Academic literature on the topic 'Dick, Walter, 1937-'

Syed Muhd Khairudin Aljunied, Rethinking Raffles; A study of Stamford Raffles’ discourse on religions amongst Malays. (Nathan Porath) Walter Angst, Wayang Indonesia; Die phantastische Welt des indonesischen Figurentheaters/The fantastic world of Indonesian puppet theatre. (Dick van der Meij) Adrienne Kappler and others, James Cook and the exploration of the Pacific. (H.J.M. Claesen) Aurel Croissant, Beate Martin and Sascha Kneip (eds), The politics of death; Political violence in Southeast Asia. (Freek Colombijn) Frank Dhont, Kevin W. Fogg and Mason C. Hoadley (eds), Towards an inclusive democratic Indonesian society; Bridging the gap between state uniformity and multicultural identity patterns. (Alexander Claver) Bronwen Douglas and Chris Ballard (eds), Foreign bodies; Oceania and the science of race, 1750-1940. (H.J.M. Claesen) Ricky Ganang, Jay Crain, and Vicki Pearson-Rounds, Kemaloh Lundayeh-English dictionary and bibliographic list of materials relating to the Lundayeh-Lun Bawang-Kelabit and related groups of Sarawak, Sabah, Brunei and East Kalimantan. (Michael Boutin) Jeffrey Hadler, Muslims and matriarchs; Cultural resilience in Indonesia through Jihad and Colonialism. (Franz von Benda-Beckmann) Uli Kozok, Kitab undang-undang Tanjung Tanah: Naskah Melayu yang tertua. (Arlo Griffiths) Alfonds van der Kraan, Murder and mayhem in seventeenth-century Cambodia; Anthony van Diemen vs. King Ramadhipati I. (Jeroen Rikkerink) Jean Michaud, ‘Incidental’ ethnographers; French Catholic missions on the Tonkin-Yunnan frontier, 1880-1930. (Nicholas Tapp) M.C. Ricklefs, Polarising Javanese society; Islamic and other visions (c. 1830-1930). (Matthew Isaac Cohen) Stuart Robson, Arjunawiwāha; The marriage of Arjuna of Mpu Kaṇwa. (Andrea Acri) László Székely and István Radnai, Dit altijd alleen zijn; Verhalen over het leven van planters en koelies in Deli (1914-1930). (Adrienne Zuiderweg) Patricia Tjiook-Liem (Giok Kiauw Nio Liem), De rechtspositie der Chinezen in Nederlands-Indië 1848-1942; Wetgevingsbeleid tussen beginsel en belang. (Mary Somers Heidhues) Zhou Daguan, A record of Cambodia: the land and its people. (Un Leang) REVIEW ESSAY Longitudinal studies in Javanese performing arts Benjamin Brinner, Music in Central Java; Experiencing music, expressing culture. Barbara Hatley, Javanese performances on an Indonesian stage; Contesting culture, embracing change. Felicia Hughes-Freeland, Embodied communities; Dance traditions and change in Java. (Matthew Isaac Cohen) REVIEW ESSAY Development and reform in Vietnam Stéphanie Balme and Mark Stephanie (eds), Vietnam’s new order; International perspectives on the state and reform in Vietnam. Sujian Guo, The political economy of Asian transition from communism. Ian Jeffries, Vietnam: a guide to economic and political developments. Pietro Masina, Vietnam’s development strategies. (Tran Quang Anh) KORTE SIGNALERINGEN Ulbe Bosma, Indiëgangers; Verhalen van Nederlanders die naar Indië trokken. Clara Brinkgreve, Met Indië verbonden; Een verhaal van vier generaties 1849-1949. Jack Botermans en Heleen Tichler, Het vergeten Indië; Stille getuigen van het dagelijks leven in het Indië van toen. Robin te Slaa en Edwin Klijn, De NSB; Ontstaan en opkomst van de Nationaal-Socialistische Beweging, 1931-1935. Mark Loderichs, Margaret Leidelmeijer, Johan van Langen en Jan Kompagnie, Verhalen in Documenten; Over het afscheid van Indië, 1940-1950. Frederik Erens en Adrienne Zuiderweg, Linggadjati, brug naar de toekomst; Soetan Sjahrir als een van de grondleggers van het vrije Indonesië. Peter Schumacher, met medewerking van Gerard de Boer, De zaak Aernout; Hardnekkige mythes rond een Indische moord ontrafeld. Cas Oorthuys, Een staat in wording; Fotoreportage van Cas Oorthuys over het Indonesië van 1947. René Kok, Erik Somers en Louis Zweers, Koloniale oorlog 1945-1949; Van Indië tot Indonesië. H.F. Veenendaal en J.P.W. Kelder, ZKH; Hoog spel aan het hof van Zijne Koninklijke Hoogheid; De geheime dagboeken van mr.dr.L.G. van Maasdijk. Ons Indië; 400 jaar Nederlandse sporen in Insulinde, de strijd om de onafhankelijkheid & 60 jaar Indonesië. (Harry A. Poeze)

O presente artigo se debruça sobre o conto “Casa Assombrada”, coletado no único volume de contos que Virginia Woolf publicou em vida, Monday or Tuesday (1921), para investigar de que maneira seus contos intensificam a crise dos gêneros literários que seus romances encenam, por um lado; e para entender como tal crise é análoga à questão política que assombra toda sua obra, por outro lado: o gênero enquanto questão identitária. Em diálogo com a filosofia e com a crítica woolfiana, este estudo articula essa “crise dos gêneros” (gender x genre) e, ao mesmo tempo, produz uma contextualização histórico-cultural dos contos de Virginia Woolf. Palavras-chave: Virginia Woolf. Conto. Gênero literário. Questões de gênero. Referências AGAMBEN, Giorgio. Elogio da profanação. In: AGAMBEN, Giorgio. Profanações. Tradução Selvino Assman. São Paulo: Boitempo, 2007. p. 65-81 BENJAMIN, Walter. Sobre a linguagem em geral e sobre a linguagem humana. In: Linguagem, tradução, literatura. Tradução João Barrento. Belo Horizonte: Autêntica, 2018 [1916]. p. 9-27. BENZEL, Kathryn N.; HOBERMAN, Ruth. Trespassing boundaries: Virginia Woolf’s Short Fiction. New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2004. BRAIDOTTI, Rosi. Nomadic theory: The portable Rosi Braidotti. New York: Columbia University, 2011. BRIGGS, Julia. Virginia Woolf, an Inner Life. Londres: Harcourt Brace, 2005. CIXOUS, Hélène. First names of no one. In: SELLERS, Susan (org.). The Hélène Cixous Reader. Londres: Routledge, 1994 [1974]. p. 25-35. DELEUZE, Gilles; GUATTARI, Félix. 28 de novembro de 1947 – Como criar para si um corpo sem órgãos?. Tradução Aurélio Guerra Neto. In: DELEUZE, Gilles; GUATTARI, Félix. Mil Platôs. São Paulo: 34, 1996 [1980]. v. 3. p. 11-34. FOUCAULT, Michel. Docile bodies. In: FOUCAULT, Michel; RABINOW, Paul (ed.). The Foucault reader. Toronto: Penguin, 1984a. p. 179-187. FOUCAULT, Michel. The body of the condemned. In: FOUCAULT, Michel; RABINOW, Paul (ed.). The Foucault reader. Toronto: Penguin, 1984b. p. 170-178. GOLDMAN, Jane. Modernism, 1910-1945, Image to apocalypse. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004. GOLDMAN, Jane. The Cambridge introduction to Virginia Woolf. Cambridge: Cambridge University, 2006. HARRIS, Wendell. Vision and form: the English novel and the emergence of the story. In: MAY, Charles (ed.). The new short story theories. Athens, Ohio: Ohio University, 1994. p. 181-191. KRISTEVA, Julia. Stabat mater. Tradução A. Goldhammer. In: MOI, Toril (ed.). The Kristeva reader. Oxford: Blackwell, 1986 [1977]. p. 160-187. MATTHEWS, Brander. The philosophy of the short-story. Londres: Forgotten, 2015. [1901]. PEREIRA, Lucia Miguel. Dualidade de Virginia Woolf. In: ______. Escritos da maturidade. Rio de Janeiro: Graphia, 2005. [1944] p. 106-110. SELLERS, Susan (ed.). The Cambridge Companion to Virginia Woolf. 2. ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University, 2010. WOOLF, Leonard. Beginning again: an autobiography of the years 1911 to 1918. New York: Harvest, 1975. [1964] WOOLF, Leonard. Editorial Preface. In: WOOLF, Virginia; WOOLF, Leonard (eds.). Granite and rainbow. Londres: Harcourt, 1958. p. 7-8. WOOLF, Leonard. Foreword. In: WOOLF, Virginia; WOOLF, Leonard (eds.). A haunted house and other stories. Londres: Harcourt, 1944. p. v-vi. WOOLF, Virginia. A haunted house. In: WOOLF, Virginia; WOOLF, Leonard (eds.). A haunted house and other stories. Londres: Harcourt, 1944 [1921]. p. 3-5. WOOLF, Virginia. A room of one’s own & Three guineas. Londres: Oxford University, 1992 [1929] [1938]. WOOLF, Virginia. A sketch of the past. In: WOOLF, Virginia; SCHULKIND, Jeanne (eds.). Moments of being. London: Harcourt Brace, 1985 [1976]. p. 64-159. WOOLF, Virginia. Casa assombrada. In: WOOLF, Virginia. Contos completos. Tradução Leonardo Fróes. São Paulo: Cosac Naify, 2005 [1921]. p. 162-165. WOOLF, Virginia. Granite and rainbow, ed. Leonard Woolf. Londres: Harcourt, 1958. WOOLF, Virginia. Jacob’s room. Oxford: Oxford University, 2008 [1922]. WOOLF, Virginia. Kew gardens. In: WOOLF, Virginia; WOOLF, Leonard (eds.). A haunted house and other stories. Londres: Harcourt, 1944 [1919]. p. 28-36. WOOLF, Virginia. Men and women. In: WOOLF, Virginia; BARRETT, Michele (eds.). Women and writing. Londres: Harcourt, 1979 [1920]. p. 64-68. WOOLF, Virginia. Modern fiction. In: WOOLF, Virginia. The common reader: first series. Londres: Vintage, 2003 [1925]. p. 146-154. WOOLF, Virginia. Monday or Tuesday. Londres: The Hogarth, 1921. WOOLF, Virginia. Night and day. ed. Michael Whitworth. Cambridge: Cambridge University, 2018. WOOLF, Virginia. Professions for women. In: WOOLF, Virginia; WOOLF, Leonard (eds.). The death of the moth and other essays. Londres: Harcourt, 1942 [1931]. WOOLF, Virginia. The complete shorter fiction of Virginia Woolf. ed. Susan Dick. Orlando: Harcourt, 2006 [1985]. WOOLF, Virginia. The diary of Virginia Woolf, ed. Anne Olivier Bell, 5 vols. New York: Penguin, 1979-1985 [1977-1984]. WOOLF, Virginia. The letters of Virginia Woolf, ed. Nigel Nicolson, 6 vols. Londres: The Hogarth, 1975-1980. WOOLF, Virginia. The mark on the wall. In: WOOLF, Virginia; WOOLF, Leonard (eds.). A haunted house and other stories. Londres: Harcourt, 1944 [1921]. p. 37-47. WOOLF, Virginia. Thoughts on peace in an air raid. In: ______. The death of the moth and other essays, ed. Leonard Woolf. Londres: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1942. [1940] WOOLF, Virginia. The voyage out. Oxford: Oxford University, 2009 [1915]. WOOLF, Virginia. The waves. Oxford: Oxford University, 1992 [1931].

