEDxDoha-Ahmed-Ahmed-When-it-Co>.Aly, Waleed. “Comment.” Sydney Morning Herald 24 Sep. 2013."Anh Do". Talking Heads with Peter Thompson. ABC1. 4 Oct. 2010. Radio.Bedell, Geraldine. “Veiled Humour.” The Guardian (2003). 8 Aug. 2016 <https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2003/apr/20/comedy.artsfeatures?CMP=Share_iOSApp_Other>.Berger, Rachel. LinkedIn [Profile page]. 14 June 2016 <http://www.linkedin.com/company/rachel-berger>.Do, Anh. The Happiest Refugee. Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 2010. Doran, Mark. "Service with a Smile: Entertainers Give Troops a Taste of Home.” Air Force 57.21 (2015). 12 June 2016 <http://www.defence.gov.au/Publications/NewsPapers/Raaf/editions/5721/5721.pdf>.Double, Oliver. Getting the Joke: The Inner Workings of Stand-Up Comedy. 2nd ed. London: Bloomsbury, 2014.Filmer, Natalie. 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"Laughing through Adversity.” The Australian 28 Aug. 2010.Obeidalla, Dean. "Using Stand-Up to Counter Islamophobia.” TedXEast (2012). 16 June 2016 <http://tedxtalks.ted.com/video/TEDxEast-Dean-Obeidalla-Using-S;TEDxEast>.Palmer, Jerry. Taking Humour Seriously. London: Routledge, 1994. Szubanski, Magda. Reckoning. Melbourne: Text Publishing, 2015. Tan, Monica. "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! Allahu Akbar! Nazeem Hussain's Bogan-Muslim Army.” The Guardian 29 Feb. 2016. "Uncle Sam.” Salam Café (2008). 11 June 2016 <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SeQPAJt6caU>.Wajahat, Ali, et al. "Fear Inc.: The Roots of the Islamophobia Network in America.” Center for American Progress (2011). 11 June 2016 <https://www.americanprogress.org/issues/religion/report/2011/08/26/10165/fear-inc>.