Journal articles on the topic 'Emma Hamilton'

Lady Emma Hamilton, cuyo nombre de nacimiento fue Amy Lyon, siempre ha sido sinónimo de glamur, elegancia y clase. Muy pocas mujeres en la historia han conseguido suscitar tanta pasión y generar tanto misterio en torno a ellas como Emma Lyon.
 Este estudio tiene como objetivo subrayar la importancia de la amistad entre Emma Hamilton y la reina María Carolina de Nápoles, así como las consecuencias políticas que tuvo en ese reino. Su base es el análisis de varios textos autorreferenciales: cartas publicadas a principios del siglo XX, que no se han vuelto a publicar, y documentos privados en gran parte desconocidos e inéditos, que muestran los vínculos (familia, amigos, amor) entre Emma y la reina, revelando áreas poco estudiadas y las repercusiones de esta relación en la política del momento.

Abstract During the 1790s, Emma Hamilton, wife of collector and diplomat Sir William Hamilton, developed an innovative form of performance art, tableaux vivants known as the ‘(Grecian) Attitudes’. Notoriously transgressive both sexually and socially, Emma also transgressed materially, transposing the scenes depicted on Sir William’s vases into a kinaesthetic medium. That performance remains a subaltern or illegitimate mode of relating to ancient material culture (as opposed to visual display) is a cultural bias rooted in economic relations. Outside the context of the Attitudes, contemporaries were anxious to (re)place Emma in terms of class, describing her as promiscuous, ‘common’, and ‘vulgar’. Modern scholarship has proved similarly anxious to limit her agency through the repeated assertion of a ‘Pygmalion’ paradigm in which responsibility for developing the Attitudes is assigned to Sir William. I argue that, on the contrary, Emma should be credited with a mode of embodied reception alternative to that of the collector and connoisseur.

In this article, Emma ‘Ready’ Hamilton explores the critical issue of sexual harassment and abuse within the realm of Olympic sports, with a particular focus on the emerging discipline of breaking. Drawing on the context of the upcoming debut of breaking at the 2024 Paris Olympic Games, Hamilton delves into the policies and procedures necessary to address these pervasive issues and draws lessons from other Olympic categories.

The origins of the tableau vivant can be traced back at least to the pantomimus of ancient Rome, but the form achieved its peak of modern popularity in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, when poses plastiques sometimes struck an ambiguous balance between art and pornography. In the following article, Volker Schachenmayr calls for a re-evaluation of the form, investigating how far and in what ways a static pose, or attitude, can be a theatrical performance. His article focuses on the attitudes of Emma Lyon, later and more familiarly known as wife to Sir William Hamilton and mistress to Nelson. Drawing on connections with Sir William's archaeological pursuits, and with the performance theory of Goethe, an admirer of Emma's attitudes, he suggests a vocabulary to make the tableau accessible to performance critics, using Goethe's Italienische Reise and Poussin's Inspiration of the Epic Poetto to shape the discussion. Volker Schachenmayr received his PhD in Drama from Stanford University, and this article is part of a larger research project on Winckelmann, the Grand Tour, and stage performance in the age of Goethe.

AbstractAs a naval hero Vice-Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson holds a special place in the affections of the British people. Any expectation that his country would provide for Lady Emma Hamilton and his daughter, Horatia, was almost forgotten when he died. However, following Emma’s death, Nelson’s family shaped Horatia’s destiny, which resulted in a happy marriage and a large family. Her second son, Marmaduke, was influenced by an uncle, a surgeon, who trained and guided him towards a surgical qualification and a life at sea as a surgeon in the Royal Navy. Despite a paucity of documentary evidence, it has been possible to trace his progress by analysing his Admiralty service record and abstracting information from an extensive biography of his mother. As another piece in the Nelson narrative, this account adds a medical perspective.

Abstract Vigorous physical activity has been associated with lower risk of fatal prostate cancer and improved cancer-specific outcomes. However, the mechanisms contributing to this relationship are not understood. The current study characterized inflammation in prostate cancer tissue and evaluated features of the immune microenvironment related to physical activity and prostate cancer aggressiveness. We studied 119 men with prostate cancer participating in the University of North Carolina Health Registry/Cancer Survivorship Cohort who underwent radical prostatectomy. Structured questionnaires were administered at patients' study entry to assess physical activity. Digital image analysis of H&E-stained tissue sections using QuPath was applied to quantify Tumour Infiltrating Lymphocytes (TILs) in glands and stroma of tumor and adjacent normal regions. Nanostring gene expression profiling was performed on tumour tissue and a 50-gene signature utilized to predict immune cell types. ERG gene expression was used as a surrogate of TMPRSS2:ERG fusion status. Logistic regression was used to test associations of inflammation features with tumour aggressiveness and recreational physical activity measures. Cox proportional hazards analysis was applied to estimate hazard ratios (HR) and 95% confidence intervals (CI) for the association between immune cell types and risk of prostate cancer progression, with validation in a separate study of 101 radiation-treated prostate cancer patients. Our study comprised 77% white and 23% black men, and 25% of men had Gleason grade ≥4+3, 29% men reported recreational vigorous activity prior to diagnosis of prostate cancer. Acute tumour inflammation affected 30% of men, while 53% showed acute inflammation of adjacent tissue. TILs were more abundant in glands than stroma; two-fold more in tumour and five-fold more in adjacent tissue. Frequency of inflammation was similar between ERG-positive and ERG-negative tumours. An inverse relationship was observed between recreational vigorous activity and TILs abundance. Expression of the immune gene signature was also significantly lower in men reporting any recreational vigorous activity compared to those reporting none (P=0.044), driven by reduced gene expression-predicted abundance of Th cells, exhausted CD8 T cells, macrophages and neutrophils. Moreover, T cells, Tfh, Treg, exhausted CD8 T cells and macrophages were significantly increased in men with Gleason grade ≥4+3 or clinical stage ≥III. Treg abundance was positively associated with prostate cancer progression (HR, 1.35; 95%CI 1.03-1.78) after adjusting for age and race, which was further strengthened in ERG-positive patients (HR, 1.60; 95%CI 1.03-2.47). We show that the immune landscape in prostate cancer is altered in men reporting vigorous physical activity. Immune cell types associated with an immunosuppressive microenvironment, including exhausted CD8 T cells, Tregs, and macrophages, may be potential candidate mechanisms linking recreational vigorous activity with reduced prostate tumour aggressiveness and improved outcomes. Citation Format: Lanshan Huang, Sophia Halliday, Linnea Olsson, Alina Hamilton, Erin Kirk, Laura Farnan, Adrian Gerstel, Stephanie Craig, Stephen Finn, Melissa Wilson, Melissa Troester, Eboneé Butler, Jeannette Bensen, Sara Wobker, Emma Allott. Vigorous physical activity associated changes in immune cell infiltrate are linked with reduced prostate tumour aggressiveness [abstract]. In: Proceedings of the AACR Special Conference: Advances in Prostate Cancer Research; 2023 Mar 15-18; Denver, Colorado. Philadelphia (PA): AACR; Cancer Res 2023;83(11 Suppl):Abstract nr B028.

Considering the self-gravitation interaction and the unfixed background space–time, we study the Hawking radiation of the Einstein–Maxwell–Dilaton–Axion (EMDA) black hole by the radial geodesic method and the Hamilton–Jacobi method. Both sets of results agree with Parikh and Wilczek's and show that the actual radiation spectrum deviates from the purely thermal one and the tunneling probability is related to the change of Bekenstein–Hawking entropy, which satisfies an underlying unitary theory.

For 60+ years, two of the world's most widespread and destructive invasive ant species, the African big-headed ant (Pheidole megacephala) from tropical Africa and the Argentine ant (Linepithema humile) from subtropical South America, have been engaged in an epic battle on the islands of Bermuda. Both species are completely intolerant of the other and are also well-known for killing off native invertebrates, particularly other ants. Here I surveyed sites across Bermuda in 2016, including resurveys of the locations previously surveyed in 1963, 1966, 1973, 1986, and 2002, to provide an update on this conflict. The status of all other ant species present in the islands, including previous records from literature, is also provided. In addition, I surveyed ants nesting in red mangrove (Rhizophora mangle) trees to evaluate whether this arboreal habitat may serve as a refuge for previously overlooked ant species. In 2016, L. humile occurred at most surveyed sites in Bermuda, including all ten resurveyed sites. Pheidole megacephala was present at only two resurveyed sites, a lower proportion of sites than any of the five earlier surveys. Still, P. megacephala occupied substantial areas, particularly in and around Hamilton, the capital of Bermuda. This survey increased the number of ant species with verified records from Bermuda to 25, including four exotic species recorded for the first time: Cardiocondyla minutior, Pheidole navigans, Strumigenys emmae, and Strumigenys membranifera. I found five ant species nesting in mangroves: L. humile plus four Old World exotics, C. minutior, Cardiocondyla obscurior, Monomorium floricola, and Plagiolepis alluaudi. It appears that L. humile may be better suited to the subtropical climate of Bermuda than P. megacephala, except perhaps in warmer and sunnier habitats, such as plantings along urban streets and in open parks, where P. megacephala may hold the advantage. The dataset on the new ant records from 2016 is provided with the paper.