RESUMENLa historia del cristianismo no se entiende sin el complejo fenómeno mariano. El culto mariano ha afianzado la construcción de identidades colectivas, pero también individuales. La figura de la Virgen María estableció un modelo de conducta desde cada contexto histórico-cultural, remarcando especialmente los ideales de maternidad y virginidad. Dentro del imaginario católico, la Europa contemporánea ha estado marcada por la formación de una cultura aparicionista que se ha generadoa partir de diversas apariciones marianas que han establecido un canon y un marco de interpretación que ha alimentado las guerras culturales entre secularismo y catolicismo.PALABRAS CLAVE: catolicismo, Virgen María, cultura aparicionista, Lourdes, guerras culturales.ABSTRACTThe history of Christianity cannot be understood without the complex Marian phenomenon. Marian devotion has reinforced the construction of collective, but also of individual identities. The figure of the Virgin Mary established a model of conduct through each historical-cultural context, emphasizing in particular the ideals of maternity and virginity. Within the Catholic imaginary, contemporary Europe has been marked by the formation of an apparitionist culture generated by various Marian apparitions that have established a canon and a framework of interpretation that has fuelled the cultural wars between secularism and Catholicism.KEY WORDS: Catholicism, Virgin Mary, apparicionist culture, Lourdes, culture wars. BIBLIOGRAFÍAAlbert Llorca, M., “Les apparitions et leur histoire”, Archives de Sciences Sociales des religions, 116 (2001), pp. 53-66.Albert, J.-P. y Rozenberg G., “Des expériences du surnaturel”, Archives de Sciences Sociales des Religions, 145 (2009), pp. 9-14.Amanat A. y Bernhardsson, M. T. (eds.), Imagining the End. Visions of Apocalypsis from the Ancient Middle East to Modern America, London and New York, I. B. Tauris, 2002.Angelier, F. y Langlois, C. 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A., El nacimiento del mundo moderno. 1780-1914, Madrid, Siglo XXI, 2010.Béjar, S., Los milagros de Jesús, Barcelona, Herder, 2018.Belli, M., An Incurable Past. Nasser’s Egypt. Then and Now, Gainesville, University Press of Florida, 2013.Blackbourn, D., “Apparitions of the Virgin Mary in Bismarckian Germany”, en Eley, G. (ed.), Society, Culture, and the State in Germany, 1870-1930, Ann Arbor, The University Michigan Press, 1997.Blackbourn, D., Marpingen: Apparitions of the Virgin Mary in Nineteenth-Century Germany, New York, Alfred A. Knopf, 1994.Bouflet, J., Une histoire des miracles. Du Moyen Âge à nos jours, Paris, Seuil, 2008.Boyd, C. P., “Covadonga y el regionalismo asturiano”, Ayer, 64 (2006), pp. 149-178.Brading, D. A., La Nueva España. Patria y religión, México D. F., Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2015.Brading, D. A., Mexican Phoenix, our Lady of Guadalupe: image and tradition across five centuries, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2001.Bugslag, J., “Material and Theological Identities: A Historical Discourse of Constructions of the Virgin Mary”, Théologiques, 17/2 (2009), pp. 19-67.Cadoret-Abeles, A., “Les apparitions du Palmar de Troya: analyse anthropologique dun phenómène religieux”, Mélanges de la Casa de Velázquez, 17 (1981), pp. 369-391.Carrión, G., El lado oscuro de María, Alicante, Agua Clara, 1992.Chenaux, P., L´ultima eresia. La chiesa cattolica e il comunismo in Europa da Lenin a Giovanni Paolo II, Roma, Carocci Editore, 2011.Christian, W. A., “De los santos a María: panorama de las devociones a santuarios españoles desde el principio de la Edad Media a nuestros días”, en Lisón Tolosana, C. (ed.), Temas de antropología española, Madrid, Akal, 1976, pp. 49-105.Christian, W. A., “Religious apparitions and the Cold War in Southern Europe”, Zainak, 18 (1999), pp. 65-86.Christian, W. A., Apariciones Castilla y Cataluña (siglo XIV-XVI), Madrid, Nerea, 1990.Christian, W. A., Religiosidad local en la España de Felipe II, Madrid, Nerea, 1991.Christian, W. A., Religiosidad popular: estudio antropológico en un valle, Madrid, Tecnos, 1978.Christian, W. A., Visionaries: The Spanish Republic and the Reign of Christ, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1997.Clark, C., “The New Catholicism and the European Culture Wars”, en C. Clark y Kaiser, W. (eds.), Culture Wars. Secular-Catholic conflict in Nineteenth-Century Europe, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2003, pp. 11-46.Claverie, É., Les guerres de la Vierge. Une anthropologie des apparitions, Paris, Gallimard, 2003.Colina, J. M. de la, La Inmaculada y la Serpiente a través de la Historia, Bilbao, El Mensajero del Corazón de Jesús, 1930.Collins, R., Los guardianes de las llaves del cielo, Barcelona, Ariel, 2009, p. 521.Corbin, A. (dir.), Historia del cuerpo. Vol. II. De la Revolución francesa a la Gran Guerra, Madrid, Taurus, 2005.Coreth, E. (ed.), Filosofía cristiana en el pensamiento católico de los siglos XIX y XX. Tomo I: Nuevos enfoques en el siglo XIX, Madrid, Encuentro, 1994.Coreth, E. (ed.), Filosofía cristiana en el pensamiento católico de los siglos XIX y XX. Tomo II: Vuelta a la herencia escolástica, Madrid, Encuentro, 1994.Cunha, P. y Ribas, D., “Our Lady of Fátima and Marian Myth in Portuguese Cinema”, en Hansen, R. (ed.), Roman Catholicism in Fantastic Film: Essays on. Belief, Spectacle, Ritual and Imagery, Jefferson, McFarland, 2011.D’Hollander, P. y Langlois, C. (eds.), Foules catholiques et régulation romaine. Les couronnements de vierges de pèlerinage à l’époque contemporaine (XIXe et XXe siècles), Limoges, Presses universitaires de Limoges, 2011.D´Orsi, A., 1917, o ano que mudou o mundo, Lisboa, Bertrand Editora, 2017.De Fiores, S., Maria. Nuovissimo dizionario, Bologna, EDB, 2 vols., 2006.Delumeau, J., Rassurer et protéger. Le sentiment de sécurité dans l’Occident d’autrefois, Paris, Fayard, 1989.Dozal Varela, J. C., “Nueva Jerusalén: a 38 años de una aparición mariana apocalíptica”, Nuevo Mundo, Mundos Nuevos, 2012, s.p.Driessen, H., “Local Religion Revisited: Mediterranean Cases”, History and Anthropology, 20/3 (2009), pp. 281-288.Driessen, H., “Local Religion Revisited: Mediterranean Cases”, History and Anthropology, 20/3 (2009), p. 281-288.González Sánchez, C. A., Homo viator, homo scribens. Cultura gráfica, información y gobierno en la expansión atlántica (siglos XV-XVII), Madrid, Marcial Pons, 2007.Grignion de Montfort, L. M., Escritos marianos selectos, Madrid, San Pablo, 2014.Harris, R., Lourdes. Body and Spirit in the Secular Age, London, Penguin Press, 1999.Harvey, J., Photography and Spirit, London, Reaktion Books, 2007.Hood, B., Supersense: Why We Believe in the Unbelievable, New York, HarperOne, 2009.Horaist, B., La dévotion au Pape et les catholiques français sous le Pontificat de Pie IX (1846-1878), Palais Farnèse, École Française de Rome, 1995.Kselman, T., Miracles and Prophecies in Nineteenth Century France, New Brunswick, Rutgers University Press, 1983.Lachapelle, S., Investigating the Supernatural: From Spiritism and Occultism to Psychical Research and Metapsychics in France, 1853-1931, Baltimore, The John Hopkins University Press, 2011.Langlois, C., “Mariophanies et mariologies au XIXe siècles. Méthode et histoire”, en Comby, J. (dir.), Théologie, histoire et piété mariale, Lyon, Profac, 1997, pp. 19-36.Laurentin, R. y Sbalchiero, P. 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Una aproximación interdisciplinar a las religiones antiguas y contemporáneas, Barcelona, Editorial Universitat Oberta Catalunya, 2003.Martina, G., Pio IX (1846-1850), Roma, Università Gregoriana, 1974.Martina, G., Pio IX (1851-1866), Roma, Università Gregoriana,1986.Martina, G., Pio IX (1867-1878), Roma, Università Gregoriana, 1990.Maunder, C., “The Footprints of Religious Enthusiasm: Great Memorials and Faint Vestiges of Belgium´s Marian Apparition Mania of the 1930s”, Journal of Religion and Society, 15 (2013), s.p.Maunder, C., Our Lady of the Nations: Apparitions of Mary in Twentieth-century Catholic, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2016.Mínguez, R., “Las múltiples caras de la Inmaculada: religión, género y nación en su proclamación dogmática (1854)”, Ayer, 96 (2014), pp. 39-60.Moreno Luzón, J., “Entre el progreso y la virgen del Pilar. La pugna por la memoria en el centenario de la Guerra de la Independencia”, Historia y política, 12 (2004), pp. 41-78.Moro, R., “Religion and Politics in the Time of Secularisation: The Sacralisation of Politics and the Politicisation of Religion”, Totalitarian Movements and Political Religions, 6/1 (2005), pp. 71-86.Multon, H., “Catholicisme intransigeant et culture prophétique: l’apport des Archives du Saint Office et de l’Index”, Revue historique, 621 (2002), pp. 109-137.Osterhammel, J., The Transformation of the World: A Global History of the Nineteenth Century, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 2014.Oviedo Torró, L., “Natural y sobrenatural: un repaso a los debates recientes”, en Alonso Bedate, A. (ed.), Lo natural, lo artificial y la cultura, Madrid, Universidad Pontificia Comillas, pp. 151-166.Pelikan, J., María a través de los siglos. 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Climate change induced sea-level rise (SLR) is on its increase globally. Regionally the lowlands of China, Vietnam, Bangladesh, and islands of the Malaysian, Indonesian and Philippine archipelagos are among the world’s most threatened regions. Sea-level rise has major impacts on the ecosystems and society. It threatens coastal populations, economic activities, and fragile ecosystems as mangroves, coastal salt-marches and wetlands. This paper provides a summary of the current state of knowledge of sea level-rise and its effects on both human and natural ecosystems. The focus is on coastal urban areas and low lying deltas in South-East Asia and Vietnam, as one of the most threatened areas in the world. About 3 mm per year reflects the growing consensus on the average SLR worldwide. The trend speeds up during recent decades. The figures are subject to local, temporal and methodological variation. In Vietnam the average values of 3.3 mm per year during the 1993-2014 period are above the worldwide average. Although a basic conceptual understanding exists that the increasing global frequency of the strongest tropical cyclones is related with the increasing temperature and SLR, this relationship is insufficiently understood. Moreover the precise, complex environmental, economic, social, and health impacts are currently unclear. SLR, storms and changing precipitation patterns increase flood risks, in particular in urban areas. Part of the current scientific debate is on how urban agglomeration can be made more resilient to flood risks. Where originally mainly technical interventions dominated this discussion, it becomes increasingly clear that proactive special planning, flood defense, flood risk mitigation, flood preparation, and flood recovery are important, but costly instruments. Next to the main focus on SLR and its effects on resilience, the paper reviews main SLR associated impacts: Floods and inundation, salinization, shoreline change, and effects on mangroves and wetlands. The hazards of SLR related floods increase fastest in urban areas. This is related with both the increasing surface major cities are expected to occupy during the decades to come and the increasing coastal population. In particular Asia and its megacities in the southern part of the continent are increasingly at risk. The discussion points to complexity, inter-disciplinarity, and the related uncertainty, as core characteristics. An integrated combination of mitigation, adaptation and resilience measures is currently considered as the most indicated way to resist SLR today and in the near future.References Aerts J.C.J.H., Hassan A., Savenije H.H.G., Khan M.F., 2000. Using GIS tools and rapid assessment techniques for determining salt intrusion: Stream a river basin management instrument. 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The power of culturally-bound controlling images around notions of 'colour' in regard to ethnicity have historically been marked and far-reaching. Most obvious examples of such political power relations can be seen in regard to racism and social domination. Biologically-based assertions that one specific category of people are somehow inherently inferior or superior to another were central and indeed continue to be paramount in (neo) Nazi-style rhetoric. Such political beliefs, most notable of course within the first half of the Twentieth Century, often went hand-in-hand with a right-wing ecologism that eschewed the alienation of urban life for an idealised rural existence (Heywood 283). This paper focusses upon how such assumptions and controlling images have resonated in recent times within the Nordic Black Metal music scene - an encompassing term used to describe a sub-genre of music that exists within a wider Heavy Metal and in particular Extreme Metal scene. Black Metal did not gain a stranglehold on Extreme Metal subculture until the 1990s. It also took socio-politics in Metal a stage further and to an extreme never seen before. Being most prolific in Scandinavia, and in particular Norway, Black Metal tended to focus upon Viking mythology and Odinism as a source of subject matter. Here, Nordic Black Metal based its identity on the virtues associated with its geographical location. As Dyer (21) points out, Northern Europe, with its notions of remoteness and coldness, combined with ideas of the cleanliness of the air, the soul- elevating beauty of mountain vistas, and the pureness of the white snow, could be seen to have formed the distinctiveness of a white identity and its related notions of energy, discipline and spiritual elevation. Such notions have their roots in the National Socialist programme of propaganda films of the 1930s and 1940s. Such films included Ich fur Dich - Du fur Mich (Me for You - You for Me, 1934), (Welch 48), which reinforced Nazi ideals of 'racial purity' and was centred on two interrelated themes; that of Blut und Boden ('blood and soil'), and Volk und Heimat ('a people and a homeland'). Here the strength of the 'master race' was linked to the sacredness of the German soil, usually in the form of some idyllic pastoral setting. Nazi 'revolution' was based upon presumed Germanic traditions and the recapture of a mythical past. Thus urban and industrial life was eschewed in favour of a more Germanic utopian community vision. This led the Nazis to draw an inexorable link between the pureness of the German land and the pureness of the Aryan race. The idea of the German utopian community raised notions of fitness and survival. For example, Walther Darre, the then Minister for Agriculture, drew Darwinistic parallels between animals and humans when he stated that, “We shall gather together the best blood. Just as we are now breeding our Hanover horse from the few remaining pure-blooded male and female stock, so we shall see the same type of breeding over the next generation of the pure type of Nordic German” (Welch 67). Such Nazi ideas of purity and survival of the fittest have been echoed in the Black Metal scene of recent years. This has clearly been illustrated, for example, in the sentiments of musicians such as 'Hellhammer', drummer with Norwegian band Mayhem who, when asked if he had fascist views, revealed that “I'm pretty convinced that there are differences between races as well as anything else. I think that like animals, some races are more... you know, like a cat is much more intelligent than a bird or a cow, or even a dog, and I think that's also the case with different races” (Moynihan and Soderlind 306). The comparison of certain people to animals acts to create controlling images that, in this instance, makes racism appear to be natural and inevitable (Collins 68). As Davis (25) points out, a key belief in racist ideology is the biologically and genetically-based assumption that ethnic minorities share similar patterns of behaviour because it is 'in their blood'. Indeed, it is no accident that some Black Metal musicians have made comparisons between ethnicity and animals. Such comparisons act to not only further this idea of superior 'blood stock' but also serve to dehumanise those who are seen to be inferior. Black Metal musicians saw themselves as being superior both musically as well as 'racially'. Just as Minister for Agriculture Walther Darre suggested that the pure blooded Nordic German was, although few in numbers, a superior racial minority within the human race in general, certain Black Metal musicians have shared a similar view that they are a racially and therefore musically superior group within the wider Extreme and Heavy Metal scene. Such assumptions have manifested themselves in a number of ways. Musicians such as Varg Vikernes, of Norwegian band Burzum, have made direct links between the development of Metal and assumed qualities of 'whiteness' when he argued that “The guitar is a European invention ... However, the music played on the guitar is mostly nigger (sic) music”, (NME n.pag). In such an example there is the assumption that 'white' Metal and Metal musicians are somehow inherently superior, and that this superiority of talent stems from a racial 'purity' lacking in 'non-white' metal scenes which, consequently, are seen as nothing more than a contamination, both racially and therefore musically. As Nazi actions were in part based upon the recapture of a mythical past, so too in Black Metal is there a notion that “We must take this scene to what it was in the past”, (Moynihan and Soderlind 60). Thus, as in National Socialism of the 1930s and 1940s, modern day Nazism within the Black Metal scene takes inspiration, ideology and hope from a romanticised notion of the past. This can be seen in the slogans that adorn much Black Metal band's merchandise, for example the band Darkthrone and their self-confessed “Norsk Arisk Black Metal” (Norwegian Aryan Black Metal) which appeared on the sleeve of their 1994 album Transylvanian Hunger, and in the more elaborate socio-political views of other Black Metal musicians such as Varg Vikernes who has expressed his Utopian visions in the belief that there should be a “return to the life-style of the Middle-Ages” in which “The masses need to live in harmony with nature”, (Vikernes n.pag). The notion that “Black Metal is for white people” (Moynihan and Doderlind 305) was also reflected in other stylistic components of Black Metal iconography. The practice of wearing “corpsepaint” was quickly adopted by nearly all Black Metal bands in the early years of its development, and is still widely used today. The concept of wearing corpsepaint - theatrical black and white makeup that created a gruesome appearance - can be traced as far back as the emergence of rock bands such as KISS and heavier acts such as King Diamond, who became known for their elaborate stage rock shows. However, whilst the adoption of corpsepaint by Black Metal bands may have been to create similar macabre images as more established rock and Heavy Metal bands had before them, the emphasis on 'whiteness' that corpsepaint gives cannot be overlooked. Such images, the pale white face emphasised even further when contrasted with traditional codes of dress - the black denim and leather clothes, can be seen to be emphasising the idea of white being an 'ideal'. That is, the symbolism that is carried by the colour white, its “moral and also aesthetic superiority”, (Dyer 70), has also manifested itself in certain aspects of Extreme Metal and in particular Black Metal. As highlighted earlier, just as 'whiteness' has been linked with notions of power, superiority and purity, so to have some Black Metal bands suggested that whiteness within Metal is inherently superior. The adoption of corpse paint is just one way notions of 'whiteness' have been underlined in the Extreme Metal scene. Such ideas of whiteness in some cases developed into more pronounced aspects of Nationalism and in particular National Socialism. The development of extreme right-wing beliefs, coupled with other more established controversial subject matters, such as Satanism, led to a notoriety that some Black Metal was, in many ways, proud to live up to. Whilst overtly racist or fascist sentiments are far from the norm within the Black Metal and wider Extreme Metal genre and the intolerance of such beliefs within the Metal industry in general has been clearly illustrated on many occasions, it cannot be said that those who are open and committed to extreme right-wing beliefs have not gained attention and some support through the controversial iconography and discourse they have used. A marked example of such attitudes can be found in the music, beliefs and actions of the Norwegian Black Metal band Burzum. Burzum, a solo project of musician Varg Vikernes, was one of the first Black Metal bands to appear in Norway. Although originally gaining inspiration from popular motifs in fantasy literature, Vikernes became increasingly known within the Black Metal scene for his increasingly radical views in regard to racial ideology and is now an outright self-confessed Neo-Nazi. In recent years Vikernes has courted controversy and reinforced a racist and fascist discourse within the Black Metal scene. In 1997, Vikernes was heavily criticised by many within Extreme Metal over the design of a new Burzum t-shirt. Created by Vikernes himself, the front featured the usual Burzum logo but was also adorned with a German World War II SS Death's Head logo. This, combined with a back print which bore the slogan “Support your local Einsatzkommando”, led to problems licensing and printing the shirt. Whilst Tiziana Stupia, Director of the now defunct Suffolk-based Misanthropy Records to which Burzum was signed, highlighted that the term Einsatzkommando was “still used quite uncontroversially to describe police SWAT teams” (Terrorizer 1997:6, no.41), the unambiguous fascist motifs also present on the shirt betray the true intention of the slogan. However, it would be erroneous to suggest that controlling images of 'colour' within the Nordic Black Metal scene are situated merely within a framework of neo-Nazi rhetoric. Indeed, such radical and consequently isolated ideologies and actions of certain Extreme Metal musicians that were very much apparent in the early 1990s have largely given way to more contemporary and in some ways egalitarian aesthetic, thematic and stylistic formations. The pastoral fixations of Black Metal that were very much analogous with right-wing dogmatic beliefs have been replaced by a distinctly 'urban' mindset that now focuses upon a 'commonality of adversity' and problems of modern existence for all peoples. Aesthetically the use of 'corpsepaint' has largely been dropped by many of the more pioneering acts, and this combined with stylistic movements that have seen the adoption of traditionally 'non-white' musical formations, has resulted in the drum 'n' bass/ ambient trip-hop concentrations of bands such as Arcturus and Ulver, and the general focus of 'urban decay' espoused by those such as Satyricon. Yet, even contemporary Black Metal has not completely severed its links with fascist controversy, and consequently constructs of colour, as even merely the names of acts such as Zyklon clearly illustrate. It is clear then that certain oppressive texts in relation to constructs of 'colour' can be highly problematic for many, both within and outside the Extreme metal scene. Powerful and historical discourses that espouse 'natural' assumptions around notions of ethnicity produce crude yet largely unquestioned presentations. Consequently, through its incorporation of such texts, certain aspects of Black Metal can be seen to perpetuate oppressive ideas of 'difference'. Via certain controlling images, some individuals can be subjected to objectification within Extreme Metal subculture which sees them marginalised and relegated. Consequently, dominant discourses within some areas of Black Metal can have the result of portraying ethnic minorities as merely 'non-white' and thus inexorably link such groups with a notion of 'inferiority'. References Collins, P.H. Black Feminist Thought. London: Routledge, 1991. Davis, F.J. Who is Black?. Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1991. Dyer, W. White. London: Routledge, 1997. Heywood, A. Political Ideologies. London: MacMillan Press LTD, 1998. Moynihan, M. & Soderlind, D. Lords of Chaos: The Bloody Rise of the Satanic Metal Underground. Venice: Feral House, 1998. NME Magazine. No Title. (September 5 1997) http.http://www.burzum.com. Accessed November 28 2000. Terrorizer Extreme Music Magazine (no.41, 1997:6) EQ Publications LTD. Vikernes, Varg. Civilisation. (no date) http.http://www.burzum.com/library/varg/civil... Accessed December 7 2000. Welch, D. The Third Reich: Politics and Propaganda. London: Routledge, 1993. Discography: Darkthrone, Transylvanian Hunger. Peaceville records, Vile 43, 1994. Links http://www.burzum.com. http://www.burzum.com/library/varg/civilisation.html. CIT Citation reference for this article MLA Style Beckwith., Karl. ""Black Metal is for white people"" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.3 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0207/blackmetal.php>. Chicago Style Beckwith., Karl, ""Black Metal is for white people"" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 3 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0207/blackmetal.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Beckwith., Karl. (2002) "Black Metal is for white people". M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(3). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0207/blackmetal.php> ([your date of access]).