<strong>ABSTRACT</strong> Land snails are major pests of various crops in India and their control primarily depends on the use of molluscicides to limit the effect of these pests below damaging level. Synthetic molluscicides are considered to be the most effective for the control of terrestrial gastropods. The present study deals with the biochemical effect of two pesticides namely, Cartap hydrochloride and Imidacloprid on Albumin (ALB), Alkaline phosphatase (ALP), Glucose (GLU), Total Proteins (TP) and Uric acid (UA) to know their toxicity in land snail <em>C. moussonianus</em>. LC10 was taken based on the LC50 concentration 0.08 ppm and 0.11ppm of both Cartap hydrochloride (0.41ppm) and Imidacloprid (0.54ppm) respectively for study. The findings conclude that Cartap hydrochloride and Imidacloprid show significant decrease in ALB, ALK, GLU and TP whereas slightly increase in UA content was noticed. This reveals that Cartap hydrochloride and Imidacloprid may be used for control land snail <em>C. moussonianus.</em> <strong>Keywords: </strong><em>Cerastus moussonianus, </em>Cartap hydrochloride, Imidacloprid, Albumin, Alkaline Phosphatase, Glucose, Total Protein, Uric Acid. <strong>REFERENCES</strong> Abd-El-Ail, S.M. 2004. Toxicity and biochemical response of <em>Eobania vermiculata</em> land snail to niclosamide molluscicide under laboratory and field conditions. <em>J. Agric. Sci. </em>Mansoura Univ., 29: 4751-4756. Barth, R.H. and Broshears, R.E. 1982. The invertebrate world. Halt Rinehart and Winston. The Dryden Press, Japan. Dreon, M.S.; Ituarte, S. and Heras, H. 2010. The role of the Proteinase inhibitor ovurobin in Apple Snail eggs resembles plant embryo defense against predation. PloS ONE, 5 (12): e15059. Genena, M.A.M. 2003. Studies on the terrestrial gastropods at Dakahlia Governorate. M.Sc. Thesis, Faculty of Agriculture, Mansoura University, Egypt. 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Emma Hamilton es el caso de una mujer pobre del siglo XVIII que, mediante habilidades femeniles apreciadas en su &eacute;poca, logra superar su condici&oacute;n social y econ&oacute;mica de origen y convertirse en una de las mujeres m&aacute;s famosas de Europa, as&iacute; como una de las m&aacute;s retratadas de Inglaterra. Nacida en la pobreza, se convierte en amante y/o acompa&ntilde;ante de diversos caballeros de sociedad, hasta llegar a casarse con sir William Hamilton, embajador de Inglaterra en N&aacute;poles. Ah&iacute; conoce al almirante Horacio Nelson, con quien tuvo una comentada y criticada relaci&oacute;n amorosa. A pesar de sus encumbramientos sociales, muere sola, enferma, abandonada y pobre. El caso de Hamilton estimula algunas preguntas respecto de d&oacute;nde poner el foco para visualizar el balance de su vida: &iquest;en aquel per&iacute;odo en que su vida es un ejemplo de &eacute;xito y de ascensos? &iquest;o en aquel en que es m&aacute;s bien un ejemplo de fracaso? &iquest;en el tiempo posterior en que su figura ha sido revitalizada a trav&eacute;s de pel&iacute;culas y novelas? Las diversas miradas epocales nos permiten reflexionar acerca de la subjetividad y dinamismo del concepto de &eacute;xito y fracaso y sus representaciones.

Based on a higher energy scale, the dispersion relation might be corrected. Correspondingly, the Hamilton–Jacobi equation should also be modified. In this paper, we use the correction to study the fermion tunneling radiation for a Gibbons–Maeda–Garfinkle-Horowitz–Strominger (GMGHS) black hole, a Kerr–NUT black hole, and an Einstein–Maxwell–Dilaton–Axion (EMDA) black hole. The result shows that compared to the charged GMGHS black hole and the rotating Kerr–NUT black hole, the Hawking temperate and the entropy of the rotating charged EMDA black hole not only are related to the correction parameter [Formula: see text] and particle mass [Formula: see text] but also depend on the angle parameter [Formula: see text] of the black hole coordinates.

The Supreme Court of India has reaffirmed the non-arbitrability of consumer disputes, strengthening consumer protection frameworks under Indian law. The Consumer Protection Act, 1986, and its successor, the Consumer Protection Act, 2019, were designed to provide efficient, cost-effective, and accessible redressal mechanisms. Despite India's pro-arbitration stance, the judiciary has consistently upheld that consumer disputes, being matters of public interest, cannot be subjected to private arbitration agreements. This study examines key Supreme Court rulings, particularly M/S Emmar MGF Land Limited v. Aftab Singh and M. Hemalatha Devi and Ors. v. B. Udayasri, which cement the position that consumer forums retain exclusive jurisdiction over consumer grievances. The analysis traces the evolution of judicial interpretations, beginning with Fair Engineering Pvt. Ltd. v. N.K. Modi, which granted consumers the discretion to choose between arbitration and consumer forums. The Supreme Court's decision in Booz Allen and Hamilton v. SBI Home Finance laid the groundwork for distinguishing between arbitral rights in personal and non-arbitral rights in rem. Subsequently, the Court reinforced the welfare dimension of consumer protection laws, prioritizing consumer rights over contractual arbitration agreements. The ruling in Hemalatha affirms that consumers cannot be compelled into arbitration against their will. While arbitration remains a preferred dispute resolution mechanism globally, India's approach ensures that consumer interests are not undermined by potentially coercive arbitration clauses. This judgment strengthens consumer rights and sets a precedent for future legal discourse on arbitration in consumer law.