Algunos términos portan, por su potencial metafórico, una riqueza hermenéutica que invita a multiplicidad de exploraciones, en especial, de orden filosófico. Es el caso del término ‘frontera’. Desde una perspectiva estética, los sentidos que genera esta idea son particularmente enriquecedores respecto de las cuestiones artísticas. Un primer atisbo sobre cuestiones de frontera en el terreno de las artes puede establecerse al pensar en aquella que separa al arte de otras disciplinas o ámbitos de expresión, como la ciencia, el lenguaje, la política, etc. Pero también es posible pensar las fronteras del arte, “hacia adentro”, es decir aquellas que involucran distinciones (y/o acercamientos) entre artes diferentes: artes plásticas, audiovisuales, literatura, etc. Trataré de presentar algunas consideraciones en el marco de estas dos posibilidades. Partiré, solo a modo de introducción, de un muy breve rodeo sobre el sentido que abre este término cuando lo exploramos: ¿qué nos dice, en su amplia connotación metafórica, la palabra “frontera”? La zona de frontera es una zona de paso, puede interpretarse como zona intermedia, de indefiniciones y de connivencias. En muchas ocasiones es objeto de controversias y hasta de enfrentamientos más serios; de guerras, incluso. La frontera es en buena medida ambigua: es límite, y por ende separación, pero al serlo, también es acercamiento y ligazón; en ocasiones, hasta puede llegar a ser (lo ha sido a menudo) refugio, protección. En la frontera nada es claro; y mucho menos, distinto. La frontera podría considerarse, posiblemente, como uno de los símbolos más elocuentes de lo que denominaríamos el anti cogito: así, nada es evidente en la frontera. El pensador francés que fue estimado como “el filósofo de la ambigüedad”, que intentó a lo largo de toda su obra (y pese a las propias reformulaciones en sus últimos escritos respecto de sus primeros aportes filosóficos), romper con el dualismo originado en la perspectiva cartesiana, podría ser, entonces, un referente para deliberar sobre las fronteras. Mucho más cuando pensamos en las fronteras artísticas, pues ha sido el arte una de las expresiones a las que más se ha referido con su pensamiento y el ámbito en el que encontró mayores fuentes de inspiración para sus propuestas sobre la filosofía. A juzgar por la perspectiva con la que aborda el trabajo del pintor, por ejemplo en uno de sus artículos más visitados, ya desde su título, “La duda de Cézanne”, el ámbito del arte aparece como un ámbito fronterizo: de dudas, de decepciones y de vueltas a empezar; pero, sobre todo, de indeterminaciones, de ambigüedades, de búsquedas, de interrogaciones. Sentido y sinsentido es el título del libro de Maurice Merleau-Ponty (que de él se trata) en el que se incluye el trabajo sobre Cézanne y que reúne una serie de artículos cuya edición original es de 1948. El volumen se estructura en tres partes tituladas, a su vez, “Obras”, “Ideas”, “Políticas”. Salta a la vista que lo que tienen en común estas tres secciones es una convicción que atraviesa todo el pensamiento merleaupontyano: no se trata de pensar filosóficamente qué será la obra de arte, o cuál será la idea filosófica más atinente o, incluso, qué debe decirse de la política. El pensamiento de Merleau-Ponty no es un pensamiento que aborde las cuestiones en singular, más bien es un pensamiento sobre pluralidades. En tal sentido, Merleau-Ponty se desentiende de lo que podríamos figurar como una frontera, digamos, categórica. El aristotélico principio de no contradicción pierde fuerza en el horizonte merleaupontyano: no hay ya un ámbito del arte separado de uno que no lo es…. No hay, asimismo, un orden de lo político autónomo respecto de lo no político…. Es imposible, además, separar la idea de lo sensible… En un mundo de pluralidades como éste, lo primero que pierde vigencia es la pretensión esencialista que supone factible el reborde exacto de cada una de las cosas/hechos de la realidad. Como en las pinturas de Cézanne, en la perspectiva filosófica de Merleau-Ponty no hay manera de establecer esos “dibujos”, esos bordes o contornos definidos que nos permiten afirmar sin vacilar qué cosa es cada una de las cosas que nos rodean y, por extensión, qué no es cada una de ellas. Y esto es así porque se parte de la comprensión de la realidad como contingencia: en uno de los últimos artículos agrupados en la parte “Políticas” en el que intenta dar cuenta de la condición del “héroe” contemporáneo, sostiene: El héroe de los contemporáneos no es un escéptico, un diletante o un decadente. Simplemente, posee la experiencia del azar, del desorden y del fracaso, (…). Vive en un tiempo en que los deberes y las tareas son oscuros. Experimenta, como nunca se ha hecho, la contingencia del porvenir y la libertad del hombre. (2000, p. 276) Azar, desorden, fracaso, oscuridad, contingencia y al mismo tiempo libertad, definen la experiencia del hombre contemporáneo: bien podríamos decir que es toda una experiencia de frontera. En este trabajo y con el apoyo de algunos conceptos merleaupontyanos, presentaré una indagación sobre las fronteras artísticas en torno a dos cuestiones que, a mi juicio, mantienen hoy una vigencia indiscutible: por una parte la frontera entre la imagen y la palabra, o, también, para decirlo en otros términos, entre la visualidad y el lenguaje verbal. Cuando los límites entre los diferentes lenguajes –el escrito y el plástico– se ven constantemente desdibujados, yuxtapuestos o amalgamados en escenarios aparentemente tan distintos como una publicidad, una instalación artística, un video para televisión, una película, etc., los interrogantes sobre las diferencias y especificidades entre los diversos lenguajes posibles adquieren una nueva potencia. Por otra parte, las relaciones entre dos visualidades diferentes, la pintura y la fotografía, por las mismas razones, pero también porque en nuestro tiempo cada una de estas manifestaciones han experimentado cambios de orden técnico muy profundos y se han expandido las posibilidades de acceso y de intercambio, muy especialmente respecto de la fotografía y a través de las redes sociales, se han complejizado de un modo impensado unas pocas décadas atrás. Recurriré para todo ello, además del ya mencionado Merleau-Ponty, a algunos conceptos de François Soulages en su Estética de la Fotografía (2005) y a las apreciaciones sobre lo fotográfico de John Berger. En primer lugar, entonces, problematizaremos la cuestión de la frontera –entendida como límite distintivo– entre la imagen y la palabra, que se ha desdibujado, particularmente en la contemporaneidad, de manera contundente. Luego, a través de la confrontación entre las obras de dos artistas, uno fotógrafo, el otro pintor, notaremos, aquí la frontera se vuelve todavía más ambigua, hasta qué punto si podemos hablar de “saber” en el terreno artístico, éste tiene que ver singularmente con el receptor. Fronteras entre imagen y palabra La relación entre imagen y palabra constituye un tópico de la historia del arte que tiene una historia sumamente extensa y muy rica. No es mi intención, por tanto, reconstruirlo ni siquiera fragmentariamente. Cada una de esas producciones, las visuales y las habladas-escritas, han tenido a lo largo de esa historia momentos de mayor o menor esplendor; pero ha sido la palabra la que ha obtenido en mayor parte la primacía, de conformidad con los principios rectores de nuestra tradición cultural. Se ha tomado la fórmula horaciana del ut pictura poesis como el origen de una relación que intentaba marcar los encuentros entre ambos tipos de expresiones y en ese camino la concepción de Leonardo da Vinci aparece como uno de los esfuerzos más intensos por encumbrar a la pintura por sobre la literatura o la poesía: la “ciencia” de la pintura tiene la virtud, si es ejercida por los grandes maestros, de generar una “segunda naturaleza” y así resulta el vehículo más potente y efectivo para comprender la realidad, más que la propia ciencia y que la filosofía. En un intento de dar una apreciación equilibrada de una tal historia, la estudiosa del tema Ana Lía Gabrieloni transcribe, en un trabajo sobre la relación entre pintura y poesía, una cita de W. Mitchell: La dialéctica entre la palabra y la imagen aparenta ser una constante en la tela de signos que una cultura entreteje en torno a sí misma. Lo que cambia es la naturaleza concreta del tejido, la relación entre la urdimbre y la trama. La historia de la cultura es, en parte, la historia de una prolongada lucha por la dominación entre signos pictóricos y signos lingüísticos, donde unos y otros reclaman para sí determinados derechos de propiedad sobre una “naturaleza” a la que solamente ellos tendrían acceso. (Mitchell 1986, p. 43)1 En nuestra contemporaneidad, la imagen, artística o no, ha cobrado un protagonismo inusitado, invasivo de ámbitos usualmente reservados a la letra escrita, por lo cual ha sido y es objeto de innumerables análisis filosóficos, comunicacionales, estético-políticos, sociológicos, etc. En todos ellos, la fotografía ocupa un lugar destacado como producto técnico visual, representativo del desarrollo tecnológico que caracteriza, en particular, la visualidad del siglo XX en adelante, atravesada, como dijera hace ya tanto tiempo Walter Benjamin, por la reproductibilidad. La fotografía en particular, nace con el mandato implícito de representar lo más fielmente posible a la realidad, eximiendo, en principio, a la pintura de tal cometido (pretensión, en rigor, imposible); así, la fotografía fue poco a poco oscilando entre ser un instrumento de testimonio respecto del mundo y un ámbito de creación propio del arte. Un significativo estudioso de las cuestiones ligadas a la imagen es el crítico de arte, escritor y también pintor en sus comienzos, John Berger quien, en un capítulo de su ensayo Mirar, de 1980, dedica algunas reflexiones al análisis sobre la imagen fotográfica, inspirado en el texto Sobre la fotografía de Susan Sontag de principios de la década del `70. Allí dice Berger que fue en el período de entre guerras cuando “(…) se creyó en la fotografía como el método más transparente, más directo, de acceso a lo real: el período de los grandes maestros testimoniales del medio (…)” (Berger, 