05–486Balnaves, Edmund (U of Sydney, Australia; ejb@it.usyd.edu.au), Systematic approaches to long term digital collection management. Literary and Linguistic Computing (Oxford, UK) 20.4 (2005), 399–413.05–487Barwell, Graham (U of Wollongong, Australia; gbarwell@uow.edu.au), Original, authentic, copy: conceptual issues in digital texts. Literary and Linguistic Computing (Oxford, UK) 20.4 (2005), 415–424.05–488Beech, John R. &amp; Kate A. Mayall (U of Leicester, UK; JRB@Leicester.ac.uk), The word shape hypothesis re-examined: evidence for an external feature advantage in visual word recognition. Journal of Research in Reading (Oxford, UK) 28.3 (2005), 302–319.05–489Belcher, Diane (Georgia State U, USA; dbelcher1@gsu.edu) &amp; Alan Hirvela, Writing the qualitative dissertation: what motivates and sustains commitment to a fuzzy genre?Journal of English for Academic Purposes (Amsterdam, the Netherlands) 4.3 (2005), 187–205.05–490Bernhardt, Elisabeth (U of Minnesota, USA; ebernhar@stanford.edu), Progress and procrastination in second language reading. Annual Review of Applied Linguistics (Cambridge, UK) 25 (2005), 133–150.05–491Bishop, Dorothy (U of Oxford, UK; dorothy.bishop@psy.ox.ac.uk), Caroline Adams, Annukka Lehtonen &amp; Stuart Rosen, Effectiveness of computerised spelling training in children with language impairments: a comparison of modified and unmodified speech input. Journal of Research in Reading (Oxford, UK) 28.2 (2005), 144–157.05–492Bowey, Judith A., Michaela McGuigan &amp; Annette Ruschena (U of Queensland, Australia; j.bowey@psy.uq.edu.au), On the association between serial naming speed for letters and digits and word-reading skill: towards a developmental account. Journal of Research in Reading (Oxford, UK) 28.4 (2005), 400–422.05–493Bowyer-Crane, Claudine &amp; Margaret J. Snowling (U of York, UK; c.crane@psych.york.ac.uk), Assessing children's inference generation: what do tests of reading comprehension measure?British Journal of Educational Psychology (Leicester, UK) 75.2 (2005), 189–201.05–494Bruce, Ian (U of Waikato, Hamilton, New Zealand; ibruce@waikato.ac.nz), Syllabus design for general EAP writing courses: a cognitive approach. Journal of English for Academic Purposes (Amsterdam, the Netherlands) 4.3 (2005), 239–256.05–495Burrows, John (U of Newcastle, Australia; john.burrows@netcentral.com.au), Who wroteShamela? Verifying the authorship of a parodic text. Literary and Linguistic Computing (Oxford, UK) 20.4 (2005), 437–450.05–496Clarke, Paula, Charles Hulme &amp; Margaret Snowling (U of York, UK; CH1@york.ac.uk), Individual differences in RAN and reading: a response timing analysis. Journal of Research in Reading (Oxford, UK) 28.2 (2005), 73–86.05–497Colledge, Marion (Metropolitan U, London, UK; m.colledge@londonmet.ac.uk), Baby Bear or Mrs Bear? Young English Bengali-speaking children's responses to narrative picture books at school. Literacy (Oxford, UK) 39.1 (2005), 24–30.05–498De Pew, Kevin Eric (Old Dominion U, Norfolk, USA; Kdepew@odu.edu) &amp; Susan Kay Miller, Studying L2 writers' digital writing: an argument for post-critical methods. Computers and Composition (Amsterdam, the Netherlands) 22.3 (2005), 259–278.05–499Dekydtspotter, Laurent (Indiana U, USA; ldekydts@indiana.edu) &amp; Samantha D. Outcalt, A syntactic bias in scope ambiguity resolution in the processing of English French cardinality interrogatives: evidence for informational encapsulation. Language Learning (Malden, MA, USA) 55.1 (2005), 1–36.05–500Fernández Toledo, Piedad (Universidad de Murcia, Spain; piedad@um.es), Genre analysis and reading of English as a foreign language: genre schemata beyond text typologies. Journal of Pragmatics37.7 (2005), 1059–1079.05–501French, Gary (Chukyo U, Japan; french@lets.chukyo-u.ac.jp), The cline of errors in the writing of Japanese university students. World Englishes (Oxford, UK) 24.3 (2005), 371–382.05–502Green, Chris (Hong Kong Polytechnic U, Hong Kong, China), Profiles of strategic expertise in second language reading. Hong Kong Journal of Applied Linguistics (Hong Kong, China) 9.2 (2004), 1–16.05–503Groom, Nicholas (U of Birmingham, UK; nick@nicholasgroom.fsnet.co.uk), Pattern and meaning across genres and disciplines: an exploratory study. Journal of English for Academic Purposes (Amsterdam, the Netherlands) 4.3 (2005), 257–277.05–504Harris, Pauline &amp; Barbara McKenzie (U of Wollongong, Australia; pharris@uow.edu.au), Networking aroundThe Waterholeand other tales: the importance of relationships among texts for reading and related instruction. Literacy (Oxford, UK) 39.1 (2005), 31–37.05–505Harrison, Allyson G. &amp; Eva Nichols (Queen's U, Canada; harrisna@post.queensu.ca), A validation of the Dyslexia Adult Screening Test (DAST) in a post-secondary population. Journal of Research in Reading (Oxford, UK) 28.4 (2005), 423–434.05–506Hirvela, Alan (Ohio State U, USA; hirvela.1@osu.edu), Computer-based reading and writing across the curriculum: two case studies of L2 writers. Computers and Composition (Amsterdam, the Netherlands) 22.3 (2005), 337–356.05–507Holdom, Shoshannah (Oxford U, UK; shoshannah.holdom@oucs.ox.ac.uk), E-journal proliferation in emerging economies: the case of Latin America. Literary and Linguistic Computing (Oxford, UK) 20.3 (2005), 351–365.05–508Hopper, Rosemary (U of Exeter, UK; r.hopper@ex.ac.uk), What are teenagers reading? Adolescent fiction reading habits and reading choices. Literacy (Oxford, UK) 39.3 (2005), 113–120.05–509Jarman, Ruth &amp; Billy McClune (Queen's U, Northern Ireland; r.jarman@qub.ac.uk), Space Science News: Special Edition, a resource for extending reading and promoting engagement with newspapers in the science classroom. Literacy (Oxford, UK) 39.3 (2005), 121–128.05–510Jia-ling Charlene Yau (Ming Chuan U, Taiwan; jyau@mcu.edu.tw), Two Mandarin readers in Taiwan: characteristics of children with higher and lower reading proficiency levels. Journal of Research in Reading (Oxford, UK) 28.2 (2005), 108–124.05–511Justice, Laura M, Lori Skibbel, Andrea Canning &amp; Chris Lankford (U of Virginia, USA; ljustice@virginia.edu), Pre-schoolers, print and storybooks: an observational study using eye movement analysis. Journal of Research in Reading (Oxford, UK) 28.3 (2005), 229–243.05–512Kelly, Alison (Roehampton U, UK; a.m.kelly@roehampton.ac.uk), ‘Poetry? Of course we do it. It's in the National Curriculum.’ Primary children's perceptions of poetry. Literacy (Oxford, UK) 39.3 (2005), 129–134.05–513Kern, Richard (U of California, Berkeley, USA; rkern@berkeley.edu) &amp; Jean Marie Schultz, Beyond orality: investigating literacy and the literary in second and foreign language instruction. The Modern Language Journal (Malden, MA, USA) 89.3 (2005), 381–392.05–514Kispal, Anne (National Foundation for Educational Research, UK; a.kispal@nfer.ac.uk), Examining England's National Curriculum assessments: an analysis of the KS2 reading test questions, 1993–2004. Literacy (Oxford, UK) 39.3 (2005), 149–157.05–515Kriss, Isla &amp; Bruce J. W. Evans (Institute of Optometry, London, UK), The relationship between dyslexia and Meares-Irlen Syndrome. Journal of Research in Reading (Oxford, UK) 28.3 (2005), 350–364.05–516Lavidor, Michal &amp; Peter J. Bailey (U of Hull, UK; M.Lavidor@hull.ac.uk), Dissociations between serial position and number of letters effects in lateralised visual word recognition. Journal of Research in Reading (Oxford, UK) 28.3 (2005), 258–273.05–517Lee, Sy-ying (Taipei, Taiwan, China; syying.lee@msa.hinet.net), Facilitating and inhibiting factors in English as a foreign language writing performance: a model testing with structural equation modelling. Language Learning (Malden, MA, USA) 55.2 (2005), 335–374.05–518Leppänen, Ulla, Kaisa Aunola &amp; Jari-Erik Nurmi (U of Jyväskylä, Finland; uleppane@psyka.jyu.fi), Beginning readers' reading performance and reading habits. 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The 2000s have been a lively decade for cities. The Worldwatch Institute estimated that 2007 was the first year in human history that more people worldwide lived in cities than the countryside. Globalisation and new digital media technologies have generated the seemingly paradoxical outcome that spatial location came to be more rather than less important, as combinations of firms, industries, cultural activities and creative talents have increasingly clustered around a select node of what have been termed “creative cities,” that are in turn highly networked into global circuits of economic capital, political power and entertainment media. Intellectually, the period has seen what the UCLA geographer Ed Soja refers to as the spatial turn in social theory, where “whatever your interests may be, they can be significantly advanced by adopting a critical spatial perspective” (2). This is related to the dynamic properties of socially constructed space itself, or what Soja terms “the powerful forces that arise from socially produced spaces such as urban agglomerations and cohesive regional economies,” with the result that “what can be called the stimulus of socio-spatial agglomeration is today being assertively described as the primary cause of economic development, technological innovation, and cultural creativity” (14). The demand for social justice in cities has, in recent years, taken the form of “Right to the City” movements. The “Right to the City” movement draws upon the long tradition of radical urbanism in which the Paris Commune of 1871 features prominently, and which has both its Marxist and anarchist variants, as well as the geographer Henri Lefebvre’s (1991) arguments that capitalism was fundamentally driven by the production of space, and that the citizens of a city possessed fundamental rights by virtue of being in a city, meaning that political struggle in capitalist societies would take an increasingly urban form. Manifestations of contemporary “Right to the City” movements have been seen in the development of a World Charter for the Right to the City, Right to the City alliances among progressive urban planners as well as urban activists, forums that bring together artists, architects, activists and urban geographers, and a variety of essays on the subject by radical geographers including David Harvey, whose work I wish to focus upon here. In his 2008 essay "The Right to the City," Harvey presents a manifesto for 21st century radical politics that asserts that the struggle for collective control over cities marks the nodal point of anti-capitalist movements today. It draws together a range of strands of arguments recognizable to those familiar with Harvey’s work, including Marxist political economy, the critique of neoliberalism, the growth of social inequality in the U.S. in particular, and concerns about the rise of speculative finance capital and its broader socio-economic consequences. My interest in Harvey’s manifesto here arises not so much from his prognosis for urban radicalism, but from how he understands the suburban in relation to this urban class struggle. It is an important point to consider because, in many parts of the world, growing urbanisation is in fact growing suburbanisation. This is the case for U.S. cities (Cox), and it is also apparent in Australian cities, with the rise in particular of outer suburban Master Planned Communities as a feature of the “New Prosperity” Australia has been experiencing since the mid 1990s (Flew; Infrastructure Australia). What we find in Harvey’s essay is that the suburban is clearly sub-urban, or an inferior form of city living. Suburbs are variously identified by Harvey as being:Sites for the expenditure of surplus capital, as a safety valve for overheated finance capitalism (Harvey 27);Places where working class militancy is pacified through the promotion of mortgage debt, which turns suburbanites into political conservatives primarily concerned with maintaining their property values;Places where “the neoliberal ethic of intense possessive individualism, and its cognate of political withdrawal from collective forms of action” are actively promoted through the proliferation of shopping malls, multiplexes, franchise stores and fast-food outlets, leading to “pacification by cappuccino” (32);Places where women are actively oppressed, so that “leading feminists … [would] proclaim the suburb as the locus of all their primary discontents” (28);A source of anti-capitalist struggle, as “the soulless qualities of suburban living … played a critical role in the dramatic events of 1968 in the US [as] discontented white middle-class students went into a phase of revolt, sought alliances with marginalized groups claiming civil rights and rallied against American imperialism” (28).Given these negative associations, one could hardly imagine citizens demanding the right to the suburb, in the same way as Harvey projects the right to the city as a rallying cry for a more democratic social order. Instead, from an Australian perspective, one is reminded of the critiques of suburbia that have been a staple of radical theory from the turn of the 20th century to the present day (Collis et. al.). Demanding the “right to the suburb” would appear here as an inherently contradictory demand, that could only be desired by those who the Australian radical psychoanalytic theorist Douglas Kirsner described as living an alienated existence where:Watching television, cleaning the car, unnecessary housework and spectator sports are instances of general life-patterns in our society: by adopting these patterns the individual submits to a uniform life fashioned from outside, a pseudo-life in which the question of individual self-realisation does not even figure. People live conditioned, unconscious lives, reproducing the values of the system as a whole (Kirsner 23). The problem with this tradition of radical critique, which is perhaps reflective of the estrangement of a section of the Australian critical intelligentsia more generally, is that most Australians live in suburbs, and indeed seem (not surprisingly!) to like living in them. Indeed, each successive wave of migration to Australia has been marked by families seeking a home in the suburbs, regardless of the housing conditions of the place they came from: the demand among Singaporeans for large houses in Perth, or what has been termed “Singaperth,” is one of many manifestations of this desire (Lee). Australian suburban development has therefore been characterized by a recurring tension between the desire of large sections of the population to own their own home (the fabled quarter-acre block) in the suburbs, and the condemnation of suburban life from an assortment of intellectuals, political radicals and cultural critics. This was the point succinctly made by the economist and urban planner Hugh Stretton in his 1970 book Ideas for Australian Cities, where he observed that “Most Australians choose to live in suburbs, in reach of city centres and also of beaches or countryside. Many writers condemn this choice, and with especial anger or gloom they condemn the suburbs” (Stretton 7). Sue Turnbull has observed that “suburbia has come to constitute a cultural fault-line in Australia over the last 100 years” (19), while Ian Craven has described suburbia as “a term of contention and a focus for fundamentally conflicting beliefs” in the Australian national imaginary “whose connotations continue to oscillate between dream and suburban nightmare” (48). The tensions between celebration and critique of suburban life play themselves out routinely in the Australian media, from the sun-lit suburbanism of Australia’s longest running television serial dramas, Neighbours and Home and Away, to the pointed observational critiques found in Australian comedy from Barry Humphries to Kath and Kim, to the dark visions of films such as The Boys and Animal Kingdom (Craven; Turnbull). Much as we may feel that the diagnosis of suburban life as a kind of neurotic condition had gone the way of the concept album or the tie-dye shirt, newspaper feature writers such as Catherine Deveny, writing in The Age, have offered the following as a description of the Chadstone shopping centre in Melbourne’s eastern suburbChadstone is a metastasised tumour of offensive proportions that's easy to find. You simply follow the line of dead-eyed wage slaves attracted to this cynical, hermetically sealed weatherless biosphere by the promise a new phone will fix their punctured soul and homewares and jumbo caramel mugachinos will fill their gaping cavern of disappointment … No one looks happy. Everyone looks anaesthetised. A day spent at Chadstone made me understand why they call these shopping centres complexes. Complex as in a psychological problem that's difficult to analyse, understand or solve. (Deveny) Suburbanism has been actively promoted throughout Australia’s history since European settlement. Graeme Davison has observed that “Australia’s founders anticipated a sprawl of homes and gardens rather than a clumping of terraces and alleys,” and quotes Governor Arthur Phillip’s instructions to the first urban developers of the Sydney Cove colony in 1790 that streets shall be “laid out in such a manner as to afford free circulation of air, and where the houses are built … the land will be granted with a clause that will prevent more than one house being built on the allotment” (Davison 43). Louise Johnson (2006) argued that the main features of 20th century Australian suburbanisation were very much in place by the 1920s, particularly land-based capitalism and the bucolic ideal of home as a retreat from the dirt, dangers and density of the city. At the same time, anti-suburbanism has been a significant influence in Australian public thought. Alan Gilbert (1988) drew attention to the argument that Australia’s suburbs combined the worst elements of the city and country, with the absence of both the grounded community associated with small towns, and the mental stimuli and personal freedom associated with the city. Australian suburbs have been associated with spiritual emptiness, the promotion of an ersatz, one-dimensional consumer culture, the embourgeoisment of the working-class, and more generally criticised for being “too pleasant, too trivial, too domestic and far too insulated from … ‘real’ life” (Gilbert 41). There is also an extensive feminist literature critiquing suburbanization, seeing it as promoting the alienation of women and the unequal sexual division of labour (Game and Pringle). More recently, critiques of suburbanization have focused on the large outer-suburban homes developed on new housing estates—colloquially known as McMansions—that are seen as being environmentally unsustainable and emblematic of middle-class over-consumption. Clive Hamilton and Richard Denniss’s Affluenza (2005) is a locus classicus of this type of argument, and organizations such as the Australia Institute—which Hamilton and Denniss have both headed—have regularly published papers making such arguments. Can the Suburbs Make You Creative?In such a context, championing the Australian suburb can feel somewhat like being an advocate for Dan Brown novels, David Williamson plays, Will Ferrell comedies, or TV shows such as Two and a Half Men. While it may put you on the side of majority opinion, you can certainly hear the critical axe grinding and possibly aimed at your head, not least because of the association of such cultural forms with mass popular culture, or the pseudo-life of an alienated existence. The art of a program such as Kath and Kim is that, as Sue Turnbull so astutely notes, it walks both sides of the street, both laughing with and laughing at Australian suburban culture, with its celebrity gossip magazines, gourmet butcher shops, McManisons and sales at Officeworks. Gina Riley and Jane Turner’s inspirations for the show can be seen with the presence of such suburban icons as Shane Warne, Kylie Minogue and Barry Humphries as guests on the program. Others are less nuanced in their satire. The website Things Bogans Like relentlessly pillories those who live in McMansions, wear Ed Hardy t-shirts and watch early evening current affairs television, making much of the lack of self-awareness of those who would simultaneously acquire Buddhist statues for their homes and take budget holidays in Bali