2000, p. 47)2. Lejos, sin embargo, de estimar a la fotografía como heredera de las artes plásticas, el grabado, el dibujo, la pintura, Berger considera que la función que la cámara fotográfica pasó a cumplir era desempeñada, antes de su invención, por la memoria. Las fotos son, dice, como los recuerdos: conservan las apariencias instantáneas. Pero eso mismo constituye una desventaja para Berger pues no narran por sí mismas. Es necesario apoyarlas, para comprender verdaderamente, con la palabra, ya que la palabra, y más bien la narración, al contrario que la imagen visual, se desarrolla y se explica en el tiempo. Y, entonces, afirma, citando textualmente a Sontag: “Sólo lo que es capaz de narrar puede hacernos comprender”. (Berger, 2000, p. 49) Es a partir de esta frase, que estimamos polémica, que se vuelve a poner de relieve la disputa entre la imagen y el lenguaje, dando por seguro que la comprensión es producto de éste último y arriesgando relegar a la imagen a un lugar subsidiario, de mera ilustración. Más adelante, sin embargo, Berger también rompe con el paralelo que había establecido entre la memoria y la fotografía: la memoria, dice, conserva todavía algún aspecto que puede ligarse con la valoración o la justicia. La cámara, en cambio, a fuerza de pretender suplantar a la memoria, genera imágenes para el olvido: La memoria entraña cierto acto de redención. Lo que se recuerda ha sido salvado de la nada. Lo que se olvida ha quedado abandonado. (…), la distinción entre recordar y olvidar se transforma en un juicio, en una interpretación de la justicia, según la cual la aprobación se aproxima a ser recordado, y el castigo, a ser olvidado. (…) la cámara nos libra del peso de la memoria. Nos vigila como lo hace dios, y vigila por nosotros. Sin embargo, no ha habido dios más cínico, pues la cámara recoge los acontecimientos para olvidarlos (Berger, 2000, p. 50-51; el destacado es del autor) Nada más atinente cuando pensamos en las cientos de fotos virtuales que tomamos en cuestión de segundos y que destinamos, en buena medida debido a la cantidad, a un acopio electrónico jamás revisitado. Por su parte, Maurice Merleau-Ponty estima las imágenes visuales artísticas, él toma como referente la pintura, como “voces del silencio”, es decir expresiones que trasmiten “ideas” pero no en forma de conceptos sino como núcleos de significación sensible que requieren para ello de la materialidad del arte y se ofrecen a la interpretación. Se trata, entonces, de ideas sensibles, que también están presentes en la literatura: por ejemplo, la frase musical de Vinteuil o las pinturas imaginarias de Elstir el personaje pintor, en la novela de Marcel Proust, los escenarios de Kafka, si tomamos ejemplos de la ficción. Pero también los cuadros de Cézanne, de Van Gogh o de Klee. Es cierto que en ocasiones los títulos (palabras) de las obras artísticas colaboran con la interpretación. Pensemos, por ejemplo, en el famoso cuadro de Magritte, La Gioconda, al que solo asociamos con el original de Leonardo, precisamente, por su título. Asimismo, admitimos que las imágenes, también las fotos consideradas artísticas, llegan a nosotros (y nosotros hablamos de ellas) mediadas por interpretaciones discursivas que ponen de relieve sus coordenadas de tiempo y espacio, las apreciaciones que suscitan plasmadas en los escritos críticos, los acentos arbitrarios de una mirada que atiende más a algún detalle que a otro, etc. Sin embargo, tampoco la palabra parece suficiente para dar cuenta de una realidad, ni completamente objetiva, ni estrictamente subjetiva, de una realidad compleja, ambigua, esquiva a la categorización y la descripción plena, y así, consecuentemente interpretable de manera múltiple. No menos cierto es, entonces, que para evitar conducir a su potencial receptor a una interpretación predeterminada ya establecida, muchos artistas deciden “titular” a sus obras, paradójicamente, Sin título. Algo a contrapelo de la consideración anteriormente referida de Berger, François Soulages plantea en un abordaje teórico pero sustentado profusamente en la producción fotográfica, Estética de la fotografía, tres maneras, entre otras posibles, en las que los fotógrafos, especialmente los que operaron hacia fines del siglo XX, se ubicaron explícitamente más allá de las concepciones estándar de la producción fotográfica como réplica o como ilustración de un suceso. A veces, incluso, confrontaron con la sociedad mediante una ruptura o un rechazo del reportaje alienado de la sociedad del entretenimiento: en tal empresa, aclara el autor, ya no se busca la captura del instante o el mero reportaje espectáculo, sino lo que estima una instalación en el tiempo, que, a la vez, no puede sino explicarse como una interrogación en el tiempo. Así propone analizar una fotografía considerada “de investigación” que apela a la “larga duración”; una fotografía “de la memoria” que se ubica en el “pasado” y una fotografía “de interacción” que hace uso de un “tiempo intersubjetivo”. (Soulages, 2005, p. 235) La fotografía de investigación se caracteriza por el intento de captar lo esencial, lo común, la estructura y, de ese modo, aspira al mantenimiento de su vigencia: “El soporte de esas fotos ya no es lo cotidiano que apunta a la información, la actualidad, ese presente que mañana carecerá de valor (mercantil) (…)” (Soulages, 2005, p. 235). Por esta razón, estas imágenes son naturalmente hospedadas en un libro, una revista, un museo. Al no buscar la ilustración que se acomode a la letra escrita, sino la conformación de una obra que hable por sí, este tipo de fotografía puede producir no solo la obra, sino también el sentido de la misma. Por su parte, la fotografía como memoria, intenta establecer una lectura sobre el pasado, sobre algún acontecimiento del pasado. Son ejemplos paradigmáticos las fotografías de documentos oficiales o de situaciones extremas como los campos de concentración o la vida carcelaria. Aquí la fotografía es al mismo tiempo, imagen crítica e imagen de imágenes. Se fotografía a la sociedad, no en su actualidad, sino en los recovecos de su memoria, usualmente ocultados por inaceptables, pero que dan razón de ella, la exploran, la analizan. Por último, la fotografía de interacción, se constituye como un intento de relacionar las acciones del fotógrafo con las de los no fotógrafos, constituyendo un tiempo intersubjetivo. Estos últimos, los no fotógrafos, en ocasiones, por ejemplo en algunos proyectos fotográficos3, se hacen cargo de variadas tomas en el entorno de su propio ámbito. Con ello generan imágenes perturbadoras, porque nos devuelven miradas que se instalan como críticas de la mirada ya establecida sobre esos grupos. Estas tres variantes de la práctica fotográfica pueden, naturalmente, cruzarse en trabajos específicos. En todos ellos parece renovarse la inquietud respecto de las posibilidades de la fotografía, sobre todo aquella que trabaja con cuestiones sociales, de constituirse como arte. El viejo interrogante respecto de las potencialidades artísticas para constituirse en mirada crítica se renueva en el ámbito fotográfico. Esta forma de comprender la producción fotográfica –que también involucra la potencia de su recepción– genera, interpreto, una posible superación de una dicotomía inconciliable entre imagen y palabra. Puesto que la fotografía es capaz de por sí de investigar, de instalar una lectura sobre el pasado, de operar como interacción entre distintos actores –todas ellas acciones habitualmente asociadas con la palabra–; puesto que, además, se propone como promotora de una mirada crítica que atraviesa lo social, lo artístico, la interpretación histórico-política, perspectiva tradicionalmente vinculada con la palabra filosófica; puesto que aun así, finalmente, la palabra emerge a la hora de la intercomunicación entre miradas diferentes sobre las mismas fotos, entonces lo que sigue teniendo vigencia respecto de la relación entre la palabra y la imagen como instrumentos de comprensión sobre lo real, es la tensión permanente entre ellas. Tal vez, se trate de una suerte de “entre-deux” (entre-dos), para parafrasear la concepción de Merleau-Ponty cuando intenta resumir su visión superadora del dualismo que divide el objeto del sujeto: un entre la imagen y la palabra; o tal vez pueda asociarse al “a la vez” que propone Soulages para definir la fotografía: a la vez la palabra y la imagen. O quizá como ha pensado el propio John Berger con referencia al famoso cuadro de la pipa que no es una pipa de René Magritte (La trahison des images) solo se trata, dado que se anulan mutuamente, del fracaso de ambos lenguajes, del de la imagen y del de la palabra. Es decir, la distinción entre la imagen y la palabra constituye, en definitiva, una frontera; y en tanto tal, resulta un ámbito de indefinición, difuso y en constante tensión. Fronteras entre el saber y el no saber. La mirada del receptor Sentido y sin sentido, el título del libro de Merleau-Ponty al que hacíamos referencia al principio de este trabajo, precisamente mienta la siempre dual característica de la experiencia cognoscitiva de nuestros días. En su prefacio sostiene su autor: “Convendría que la razón a la que llegamos no fuera aquella que habíamos abandonado tan ostensiblemente. Convendría que la experiencia de la sinrazón no fuera sencillamente olvidada. Convendría formar una nueva idea de la razón”. (2000, p. 27) Si las diferencias y/o cercanías entre palabra e imagen de las que hablábamos nos ubican en un terreno de ambigüedades e indefiniciones, es decir en lo que consideramos una frontera, ¿no repercute esa consideración en el plano cognoscitivo? ¿Hay, paralelamente, un saber de la imagen y un saber de la palabra? Volviendo sobre la cita de la experiencia del héroe de hoy que lo vuelve habitante de múltiples fronteras, ¿qué puede, este hombre contemporáneo, aspirar a saber? La respuesta no será, naturalmente, en singular. Apenas podría bosquejar una expectativa de encontrarse con esbozos de verdades, quizá apenas conjeturas, así, en plural. Y aquí, nuevamente, aparece la frontera: ese espacio algo indefinido que separa (pero al mismo tiempo asocia) el saber y el no saber, la verdad y la falsedad, la apariencia y la realidad. Entonces, en el terreno