and Phuket while denouncing immigration and multiculturalism. It also jokes about the propensity of “bogans” to loudly proclaim that those who question their views on such matters are demonstrating “political correctness gone mad,” appealing to the intellectual and moral authority of writers such as the Melbourne Herald-Sun columnist Andrew Bolt. There is also the “company you keep” question. Critics of over-consuming middle-class suburbia such as Clive Hamilton are strongly associated with the Greens, whose political stocks have been soaring in Australia’s inner cities, where the majority of Australia’s cultural and intellectual critics live and work. By contrast, the Liberal party under John Howard and now Tony Abbott has taken strongly to what could be termed suburban realism over the 1990s and 2000s. Examples of suburban realism during the Howard years included the former Member for Lindsay Jackie Kelly proclaiming that the voters of her electorate were not concerned with funding for their local university (University of Western Sydney) as the electorate was “pram city” and “no one in my electorate goes to uni” (Gibson and Brennan-Horley), and the former Minister for Immigration and Citizenship, Garry Hardgrave, holding citizenship ceremonies at Bunnings hardware stores, so that allegiance to the Australian nation could co-exist with a sausage sizzle (Gleeson). Academically, a focus on the suburbs is at odds with Richard Florida’s highly influential creative class thesis, which stresses inner urban cultural amenity and “buzz” as the drivers of a creative economy. Unfortunately, it is also at odds with many of Florida’s critics, who champion inner city activism as the antidote to the ersatz culture of “hipsterisation” that they associate with Florida (Peck; Slater). A championing of suburban life and culture is associated with writers such as Joel Kotkin and the New Geography group, who also tend to be suspicious of claims made about the creative industries and the creative economy. It is worth noting, however, that there has been a rich vein of work on Australian suburbs among cultural geographers, that has got past urban/suburban binaries and considered the extent to which critiques of suburban Australia are filtered through pre-existing discursive categories rather than empirical research findings (Dowling and Mee; McGuirk and Dowling; Davies (this volume). I have been part of a team engaged in a three-year study of creative industries workers in outer suburban areas, known as the Creative Suburbia project.[i] The project sought to understand how those working in creative industries who lived and worked in the outer suburbs maintained networks, interacted with clients and their peers, and made a success of their creative occupations: it focused on six suburbs in the cities of Brisbane (Redcliffe, Springfield, Forest Lake) and Melbourne (Frankston, Dandenong, Caroline Springs). It was premised upon what has been an inescapable empirical fact: however much talk there is about the “return to the city,” the fastest rates of population growth are in the outer suburbs of Australia’s major cities (Infrastructure Australia), and this is as true for those working in creative industries occupations as it is for those in virtually all other industry and occupational sectors (Flew; Gibson and Brennan-Horley; Davies). While there is a much rehearsed imagined geography of the creative industries that points to creative talents clustering in dense, highly agglomerated inner city precincts, incubating their unique networks of trust and sociality through random encounters in the city, it is actually at odds with the reality of where people in these sectors choose to live and work, which is as often as not in the suburbs, where the citizenry are as likely to meet in their cars at traffic intersections than walking in city boulevards.There is of course a “yes, but” response that one could have to such empirical findings, which is to accept that the creative workforce is more suburbanised than is commonly acknowledged, but to attribute this to people being driven out of the inner city by high house prices and rents, which may or may not be by-products of a Richard Florida-style strategy to attract the creative class. In other words, people live in the outer suburbs because they are driven out of the inner city. From our interviews with 130 people across these six suburban locations, the unequivocal finding was that this was not the case. While a fair number of our respondents had indeed moved from the inner city, just as many would—if given the choice—move even further away from the city towards a more rural setting as they would move closer to it. While there are clearly differences between suburbs, with creative people in Redcliffe being generally happier than those in Springfield, for example, it was quite clear that for many of these people a suburban location helped them in their creative practice, in ways that included: the aesthetic qualities of the location; the availability of “headspace” arising from having more time to devote to creative work rather than other activities such as travelling and meeting people; less pressure to conform to a stereotyped image of how one should look and act; financial savings from having access to lower-cost locations; and time saved by less commuting between locations.These creative workers generally did not see having access to the “buzz” associated with the inner city as being essential for pursuing work in their creative field, and they were just as likely to establish hardware stores and shopping centres as networking hubs as they were cafes and bars. While being located in the suburbs was disadvantageous in terms of access to markets and clients, but this was often seen in terms of a trade-off for better quality of life. Indeed, contrary to the presumptions of those such as Clive Hamilton and Catherine Deveny, they could draw creative inspiration from creative locations themselves, without feeling subjected to “pacification by cappuccino.” The bigger problem was that so many of the professional associations they dealt with would hold events in the inner city in the late afternoon or early evening, presuming people living close by and/or not having domestic or family responsibilities at such times. The role played by suburban locales such as hardware stores as sites for professional networking and as elements of creative industries value chains has also been documented in studies undertaken of Darwin as a creative city in Australia’s tropical north (Brennan-Horley and Gibson; Brennan-Horley et al.). Such a revised sequence in the cultural geography of the creative industries has potentially great implications for how urban cultural policy is being approached. The assumption that the creative industries are best developed in cities by investing heavily in inner urban cultural amenity runs the risk of simply bypassing those areas where the bulk of the nation’s artists, musicians, filmmakers and other cultural workers actually are, which is in the suburbs. Moreover, by further concentrating resources among already culturally rich sections of the urban population, such policies run the risk of further accentuating spatial inequalities in the cultural realm, and achieving the opposite of what is sought by those seeking spatial justice or the right to the city. An interest in broadband infrastructure or suburban university campuses is certainly far more prosaic than a battle for control of the nation’s cultural institutions or guerilla actions to reclaim the city’s streets. 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Sharing this article, the act of writing and then having it read, legitimises the point of it – that is, we (and we speak on behalf of each other here) managed to negotiate western academic expectations and norms from a just-as-legitimate-but-not-always-heard female Buginese perspective written in Standard Australian English (not my first choice-of-language and I speak on behalf of myself). At times we transgressed roles, guiding and following each other through different academic, cultural, social, and linguistic domains until we stumbled upon ways of legitimating our entanglement of experiences, when we heard the similar, faint, drum beat across boundaries and journeys.This article is one storying of the results of this four year relationship between a Buginese PhD candidate and an Indigenous Australian supervisor – both in the writing of the article and the processes that we are writing about. This is our process of knowing and validating knowledge through sharing, collaboration and cultural exchange. Neither the successful PhD thesis nor this article draw from authoethnography but they are outcomes of a lived, research standpoint that fiercely fought to centre a Muslim-Buginese perspective as much as possible, due to the nature of a postgraduate program. In the effort to find a way to not privilege Western ways of knowing to the detriment of my standpoint and position, we had to find a way to at times privilege my way of knowing the world alongside a Western one. There had to be a beat that transgressed cultural and linguistic differences and that allowed for a legitimised dialogic, intersubjective dance.The PhD research focused on potential dialogue between Australian culture and Buginese culture in terms of feminism and its resulting cultural hybridity where some Australian feminist thoughts are applicable to Buginese culture but some are not. Therefore, the PhD study centred a Buginese standpoint while moving back and forth amongst Australian feminist discourses and the dominant expectations of a western academic process. The PhD research was part of a greater Indonesian tertiary movement to include, study, challenge and extend feminist literary programs and how this could be respectfully and culturally appropriately achieved. This article is written by both of us but the core knowledge comes from a Buginese standpoint, that is, the principal supervisor learned from the PhD candidate and then applied her understanding of Indigenous standpoint theory, Tuhiwahi Smith’s decolonising methodologies and Spivakian self-reflexivity to aid the candidate’s development of her dancing methodology. For this reason, the rest of this article is written from the first-person perspective of Dr Abbas.The PhD study was a literary analysis on five stories from Helen Garner’s Postcards from Surfers (1985). My work translated these five stories from English into Indonesian and discussed some challenges that occurred in the process of translation. By using Edward Said’s work on contrapuntal reading and Robert Warrior’s metaphor of the subaltern dancing, I, the embodied learner and the cultural translator, moved back and forth between Buginese culture and Australian culture to consider how Australian women and men are represented and how mainstream Australian society engages with, or challenges, discourses of patriarchy and power. This movement back and forth was theorised as ‘dancing’. Ultimately, another dance was performed at the end of the thesis waltz between the work which centred my Buginese standpoint and academia as a Western tertiary institution.I have been dancing with Australian feminism for over four years. My use of the word ‘dancing’ signified my challenge to articulate and engage with Australian culture, literature, and feminism by viewing it from a Buginese perspective as opposed to a ‘Non-Western’ perspective. As a Buginese woman and scholar, I centred my specific cultural standpoints instead of accepting them generally and therefore dismissed the altering label of ‘Non-Western’. Juxtaposing Australian feminism with Buginese culture was not easy. However, as my research progressed I saw interesting cultural differences between Australian and Buginese cultures that could result in a hybridized way of engaging feminist issues. At times, my cultural standpoint took the lead in directing the research or the point, at other times a Western beat was more prominent, for example, using the English language to voice my work.The Buginese, also known as the Bugis, along with the Makassar, the Mandar, and the Toraja, are one of the four main ethnic groups of the province of South Sulawesi in Indonesia. The population of the Buginese in South Sulawesi spreads into major states (Bone, Wajo, Soppeng, and Sidenreng) and some minor states (Pare-Pare, Suppa, and Sinjai). Like other ethnic groups living in other islands of Indonesia such as the Javanese, the Sundanese, the Minang, the Batak, the Balinese, and the Ambonese, the Buginese have their own culture and traditions. The Buginese, especially those who live in the villages, are still bounded strictly by ade’ (custom) or pangadereng (customary law). This concept of ade’ provides living guidelines for Buginese and consists of five components including ade’, bicara, rapang, wari’, and sara’. Pelras clarifies that pangadereng is ‘adat-hood’, a corpus of interlinked ruling principles which, besides ade’ (custom), includes also bicara (jurisprudence), rapang (models of good behaviour which ensure the proper functioning of society), wari’ (rules of descent and hierarchy) and sara’ (Islamic law and institution, derived from the Arabic shari’a) (190). So, pangadereng is an overall norm which includes advice on how Buginese should behave towards fellow human beings and social institutions on a reciprocal basis. In addition, the Buginese together with Makassarese, mind what is called siri’ (honour and shame), that is the sense of honour and shame. In the life of the Buginese-Makassar people, the most basic element is siri’. For them, no other value merits to be more detected and preserved. Siri’ is their life, their self-respect and their dignity. This is why, in order to uphold and to defend it when it has been stained or they consider it has been stained by somebody, the Bugis-Makassar people are ready to sacrifice everything, including their most precious life, for the sake of its restoration. So goes the saying.... ‘When one’s honour is at stake, without any afterthought one fights’ (Pelras 206).Buginese is one of Indonesia’s ethnic groups where men and women are intended to perform equal roles in society, especially those who live in the Buginese states of South Sulawesi where they are still bound strictly by ade’ (custom) or pangadereng (customary law). These two basic concepts are guidelines for daily life, both in the family and the work place. Buginese also praise what is called siri’, a sense of honour and shame. It is because of this sense of honour and shame that we have a saying, siri’ emmi ri onroang ri lino (people live only for siri’) which means one lives only for honour and prestige. Siri’ had to remain a guiding principle in my theoretical and methodological approach to my PhD research. It is also a guiding principle in the resulting pedagogical praxis that this work has established for my course in Australian culture and literature at Hasanuddin University. I was not prepared to compromise my own ethical and cultural identity and position yet will admit, at times, I felt pressured to do so if I was going to be seen to be performing legitimate scholarly work. Novera argues that:Little research has focused specifically on the adjustment of Indonesian students in Australia. Hasanah (1997) and Philips (1994) note that Indonesian students encounter difficulties in fulfilling certain Western academic requirements, particularly in relation to critical thinking. These studies do not explore the broad range of academic and social problems. Yet this is a fruitful area for research, not just because of the importance of Indonesian students to Australia, and the importance of the Australia-Indonesia relationship to both neighbouring nations, but also because adjustment problems are magnified by cultural differences. There are clear differences between Indonesian and Australian cultures, so that a study of Indonesian students in Australia might also be of broader academic interest […]Studies of international student adjustment discuss a range of problems, including the pressures created by new role and behavioural expectations, language difficulties, financial problems, social difficulties, homesickness, difficulties in dealing with university and other authorities, academic difficulties, and lack of assertiveness inside and outside the classroom. (467)While both my supervisor and I would agree that I faced all of these obstacles during my PhD candidature, this article is focusing solely on the battle to present my methodology, a dialogic encounter between Buginese feminism and mainstream Australian culture using Helen Garner’s short stories, to a Western process and have it be “legitimised”. Endang writes that short stories are becoming more popular in the industrial era in Indonesia and they have become vehicles for writers to articulate the realities of social life such as poverty, marginalization, and unfairness (141-144). In addition, Noor states that the short story has become a new literary form particularly effective for assisting writers in their goal to help the marginalized because its shortness can function as a weapon to directly “scoop up” the targeted issues and “knock them out at a blow” (Endang 144-145). Indeed, Helen Garner uses short stories in a way similar to that described by Endang: as a defiant act towards the government and current circumstances (145). My study of Helen Garner’s short stories explored the way her stories engage with and resist gender relations and inequality between men and women in Australian society through four themes prevalent in the narratives: the kitchen, landscape, language, and sexuality. I wrote my thesis in standard Australian English and I complied with expected forms, formatting, referencing, structuring etc. My thesis also included the Buginese translations of some of Garner’s work. However, the theoretical approaches that informed my analysis cannot be separated from the personal. In the title, I use the term ‘dancing’ to indicate a dialogue with white Australian women by moving back and forth between Australian culture and Buginese culture. I use the term ‘dancing’ as an extension of Edward Said’s work on contrapuntal reading but employ it as a signifier of my movement between insider and outsider (of Australian feminism), that is, I extend it from just a literary reading to a whole body experience. According to Ashcroft and Ahluwalia, the “essence of Said’s argument is to know something is to have power over it, and conversely, to have power is to know the world in your own terms” (83). Ashcroft and Ahluwalia add how through music, particularly the work of pianist Glenn Gould, Said formulated a way of reading imperial and postcolonial texts contrapuntally. Such a reading acknowledges the hybridity of cultures, histories and literatures, allowing the reader to move back and forth between an internal and an external standpoint of cultural references and attitudes in “an effort to draw out, extend, give emphasis and voice to what is silent or marginally present or ideologically represented” (Said 66). While theorising about the potential dance between Australian and Buginese feminisms in my work, I was living the dance in my day-to-day Australian university experience. Trying to accommodate the expected requirements of a PhD thesis, while at the same time ensuring that I maintained my own personal, cultural and professional dignity, that is ade’, and siri’, required some fancy footwork. Siri’ is central to my Buginese worldview and had to be positioned as such in my PhD thesis. Also, the realities that women are still marginalized and that gender inequality and disparities persist in Indonesian society become a motivation to carry out my PhD study. The opportunity to study Australian culture and literature in that country, allowed me to increase my global and local complexity as an individual, what Pieterse refers to as “ a process of hybridization” and to become as Beck terms an “actor” and “manager’’ of my life (as cited in Edmunds 1). Gaining greater autonomy and reconceptualising both masculinity and femininity, while dominant themes in Garner’s work, are also issues I address in