de la Estética, el interrogante crucial desde esta perspectiva es el que se dirige hacia la posibilidad de que el arte, las obras de arte, sean (o no) vehículos o constituyan (o no) núcleos de saber. La tajante separación kantiana entre la afirmación científica –es decir, de conocimiento, un juicio de carácter conceptual u objetivo– y el juicio estético –que lo es en tanto refiere a un sentimiento subjetivo, aunque bien con pretensión de universalidad–, ha generado una tradición estética sustentada en la contemplación que ha negado al arte, precisamente, su cualidad cognoscitiva y enseñable, pese a que no pueda decirse sin más que Kant sostuviera que el arte nada tiene que ver con el saber4. Una experiencia reciente y fundamentalmente casual –he aquí cómo obra la contingencia– hizo que me encontrara con una obra fotográfica que me produjo al instante una asociación pictórica: buscando imágenes de fotografías ligadas con la posguerra española para un trabajo dedicado a ese período de la literatura y sus relaciones con las producciones visuales, me llamó mucho la atención la obra de Franz Muller, un fotógrafo húngaro, nacido en 1913 y que en 1947 se establece en España, después de haber sufrido persecuciones y haber ambulado y fotografiado por diferentes países, no solo de Europa. Un verdadero artista de fronteras, que ha tenido que vivirlas, atravesarlas y en muchas ocasiones descifrar cómo lograr eliminarlas. Me detuve en la fotografía que lleva por título Descargando sal (Oporto), Portugal, tomada en el año 19395. La imagen de la foto de Muller inmediatamente me recordó las pinturas del pintor argentino Benito Quinquela Martín; de este último, es profusa la cantidad de imágenes portuarias pictóricas que nos ha legado. Apenas unos años separan el origen temporal de las imágenes de Muller y algunas de las de Quinquela6. Y unos pocos años más separan a ambas de la aparición del libro de Merleau-Ponty, Sentido y sinsentido, al que hacíamos referencia, editado, como dijimos, en 1948. En perspectiva histórica diríamos que tanto las imágenes como el libro son de la misma época. Nicolás Muller es uno de las grandes figuras de la fotografía social húngara, compatriota de grandes fotógrafos hoy consagrados como BrassaÏ, Robert Capa, André Kertész y Kati Horna. Con ellos comparte, además, la experiencia del exilio7. Entre fin de año de 2013 y fines de febrero de 2014 y con motivo de los cien años de su nacimiento, la Sala Canal de Isabel II, en Madrid, expuso la colección “Nicolás Muller. Obras Maestras”8. Una de las gacetillas que anuncian la muestra presenta el siguiente comentario, que parece definir clara y sintéticamente el trabajo de Muller: Como otros fotógrafos de su generación, Robert Capa, Brasaï o Kertész, está muy influido por las teorías constructivistas de la época y por las nuevas formas visuales que se originan en la escuela alemana de la Bauhaus. Este conjunto de influencias dará lugar a una fotografía directa, expresiva y social que busca retratar a las clases sociales más desfavorecidas desde un humanismo que pone en valor la fuerza de lo cotidiano9. Por su parte, Benito Quinquela Martín, uno de los pintores más populares de nuestro país, fue autodidacta, lo que ocasionó que la crítica no fuera siempre positiva con su obra. Su rasgo técnico distintivo es que usó como principal instrumento de trabajo la espátula en lugar del tradicional pincel. Ha retratado como nadie la vida del trabajo en el puerto, a la que conocía desde pequeño cuando ya cargaba bolsas de carbón para ganarse la vida. Volvamos a las imágenes. Podríamos conjeturar que la “anécdota” de ambas vistas, la pictórica y la fotográfica, es semejante. Que la asociación se produjo debido a que describen escenarios similares. Sin embargo, de ningún modo pretendo sugerir que haya alguna relación de hecho entre lo que cuentan la producción pictórica que alude al puerto de Buenos Aires y la toma de Muller del puerto portugués de Oporto (por ejemplo, que Quinquela se hubiera inspirado en la foto de Muller suponiendo que hubiera tenido oportunidad de conocerla, lo que en verdad es altamente improbable, o a la inversa, lo cual resulta más improbable aún). Pero si hubiera sido así, todavía tal cuestión sería irrelevante para lo que pretendo sustentar en este trabajo. ¿Por qué me pareció significativo tal parecido? En verdad, dado el momento histórico común (la década del `40 del siglo XX), no es para nada sorprendente que haya fuertes coincidencias en los elementos descriptos en cada imagen: cada una cuenta, en sus términos, la manera en la que por entonces se llevaba a cabo la carga y descarga de ciertas mercaderías en los puertos. Hasta podría darse explicación epocal para la vestimenta de los personajes que allí aparecen, la conformación de los barcos, las técnicas de descarga, etc. No es, entonces, la anécdota lo que cuenta. Lo que me parece que vale la pena confrontar son, precisamente, las miradas de dos artistas alejados geográfica y hasta culturalmente; incluso técnicamente, ya que estamos hablando de una foto en comparación con una pintura. Pero que, a la vista de un receptor, resultan semejantes. Es decir, estamos frente a un interesante ejemplo de “fronteras”: frontera entre lo fotográfico y lo pictórico, frontera entre la cultura europea y la sudamericana (y todavía cabría aquí hablar de las diferentes fronteras hacia el interior de la frontera cultural, por ejemplo, las costumbres húngaras y/o españolas y las rioplatenses), frontera entre el ambiente político-social de la posguerra y el de los cambios profundos en la esfera del trabajo de la Buenos Aires de los `40-50, etc. Y es entonces que pienso en Merleau-Ponty, en su concepción de la mirada como constitutiva del mundo, no en un plano puramente imaginario, ni en uno conceptual, ni siquiera como testimonio afirmativo, sino en tono interrogativo: “La primera que interroga al mundo no es la filosofía sino la mirada”, dice en su obra póstuma Lo visible y lo invisible” (1970, p. 132). Lo asombroso es que en perspectiva fotográfica, un fotógrafo húngaro exiliado y finalmente radicado en España, hace una toma de un puerto portugués en 1939 que se parece mucho, al menos en una recepción particular, a la pintura al óleo de un pintor porteño que gusta retratar ciertas postales del hoy mítico barrio de La Boca. El primero genera una imagen en tonos de grises, el segundo una de colores predominantemente cálidos; podríamos extremar la metáfora: una frontera cromática. Pero la contingencia, el azar, ha hecho que una mirada receptiva las asocie. Y las interrogue, poniéndolas en diálogo pese a sus diferencias constitutivas, e incluso frente a sus coincidencias. Tiene sentido, y al mismo tiempo no lo tiene, asemejarlas. Hay algo de razonable y a la vez de fortuito en su confrontación. Es que las imágenes, por todo esto que decimos pensando en la aseveración merleaupontyana, no se conforman con un sentido que se agota en alguna explicación, sino que son expresiones y, como tales, su sentido (su significado, su inteligibilidad) se monta sobre un fondo de sinsentido: su potencia sensible, diría Merleau-Ponty, su carne. De este modo sostiene: “Tanto en la obra de arte o en la teoría como en las cosas sensibles, el sentido es inseparable del signo. La expresión, por lo tanto, nunca puede darse por acabada. La más alta razón es vecina de la sinrazón”. (2000, p. 28) “Cézanne se pregunta si lo que ha salido de sus manos tiene sentido”, reflexiona en el artículo que le dedica; es decir, Cézanne duda, porque lo que quiere lograr, poner de manifiesto un segmento de mundo, es una tarea sin fin. Porque no solo hay sentido en la obra, sino también sin sentido, entonces, su “decir”, lo que nos muestra, es, por contingente, por ambiguo, expresable al infinito, de interpretación inagotable. Así, la comprensión de una obra, la comprensión de una puesta frente a frente de dos obras que parecen decirnos algo semejante, la interpretación de los por qué, incluso, las hemos enfrentado, las preguntas que nos sugieren, también se instalan en una zona de frontera: no es una cuestión ni completamente sensible ni completamente inteligible. De tal modo que, no se trata, plenamente, ni de un saber ni de un no saber, sino de una mirada interrogadora que, contingentemente, habrá o no encontrado alguna idea significativa en la presentación sensible a la que se enfrenta. Conclusiones Muchas fronteras, lo hemos señalado, se aúnan en la asociación entre Quinquela y Muller: naturalmente fronteras geográficas (Buenos Aires/Oporto), pero también técnicas (toma fotográfica/pintura al óleo), artísticas (fotografía/pintura), culturales (Europa en guerra/ Buenos Aires de inmigrantes), si se quiere, hasta políticas (que derivarían todas de las otras), fronteras entre lo explícito y lo implícito, fronteras entre lo sensible y lo inteligible, es decir, entre el sentido y el sin sentido. A su vez, ambas imágenes hacen foco en una zona límite como es un puerto que puede pensarse, así, como una zona de frontera: la que se erige entre la tierra y el agua. La frontera no solo constituida, sino también atravesada por la mirada receptiva, es la que nos pone en el lugar de la interrogación y la apertura hermenéutica. Por otro lado, hemos hablado de la frontera entre lo escrito o dicho y lo visual. Hay ideas que surgen de las manifestaciones visuales, pictóricas o fotográficas, que también nos ofrecen un lugar, parafraseamos a Kant, para mucho pensar. Como sostiene Merleau-Ponty, se esconden entre las luces y los pliegues de las obras artísticas a modo de “ideas sensibles” sin que nos puedan ser dadas de otro modo (cf. 1970). En ambos casos se ponen en juego enigmas sobre las posibilidades de saber, la potencia del arte (pero no solo del arte) para trasmitirnos algo más o menos parecido a la verdad. Siempre se interpela, en definitiva, el papel del receptor. Mucho sentido y mucho sinsentido, volvamos al libro del que hemos partido, conviviendo al prestarse a la interpelación de la mirada que, en forma interrogativa, pone en cuestión las convicciones más elementales de nuestra tradición filosófica: que el pensamiento solo piensa y que los sentidos solo sienten. Para Merleau-Ponty no hay una verdad menos cierta que ésa.