my personal and professional goals. In other words, this study resulted in hybridized knowledge of Australian concepts of feminism and Buginese societies that offers a reference for students to understand and engage with different feminist thought. By learning how feminism is understood differently by Australians and Buginese, my Indonesian students can decide what aspects of feminist ideas from a Western perspective can be applied to Buginese culture without transgressing Buginese customs and habits.There are few Australian literary works that have been translated into Indonesian. Those that have include Peter Carey’s True History of the Kelly Gang (2007) and My Life is a Fake (2009), James Vance Marshall’s Walkabout (1957), Emma Darcy’s The Billionaire Bridegroom (2010) , Sally Morgan’s My Place (1987), and Colleen McCullogh’s The Thorn Birds (1978). My translation of five short stories from Postcards from Surfers complemented these works and enriched the diversity of Indonesian translations of world literary works, the bulk of which tends to come from the United Kingdom, America, the Middle East, and Japan. However, actually getting through the process of PhD research followed by examination required my supervisor and I to negotiate cross-cultural terrain, academic agendas and Western expectations of what legitimate thesis writing should look like. Employing Said’s contrapuntal pedagogy and Warrior’s notion of subaltern dancing became my illegitimate methodological frame.Said points out that contrapuntal analysis means that students and teachers can cross-culturally “elucidate a complex and uneven topography” (318). He adds that “we must be able to think through and interpret together experiences that are discrepant, each with its particular agenda and pace of development, its own internal formations, its internal coherence and system of external relationships, all of them co-existing and interacting with others” (32). Contrapuntal is a metaphor Said derived from musical theory, meaning to counterpoint or add a rhythm or melody, in this case, Buginese and Anglo-Australian feminisms. Warrior argues for an indigenous critique of how power and knowledge is read and in doing so he writes that “the subaltern can dance, and so sometimes can the intellectual” (85). In his rereading of Spivak, he argues that subaltern and intellectual positions can meet “and in meeting, create the possibility of communication” (86). He refers to this as dancing partly because it implicitly acknowledges without silencing the voices of the subaltern (once the subaltern speaks it is no longer the subaltern, so the notion of dancing allows for communication, “a movement from subalternity to something else” (90) which can mark “a new sort of non-complicitous relationship to a family, community or class of origin” (91). By “non-complicit” Warrior means that when a member of the subaltern becomes a scholar and therefore a member of those who historically silence the subaltern, there are other methods for communicating, of moving, between political and cultural spaces that allow for a multiplicity of voices and responses. Warrior uses a traditional Osage in-losh-ka dance as an example of how he physically and intellectually interacts with multiple voices and positions:While the music plays, our usual differences, including subalternity and intellectuality, and even gender in its own way, are levelled. For those of us moving to the music, the rules change, and those who know the steps and the songs and those who can keep up with the whirl of bodies, music and colours hold nearly every advantage over station or money. The music ends, of course, but I know I take my knowledge of the dance away and into my life as a critic, and I would argue that those levelled moments remain with us after we leave the drum, change our clothes, and go back to the rest of our lives. (93)For Warrior, the dance becomes theory into practice. For me, it became not only a way to soundly and “appropriately” present my methodology and purpose, but it also became my day to day interactions, as a female Buginese scholar, with western, Australian academic and cultural worldviews and expectations.One of the biggest movements I had to justify was my use of the first person “I”, in my thesis, to signify my identity as a Buginese woman and position myself as an insider of my community with a hybrid western feminism with Australia in mind. Perrault argues that “Writing “I” has been an emancipatory project for women” (2). In the context of my PhD thesis, uttering ‘I’ confirmed my position and aims. However, this act of explicitly situating my own identity and cultural position in my research and thesis was considered one of the more illegitimate acts. In one of the examiner reports, it was stated that situating myself centrally was fraught but that I managed to avoid the pitfalls. Judy Long argues that writing in the female first person challenges patriarchal control and order (127). For me, writing in the first person was essential if I had any chance of maintaining my Buginese identity and voice, in both my thesis and in my Australian tertiary experience. As Trinh-Minh writes, “S/he who writes, writes. In uncertainty, in necessity. And does not ask whether s/he is given permission to do so or not” (8).Van Dijk, cited in Hamilton, notes that the west and north are bound by an academic ethnocentrism and this is a particular area my own research had to negotiate. Methodologically I provided a comparative rather than a universalising perspective, engaging with middle-class, heterosexual, western, white women feminism but not privileging them. It is important for Buginese to use language discourses as a weapon to gain power, particularly because as McGlynn claims, “generally Indonesians are not particularly outspoken” (38). My research was shaped by a combination of ongoing dedication to promote women’s empowerment in the Buginese context and my role as an academic teaching English literature at the university level. I applied interpretive principles that will enable my students to see how the ideas of feminism conveyed through western literature can positively improve the quality of women’s lives and be implemented in Buginese culture without compromising our identity as Indonesians and Buginese people. At the same time, my literary translation provides a cultural comparison with Australia that allows a space for further conversations to occur. However, while attempting to negotiate western and Indonesian discourses in my thesis, I was also physically and emotionally trying to negotiate how to do this as a Muslim Buginese female PhD candidate in an Anglo-Australian academic institution. The notion of ‘dancing’ was employed as a signifier of movement between insider and outsider knowledge. Throughout the research process and my thesis I ‘danced’ with Australian feminism, traditional patriarchal Buginese society, Western academic expectations and my own emerging Indonesian feminist perspective. To ensure siri’ remained the pedagogical and ethical basis of my approach I applied Edward Said’s work on contrapuntal reading and Robert Warrior’s employment of a traditional Osage dance as a self-reflexive, embodied praxis, that is, I extended it from just a literary reading to a whole body experience. The notion of ‘dance’ allows for movement, change, contact, tension, touch and distance: it means that for those who have historically been marginalised or confined, they are no longer silenced. The metaphoric act of dancing allowed me to legitimise my PhD work – it was successfully awarded – and to negotiate a western tertiary institute in Australia with my own Buginese knowledge, culture and purpose.ReferencesAshcroft., B., and P. Ahluwalia. Edward Said. London: Routledge, 1999.Carey, Peter. True History of the Kelly Gang: A Novel. Random House LLC, 2007.Carey, Peter. My Life as a Fake: A NNovel. Random House LLC, 2009.Darcy, Emma. Billionaire Bridegroom 2319. Harlequin, 2010.Endang, Fransisca. "Disseminating Indonesian Postcoloniality into English Literature (a Case Study of 'Clara')." Jurnal Sastra Inggris 8.2: 2008.Edmunds, Kim. "The Impact of an Australian Higher Education on Gender Relations in Indonesia." ISANA International Conference "Student Success in International Education", 2007Garner, Helen. Postcards from Surfers. Melbourne: McPhee/Gribble, 1985.Hamilton, Deborah, Deborah Schriffrin, and Heidi E. Tannen, ed. The Handbook of Discourse Analysis. Victoria: Balckwll, 2001.Long, Judy. 1999. Telling Women's Lives: Subject/Narrator/Reader/Text. New York: New York UP, 1999.McGlynn, John H. "Silent Voices, Muted Expressions: Indonesian Literature Today." Manoa 12.1 (2000): 38-44.Morgan, Sally. My Place. Fremantle Press, 1987.Pelras, Christian. The Bugis. Oxford: Blackwell, 1996. Perreault, Jeanne. Writing Selves: Contemporary Feminist Autography. London &amp; Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 1995.Pieterse, J.N. Globalisation as Hybridisation. In M. Featherstone, S. Lash, and R. Robertson, eds., Global Modernities. London: Sage Publications, 1995.Marshall, James V. Walkabout. London: Puffin, 1957.McCullough, C. The Thorn Birds Sydney: Harper Collins, 1978.Minh-ha, Trinh T. Woman, Native, Other: Writing, Postcoloniality and Feminism. Bloomington: Indiana University, 1989.Novera, Isvet Amri. "Indonesian Postgraduate Students Studying in Australia: An Examination of Their Academic, Social and Cultural Experiences." International Education Journal 5.4 (2004): 475-487.Said, Edward. Culture and Imperialism. New York: Vintage Book, 1993. Smith, Linda Tuhiwai. Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. Zed Books, 1999.Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. "Can the Subaltern Speak?" In C. Nelson and L. Grossberg, eds., Marxism and Interpretation of Culture. Chicago: University of lllinois, 1988. 271-313.Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics. New York: Routledge, 1988.Warrior, Robert. ""The Subaltern Can Dance, and So Sometimes Can the Intellectual." Interventions: International Journal of Postcolonial Studies 13.1 (2011): 85-94.