Biology teaches us that organisms adapt—or don’t; sociology claims that people adapt—or don’t. We know that ideas can adapt; sometimes even institutions can adapt. Or not. Various papers in this issue attest in exciting ways to precisely such adaptations and maladaptations. (See, for example, the articles in this issue by Lelia Green, Leesa Bonniface, and Tami McMahon, by Lexey A. Bartlett, and by Debra Ferreday.) Adaptation is a part of nature and culture, but it’s the latter alone that interests me here. (However, see the article by Hutcheon and Bortolotti for a discussion of nature and culture together.) It’s no news to anyone that not only adaptations, but all art is bred of other art, though sometimes artists seem to get carried away. My favourite example of excess of association or attribution can be found in the acknowledgements page to a verse drama called Beatrice Chancy by the self-defined “maximalist” (not minimalist) poet, novelist, librettist, and critic, George Elliot Clarke. His selected list of the incarnations of the story of Beatrice Cenci, a sixteenth-century Italian noblewoman put to death for the murder of her father, includes dramas, romances, chronicles, screenplays, parodies, sculptures, photographs, and operas: dramas by Vincenzo Pieracci (1816), Percy Bysshe Shelley (1819), Juliusz Slowacki (1843), Waldter Landor (1851), Antonin Artaud (1935) and Alberto Moravia (1958); the romances by Francesco Guerrazi (1854), Henri Pierangeli (1933), Philip Lindsay (1940), Frederic Prokosch (1955) and Susanne Kircher (1976); the chronicles by Stendhal (1839), Mary Shelley (1839), Alexandre Dumas, père (1939-40), Robert Browning (1864), Charles Swinburne (1883), Corrado Ricci (1923), Sir Lionel Cust (1929), Kurt Pfister (1946) and Irene Mitchell (1991); the film/screenplay by Bertrand Tavernier and Colo O’Hagan (1988); the parody by Kathy Acker (1993); the sculpture by Harriet Hosmer (1857); the photograph by Julia Ward Cameron (1866); and the operas by Guido Pannain (1942), Berthold Goldschmidt (1951, 1995) and Havergal Brian (1962). (Beatrice Chancy, 152) He concludes the list with: “These creators have dallied with Beatrice Cenci, but I have committed indiscretions” (152). An “intertextual feast”, by Clarke’s own admission, this rewriting of Beatrice’s story—especially Percy Bysshe Shelley’s own verse play, The Cenci—illustrates brilliantly what Northrop Frye offered as the first principle of the production of literature: “literature can only derive its form from itself” (15). But in the last several decades, what has come to be called intertextuality theory has shifted thinking away from looking at this phenomenon from the point of view of authorial influences on the writing of literature (and works like Harold Bloom’s famous study of the Anxiety of Influence) and toward considering our readerly associations with literature, the connections we (not the author) make—as we read. We, the readers, have become “empowered”, as we say, and we’ve become the object of academic study in our own right. Among the many associations we inevitably make, as readers, is with adaptations of the literature we read, be it of Jane Austin novels or Beowulf. Some of us may have seen the 2006 rock opera of Beowulf done by the Irish Repertory Theatre; others await the new Neil Gaiman animated film. Some may have played the Beowulf videogame. I personally plan to miss the upcoming updated version that makes Beowulf into the son of an African explorer. But I did see Sturla Gunnarsson’s Beowulf and Grendel film, and yearned to see the comic opera at the Lincoln Centre Festival in 2006 called Grendel, the Transcendence of the Great Big Bad. I am not really interested in whether these adaptations—all in the last year or so—signify Hollywood’s need for a new “monster of the week” or are just the sign of a desire to cash in on the success of The Lord of the Rings. For all I know they might well act as an ethical reminder of the human in the alien in a time of global strife (see McGee, A4). What interests me is the impact these multiple adaptations can have on the reader of literature as well as on the production of literature. Literature, like painting, is usually thought of as what Nelson Goodman (114) calls a one-stage art form: what we read (like what we see on a canvas) is what is put there by the originating artist. Several major consequences follow from this view. First, the implication is that the work is thus an original and new creation by that artist. However, even the most original of novelists—like Salman Rushdie—are the first to tell you that stories get told and retold over and over. Indeed his controversial novel, The Satanic Verses, takes this as a major theme. Works like the Thousand and One Nights are crucial references in all of his work. As he writes in Haroun and the Sea of Stories: “no story comes from nowhere; new stories are born of old” (86). But illusion of originality is only one of the implications of seeing literature as a one-stage art form. Another is the assumption that what the writer put on paper is what we read. But entire doctoral programs in literary production and book history have been set up to study how this is not the case, in fact. Editors influence, even change, what authors want to write. Designers control how we literally see the work of literature. Beatrice Chancy’s bookend maps of historical Acadia literally frame how we read the historical story of the title’s mixed-race offspring of an African slave and a white slave owner in colonial Nova Scotia in 1801. Media interest or fashion or academic ideological focus may provoke a publisher to foreground in the physical presentation different elements of a text like this—its stress on race, or gender, or sexuality. The fact that its author won Canada’s Governor General’s Award for poetry might mean that the fact that this is a verse play is emphasised. If the book goes into a second edition, will a new preface get added, changing the framework for the reader once again? As Katherine Larson has convincingly shown, the paratextual elements that surround a work of literature like this one become a major site of meaning generation. What if literature were not a one-stage an art form at all? What if it were, rather, what Goodman calls “two-stage” (114)? What if we accept that other artists, other creators, are needed to bring it to life—editors, publishers, and indeed readers? In a very real and literal sense, from our (audience) point of view, there may be no such thing as a one-stage art work. Just as the experience of literature is made possible for readers by the writer, in conjunction with a team of professional and creative people, so, arguably all art needs its audience to be art; the un-interpreted, un-experienced art work is not worth calling art. Goodman resists this move to considering literature a two-stage art, not at all sure that readings are end products the way that performance works are (114). Plays, films, television shows, or operas would be his prime examples of two-stage arts. In each of these, a text (a playtext, a screenplay, a score, a libretto) is moved from page to stage or screen and given life, by an entire team of creative individuals: directors, actors, designers, musicians, and so on. Literary adaptations to the screen or stage are usually considered as yet another form of this kind of transcription or transposition of a written text to a performance medium. But the verbal move from the “book” to the diminutive “libretto” (in Italian, little book or booklet) is indicative of a view that sees adaptation as a step downward, a move away from a primary literary “source”. In fact, an entire negative rhetoric of “infidelity” has developed in both journalistic reviewing and academic discourse about adaptations, and it is a morally loaded rhetoric that I find surprising in its intensity. Here is the wonderfully critical description of that rhetoric by the king of film adaptation critics, Robert Stam: Terms like “infidelity,” “betrayal,” “deformation,” “violation,” “bastardisation,” “vulgarisation,” and “desecration” proliferate in adaptation discourse, each word carrying its specific charge of opprobrium. “Infidelity” carries overtones of Victorian prudishness; “betrayal” evokes ethical perfidy; “bastardisation” connotes illegitimacy; “deformation” implies aesthetic disgust and monstrosity; “violation” calls to mind sexual violence; “vulgarisation” conjures up class degradation; and “desecration” intimates religious sacrilege and blasphemy. (3) I join many others today, like Stam, in challenging the persistence of this fidelity discourse in adaptation studies, thereby providing yet another example of what, in his article here called “The Persistence of Fidelity: Adaptation Theory Today,” John Connor has called the “fidelity reflex”—the call to end an obsession with fidelity as the sole criterion for judging the success of an adaptation. But here I want to come at this same issue of the relation of adaptation to the adapted text from another angle. When considering an adaptation of a literary work, there are other reasons why the literary “source” text might be privileged. Literature has historical priority as an art form, Stam claims, and so in some people’s eyes will always be superior to other forms. But does it actually have priority? What about even earlier performative forms like ritual and song? Or to look forward, instead of back, as Tim Barker urges us to do in his article here, what about the new media’s additions to our repertoire with the advent of electronic technology? How can we retain this hierarchy of artistic forms—with literature inevitably on top—in a world like ours today? How can both the Romantic ideology of original genius and the capitalist notion of individual authorship hold up in the face of the complex reality of the production of literature today (as well as in the past)? (In “Amen to That: Sampling and Adapting the Past”, Steve Collins shows how digital technology has changed the possibilities of musical creativity in adapting/sampling.) Like many other ages before our own, adaptation is rampant today, as director Spike Jonze and screenwriter Charlie Kaufman clearly realised in creating Adaptation, their meta-cinematic illustration-as-send-up film about adaptation. But rarely has a culture denigrated the adapter as a secondary and derivative creator as much as we do the screenwriter today—as Jonze explores with great irony. Michelle McMerrin and Sergio Rizzo helpfully explain in their pieces here that one of the reasons for this is the strength of auteur theory in film criticism. But we live in a world in which works of literature have been turned into more than films. We now have literary adaptations in the forms of interactive new media works and videogames; we have theme parks; and of course, we have the more common television series, radio and stage plays, musicals, dance works, and operas. And, of course, we now have novelisations of films—and they are not given the respect that originary novels are given: it is the adaptation as adaptation that is denigrated, as Deborah Allison shows in “Film/Print: Novelisations and Capricorn One”. Adaptations across media are inevitably fraught, and for complex and multiple reasons. The financing and distribution issues of these widely different media alone inevitably challenge older capitalist models. The need or desire to appeal to a global market has consequences for adaptations of literature, especially with regard to its regional and historical specificities. These particularities are what usually get adapted or “indigenised” for new audiences—be they the particularities of the Spanish gypsy Carmen (see Ioana Furnica, “Subverting the ‘Good, Old Tune’”), those of the Japanese samurai genre (see Kevin P. Eubanks, “Becoming-Samurai: Samurai [Films], Kung-Fu [Flicks] and Hip-Hop [Soundtracks]”), of American hip hop graffiti (see Kara-Jane Lombard, “‘To Us Writers, the Differences Are Obvious’: The Adaptation of Hip Hop Graffiti to an Australian Context”) or of Jane Austen’s fiction (see Suchitra Mathur, “From British ‘Pride’ to Indian ‘Bride’: Mapping the Contours of a Globalised (Post?)Colonialism”). What happens to the literary text that is being adapted, often multiple times? Rather than being displaced by the adaptation (as is often feared), it most frequently gets a new life: new editions of the book appear, with stills from the movie adaptation on its cover. But if I buy and read the book after seeing the movie, I read it differently than I would have before I had seen the film: in effect, the book, not the adaptation, has become the second and even secondary text for me. And as I read, I can only “see” characters as imagined by the director of the film; the cinematic version has taken over, has even colonised, my reader’s imagination. The literary “source” text, in my readerly, experiential terms, becomes the secondary work. It exists on an experiential continuum, in other words, with its adaptations. It may have been created before, but I only came to know it after. What if I have read the literary work first, and then see the movie? In my imagination, I have already cast the characters: I know what Gabriel and Gretta Conroy of James Joyce’s story, “The Dead,” look and sound like—in my imagination, at least. Then along comes John Huston’s lush period piece cinematic adaptation and the director superimposes his vision upon mine; his forcibly replaces mine. But, in this particular case, Huston still arguably needs my imagination, or at least my memory—though he may not have realised it fully in making the film. When, in a central scene in the narrative, Gabriel watches his wife listening, moved, to the singing of the Irish song, “The Lass of Aughrim,” what we see on screen is a concerned, intrigued, but in the end rather blank face: Gabriel doesn’t alter his expression as he listens and watches. His expression may not change—but I know exactly what he is thinking. Huston does not tell us; indeed, without the use of voice-over, he cannot. And since the song itself is important, voice-over is impossible. But I know exactly what he is thinking: I’ve read the book. I fill in the blank, so to speak. Gabriel looks at Gretta and thinks: There was grace and mystery in her attitude as if she were a symbol of something. He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that attitude. … Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter. (210) A few pages later the narrator will tell us: At last she turned towards them and Gabriel saw that there was colour on her cheeks and that her eyes were shining. A sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his heart. (212) This joy, of course, puts him in a very different—disastrously different—state of mind than his wife, who (we later learn) is remembering a young man who sang that song to her when she was a girl—and who died, for love of her. I know this—because I’ve read the book. Watching the movie, I interpret Gabriel’s blank expression in this knowledge. Just as the director’s vision can colonise my visual and aural imagination, so too can I, as reader, supplement the film’s silence with the literary text’s inner knowledge. The question, of course, is: should I have to do so? Because I have read the book, I will. But what if I haven’t read the book? Will I substitute my own ideas, from what I’ve seen in the rest of the film, or from what I’ve experienced in my own life? Filmmakers always have to deal with this problem, of course, since the camera is resolutely externalising, and actors must reveal their inner worlds through bodily gesture or facial expression for the camera to record and for the spectator to witness and comprehend. But film is not only a visual medium: it uses music and sound, and it also uses words—spoken words within the dramatic situation, words overheard on the street, on television, but also voice-over words, spoken by a narrating figure. Stephen Dedalus escapes from Ireland at the end of Joseph Strick’s 1978 adaptation of Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man with the same words as he does in the novel, where they appear as Stephen’s diary entry: Amen. So be it. Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race. … Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead. (253) The words from the novel also belong to the film as film, with its very different story, less about an artist than about a young Irishman finally able to escape his family, his religion and his country. What’s deliberately NOT in the movie is the irony of Joyce’s final, benign-looking textual signal to his reader: Dublin, 1904 Trieste, 1914 The first date is the time of Stephen’s leaving Dublin—and the time of his return, as we know from the novel Ulysses, the sequel, if you like, to this novel. The escape was short-lived! Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man has an ironic structure that has primed its readers to expect not escape and triumph but something else. Each chapter of the novel has ended on this kind of personal triumphant high; the next has ironically opened with Stephen mired in the mundane and in failure. Stephen’s final words in both film and novel remind us that he really is an Icarus figure, following his “Old father, old artificer”, his namesake, Daedalus. And Icarus, we recall, takes a tumble. In the novel version, we are reminded that this is the portrait of the artist “as a young man”—later, in 1914, from the distance of Trieste (to which he has escaped) Joyce, writing this story, could take some ironic distance from his earlier persona. There is no such distance in the film version. However, it stands alone, on its own; Joyce’s irony is not appropriate in Strick’s vision. His is a different work, with its own message and its own, considerably more romantic and less ironic power. Literary adaptations are their own things—inspired by, based on an adapted text but something different, something other. I want to argue that these works adapted from literature are now part of our readerly experience of that literature, and for that reason deserve the same attention we give to the literary, and not only the same attention, but also the same respect. I am a literarily trained person. People like me who love words, already love plays, but shouldn’t we also love films—and operas, and musicals, and even videogames? There is no need to denigrate words that are heard (and visualised) in order to privilege words that are read. Works of literature can have afterlives in their adaptations and translations, just as they have pre-lives, in terms of influences and models, as George Eliot Clarke openly allows in those acknowledgements to Beatrice Chancy. I want to return to that Canadian work, because it raises for me many of the issues about adaptation and language that I see at the core of our literary distrust of the move away from the written, printed text. I ended my recent book on adaptation with a brief examination of this work, but I didn’t deal with this particular issue of language. So I want to return to it, as to unfinished business. Clarke is, by the way, clear in the verse drama as well as in articles and interviews that among the many intertexts to Beatrice Chancy, the most important are slave narratives, especially one called Celia, a Slave, and Shelley’s play, The Cenci. Both are stories of mistreated and subordinated women who fight back. Since Clarke himself has written at length about the slave narratives, I’m going to concentrate here on Shelley’s The Cenci. The distance from Shelley’s verse play to Clarke’s verse play is a temporal one, but it is also geographic and ideological one: from the old to the new world, and from a European to what Clarke calls an “Africadian” (African Canadian/African Acadian) perspective. Yet both poets were writing political protest plays against unjust authority and despotic power. And they have both become plays that are more read than performed—a sad fate, according to Clarke, for two works that are so concerned with voice. We know that Shelley sought to calibrate the stylistic registers of his work with various dramatic characters and effects to create a modern “mixed” style that was both a return to the ancients and offered a new drama of great range and flexibility where the expression fits what is being expressed (see Bruhn). His polemic against eighteenth-century European dramatic conventions has been seen as leading the way for realist drama later in the nineteenth century, with what has been called its “mixed style mimesis” (Bruhn) Clarke’s adaptation does not aim for Shelley’s perfect linguistic decorum. It mixes the elevated and the biblical with the idiomatic and the sensual—even the vulgar—the lushly poetic with the coarsely powerful. But perhaps Shelley’s idea of appropriate language fits, after all: Beatrice Chancy is a woman of mixed blood—the child of a slave woman and her slave owner; she has been educated by her white father in a convent school. Sometimes that educated, elevated discourse is heard; at other times, she uses the variety of discourses operative within slave society—from religious to colloquial. But all the time, words count—as in all printed and oral literature. Clarke’s verse drama was given a staged reading in Toronto in 1997, but the story’s, if not the book’s, real second life came when it was used as the basis for an opera libretto. Actually the libretto commission came first (from Queen of Puddings Theatre in Toronto), and Clarke started writing what was to be his first of many opera texts. Constantly frustrated by the art form’s demands for concision, he found himself writing two texts at once—a short libretto and a longer, five-act tragic verse play to be published separately. Since it takes considerably longer to sing than to speak (or read) a line of text, the composer James Rolfe keep asking for cuts—in the name of economy (too many singers), because of clarity of action for audience comprehension, or because of sheer length. Opera audiences have to sit in a theatre for a fixed length of time, unlike readers who can put a book down and return to it later. However, what was never sacrificed to length or to the demands of the music was the language. In fact, the double impact of the powerful mixed language and the equally potent music, increases the impact of the literary text when performed in its operatic adaptation. Here is the verse play version of the scene after Beatrice’s rape by her own father, Francis Chancey: I was black but comely. Don’t glance Upon me. This flesh is crumbling Like proved lies. I’m perfumed, ruddied Carrion. Assassinated. Screams of mucking juncos scrawled Over the chapel and my nerves, A stickiness, as when he finished Maculating my thighs and dress. My eyes seep pus; I can’t walk: the floors Are tizzy, dented by stout mauling. Suddenly I would like poison. The flesh limps from my spine. My inlets crimp. Vultures flutter, ghastly, without meaning. I can see lice swarming the air. … His scythe went shick shick shick and slashed My flowers; they lay, murdered, in heaps. (90) The biblical and the violent meet in the texture of the language. And none of that power gets lost in the opera adaptation, despite cuts and alterations for easier aural comprehension. I was black but comely. Don’t look Upon me: this flesh is dying. I’m perfumed, bleeding carrion, My eyes weep pus, my womb’s sopping With tears; I can hardly walk: the floors Are tizzy, the sick walls tumbling, Crumbling like proved lies. His scythe went shick shick shick and cut My flowers; they lay in heaps, murdered. (95) Clarke has said that he feels the libretto is less “literary” in his words than the verse play, for it removes the lines of French, Latin, Spanish and Italian that pepper the play as part of the author’s critique of the highly educated planter class in Nova Scotia: their education did not guarantee ethical behaviour (“Adaptation” 14). I have not concentrated on the music of the opera, because I wanted to keep the focus on the language. But I should say that the Rolfe’s score is as historically grounded as Clarke’s libretto: it is rooted in African Canadian music (from ring shouts to spirituals to blues) and in Scottish fiddle music and local reels of the time, not to mention bel canto Italian opera. However, the music consciously links black and white traditions in a way that Clarke’s words and story refuse: they remain stubbornly separate, set in deliberate tension with the music’s resolution. Beatrice will murder her father, and, at the very moment that Nova Scotia slaves are liberated, she and her co-conspirators will be hanged for that murder. Unlike the printed verse drama, the shorter opera libretto functions like a screenplay, if you will. It is not so much an autonomous work unto itself, but it points toward a potential enactment or embodiment in performance. Yet, even there, Clarke cannot resist the lure of words—even though they are words that no audience will ever hear. The stage directions for Act 3, scene 2 of the opera read: “The garden. Slaves, sunflowers, stars, sparks” (98). The printed verse play is full of these poetic associative stage directions, suggesting that despite his protestations to the contrary, Clarke may have thought of that version as one meant to be read by the eye. After Beatrice’s rape, the stage directions read: “A violin mopes. Invisible shovelsful of dirt thud upon the scene—as if those present were being buried alive—like ourselves” (91). Our imaginations—and emotions—go to work, assisted by the poet’s associations. There are many such textual helpers—epigraphs, photographs, notes—that we do not have when we watch and listen to the opera. We do have the music, the staged drama, the colours and sounds as well as the words of the text. As Clarke puts the difference: “as a chamber opera, Beatrice Chancy has ascended to television broadcast. But as a closet drama, it play only within the reader’s head” (“Adaptation” 14). Clarke’s work of literature, his verse drama, is a “situated utterance, produced in one medium and in one historical and social context,” to use Robert Stam’s terms. In the opera version, it was transformed into another “equally situated utterance, produced in a different context and relayed through a different medium” (45-6). I want to argue that both are worthy of study and respect by wordsmiths, by people like me. I realise I’ve loaded the dice: here neither the verse play nor the libretto is primary; neither is really the “source” text, for they were written at the same time and by the same person. But for readers and audiences (my focus and interest here), they exist on a continuum—depending on which we happen to experience first. As Ilana Shiloh explores here, the same is true about the short story and film of Memento. I am not alone in wanting to mount a defence of adaptations. Julie Sanders ends her new book called Adaptation and Appropriation with these words: “Adaptation and appropriation … are, endlessly and wonderfully, about seeing things come back to us in as many forms as possible” (160). The storytelling imagination is an adaptive mechanism—whether manifesting itself in print or on stage or on screen. The study of the production of literature should, I would like to argue, include those other forms taken by that storytelling drive. If I can be forgiven a move to the amusing—but still serious—in concluding, Terry Pratchett puts it beautifully in his fantasy story, Witches Abroad: “Stories, great flapping ribbons of shaped space-time, have been blowing and uncoiling around the universe since the beginning of time. And they have evolved. The weakest have died and the strongest have survived and they have grown fat on the retelling.” In biology as in culture, adaptations reign. References Bloom, Harold. The Anxiety of Influence. New York: Oxford University Press, 1975. Bruhn, Mark J. “’Prodigious Mixtures and Confusions Strange’: The Self-Subverting Mixed Style of The Cenci.” Poetics Today 22.4 (2001). Clarke, George Elliott. “Beatrice Chancy: A Libretto in Four Acts.” Canadian Theatre Review 96 (1998): 62-79. ———. Beatrice Chancy. Victoria, BC: Polestar, 1999. ———. “Adaptation: Love or Cannibalism? Some Personal Observations”, unpublished manuscript of article. Frye, Northrop. The Educated Imagination. Toronto: CBC, 1963. Goodman, Nelson. Languages of Art: An Approach to a Theory of Symbols. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1968. Hutcheon, Linda, and Gary R. Bortolotti. “On the Origin of Adaptations: Rethinking Fidelity Discourse and “Success”—Biologically.” New Literary History. Forthcoming. Joyce, James. Dubliners. 1916. New York: Viking, 1967. ———. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. 1916. Penguin: Harmondsworth, 1960. Larson, Katherine. “Resistance from the Margins in George Elliott Clarke’s Beatrice Chancy.” Canadian Literature 189 (2006): 103-118. McGee, Celia. “Beowulf on Demand.” New York Times, Arts and Leisure. 30 April 2006. A4. Rushdie, Salman. The Satanic Verses. New York: Viking, 1988. ———. Haroun and the Sea of Stories. London: Granta/Penguin, 1990. Sanders, Julie. Adaptation and Appropriation. London and New York: Routledge, 160. Shelley, Percy Bysshe. The Cenci. Ed. George Edward Woodberry. Boston and London: Heath, 1909. Stam, Robert. “Introduction: The Theory and Practice of Adaptation.” Literature and Film: A Guide to the Theory and Practice of Film Adaptation. Oxford: Blackwell, 2005. 1-52. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Hutcheon, Linda. "In Defence of Literary Adaptation as Cultural Production." M/C Journal 10.2 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0705/01-hutcheon.php>. APA Style Hutcheon, L. (May 2007) "In Defence of Literary Adaptation as Cultural Production," M/C Journal, 10(2). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0705/01-hutcheon.php>.