Introduction – Family Influencers Family vlogging on YouTube is a practice gaining in popularity and scope. An increasing number of couples are giving up their jobs to become full-time “vloggers” or, in industry terms, “creators”. This involves parents filming their everyday lives with their children and uploading the footage to YouTube in daily or weekly instalments for others to watch and respond to. Vlogging reflects a current Western obsession with documenting and recording the self. The digital practice of recording life on YouTube is part of a “broadcast era” (Garde-Hansen et al.). YouTube is a product of a participatory (Jenkins; Burgess and Green), peer-to-peer (Merrin), “memory boom” (Huyssen), where ordinary people are obsessed with recording and saving their lives (Arthur). YouTube, with its infamous byline “Broadcast Yourself”, allows and encourages everyday individuals to document, edit and share their lives, acting as a “memory bank” (Smith and Watson) and building autobiographical archives that we later use to identify ourselves (Eakin). The success of family vloggers is in their presentation of “ordinary” life that is both relatable and relational, as it invites connection with others (Kennedy "Arriving"; Strangelove). As Michael Strangelove wrote in his seminal work Watching YouTube, the appeal of YouTube “is that it’s authentic and about people” and “there is nothing more interesting to real people … than authentic stories about other real people” (65). It is the sharing of everyday ordinary life by everyday ordinary people that makes vlogging significant. This type of content is raw and intimate, deeply vulnerable, and incredibly popular (Kennedy "Arriving"). As ordinary lives gain in popularity, sometimes reaching mass audiences of millions, the practice of vlogging has been professionalised and commercialised culminating in a new industry known as the influencer (Chen et al.; Abidin). Influencers can be understood as microcelebrities (Abidin; Marwick; Turner). Their professionalisation is largely due to their ability to influence the consumer behaviour of their audiences. Brands pay influencers to include their products and experiences in their social media content, in this case, YouTube videos. This form of sponsored content has become the main source of income for many influencers (Chen et al.; Zimmerman). Vlogging, therefore, serves family influencers in multiple ways: as an identity-forming record of family life, and a commercially viable consumable product. These competing functions of the vlog are equally important and must be carefully managed. I argue elsewhere that vlogging is an important identity-forming practice (Kennedy "Transformative"). The process of recording and sharing everyday life brings the subject into being (Kennedy Becoming; "Arriving"). Vlogging is an example of automedia (Kennedy and Maguire): the convergence of self with networked digital media and all its participants, including platform, technology, viewers, brands, and products (Kennedy Becoming). While this convergence has afforded new narratives and identities, it has also conflated audiences with markets, and intimacy and authenticity with commercial gain. Authenticity is critical to the social success of vlogging identities and narratives, and it is precisely this authenticity that is attractive to brands as a lucrative marketing strategy. Family influencers must therefore carefully manage their authenticity to maintain their relatability with the audience, while also generating an income for their chosen profession. In this article I explore a particular type of content that one British vlogging family, The Michalaks, have developed for their sponsored content. They call this type of video content “Silkey”. Silkeys are heavily stylised, affective montages of family life. They sit in stark contrast to the normal conventions of family vlogging: “the highly contextualised snapshots of everyday lives” which are “raw, unfiltered, spontaneous, and more intimate” (Abidin 4). Rather, Silkeys are more like cinematic feature films offering beautiful montages of idyllic family life, often shot in holiday destinations, and usually sponsored (paid for by brands). In a social media context built on a value of authenticity (Strangelove; Kennedy Becoming), where audiences are quick to reject anything they deem inauthentic (Baym), I explore how The Michalaks get away with the Silkey—how they maintain their authenticity as a real family while offering their viewers a sponsored product. Ultimately, I demonstrate that The Michalaks succeed with Silkeys in two ways: firstly, by calling out the Silkey as inauthentic, and secondly, by inviting the audience to participate in their construction. Using a method of virtual ethnography (Hine), I draw on sixteen months of footage and social media engagement by The Michalaks to demonstrate the strategies they use to maintain their authenticity as family vloggers. I conclude that in addition to its individual, creative, and commercial functions, the Silkey also performs an important function as a protective strategy for all members of the family, but especially their son, Grayson. Family Video Diaries Vlogging, like blogging before it, is significant because it allows parents to share the “unexciting, everyday, in between stuff” (Lopez). Like blogging, vlogging is a “radical act” (Lopez) that brings the everyday domestic experience into the public sphere allowing parents to negotiate their roles and identities in real time and in public. While this has been celebrated and extensively explored among mothers (see Lopez; Morrison; Moravec; Kennedy Becoming), the same is true for families who participate in sharing life and finding connections and community online. The resulting content is intimate and diary-like (Kennedy "Arriving"), leading vloggers such as The Michalaks to call their videos “family video diaries” (see fig. 1). Many families say they begin vlogging in order to “document life” and “making memories to look back on”, and this expressed motivation continues throughout their presence on YouTube. The Michalaks share this motivation. In a question-and-answer (Q&amp;A) video, in which Stefan and Hannah sit in front of the camera in their living room and answer preselected questions from their viewers, Stefan encourages everyone to vlog: I think that if you have the opportunity to vlog then you should vlog because you’re creating an archive for you to watch back in years to come. So what if it’s been saturated, it’s a good thing to do it’s a good thing to have to look back on. (IT’S Q&amp;A TIME) Later in the same video, Hannah says that she uses the videos to revisit their child’s milestones, and she discusses the value of having a record of their younger selves that they can watch back in the future. “I think when we’re like 80 … it’ll be nice to watch the videos back of our younger selves” (IT’S Q&amp;A TIME). The first few seconds of many of The Michalak vlogs begin with the same shot, their channel name “The Michalaks” underlined with “family video diaries” (see fig. 1). Accompanying this opening shot is Grayson’s laugh (see FALLEN IN LOVE), reminiscent of the Nickelodeon laugh. The channel name over “family video diaries” is also the banner on their channel home page. Fig. 1: Screenshot, THESE VLOGS AREN’T REAL. The use of the word diary is significant as these family diaries are recorded daily and uploaded in weekly instalments comprising Monday through Friday. Family video diaries provide an archive of everyday family life, of children growing older, and of parents developing themselves. In this way, vlogs emulate the diary as an arena for the self: a place for self-negotiation, self-knowledge, and self-improvement (Cardell; Kennedy Becoming). Stefan often has heartfelt conversations with the camera, telling his viewers what he thinks about the issues facing the world and comparing himself to who he used to be. Family vlogs, like diaries and journals, encourage self-reflection and continual development. Even if the content is menial daily activities, the recording of them is significant as an archive of the self. Unlike the private recordings of the diary, or private storing of family objects to which memories are connected, vlogs are public and are heavily influenced by the technologies used to create them and the media through which they are shared. Vlogs, therefore, extend the genre of the published diary online, as explored by scholars such as Kylie Cardell. Importantly, these public family video diaries are shaped and influenced by all participants in the network, including technology, viewers, brands, and products (Kennedy Becoming). The raw, intimate, daily representations of family life are incredibly popular, and this popularity makes them a lucrative marketing opportunity for brands. Vloggers have enjoyed rapid success in recent years, building large communities with millions of followers (Chen et al.). This success has resulted in the professionalisation and commercialisation of vlogging (Abidin; Hou; Chen et al.) and the age of the influencer and microcelebrity (Marwick; Turner). Crystal Abidin writes that “family influencers on social media are a new genre of micro-celebrity … chiefly premised on being ordinary, everyday, and mundane” (4). Unlike the mainstream entertainment industry, their content production is self-directed and shared on social media (Abidin). The professional role of family influencers significantly impacts their family video diaries. “Make It Silkey” Peppered throughout their family video diaries are what The Michalaks call “Silkeys” (fig. 2). Silkeys are heavily produced, aesthetically beautiful, affective montages of family life. They include filters, multiple camera angles, and special effects. They require specialised camera equipment, and rather than narration or background noise, they are often edited with emotive music to enhance their cinematic and affective quality. Silkeys sit in stark contrast to the raw, unfiltered, intimate snapshots of family life and they serve The Michalaks in multiple ways. Fig. 2: Screenshot, THESE VLOGS AREN’T REAL. Silkeys serve The Michalaks as an opportunity for individual creative expression and development—particularly for Stefan, an aspiring filmmaker. They form a significant part of the family’s success, as they attract both sponsorship and views. Silkeys could be understood as what Abidin describes as “anchor” material, that is material “produced with more care and effort, utilizing higher end equipment such as moving image recorders, audio mixers, lighting, and props” (4). Abidin suggests that anchor material is the primary product of family influencers, generating the most views and success. In contrast, “filler” material features “raw, unfiltered, spontaneous, and more intimate” (4) snapshots of domesticity, which Abidin argues is crucial to maintain an impression of an amateur. Abidin’s discussion of anchor material and filler material outlines two different kinds of videos produced by family influencers, where one (anchor) is the money-making material and the other (filler) is the authenticity-maintenance (or social-survival) material. The Silkey is different, however, because rather than creating separate videos for Silkeys, The Michalaks use Silkeys throughout their video diaries. Silkeys are short montages that feature within the family vlog. Filler material bookends the Silkey, highlighting the contrast between the two. While some researchers argue that filler material is carefully constructed to create an impression of the amateur, and exists entirely for the purpose of maintaining authenticity and relatability (Hamilton; Abidin), I suggest that The Michalaks have alternative, and much more successful, ways of maintaining authenticity (discussed in the last section). And importantly, rather than simply generating an income, the Silkey serves critical functions in addition to sponsored entertainment. One of the most important functions of the Silkey for The Michalaks is as a strategy to protect their son, Grayson. Silkey as Protective Strategy Fig. 3: Screenshot, FALLEN IN LOVE. The highly stylised, skilfully constructed nature of the Silkey protects The Michalaks because it removes a layer of intimacy, creating distance between the vlogger and the viewer. Silkey representations of family life omit the tantrums, parental frustrations, and logistical mishaps inherent in family life. This is consistent with studies that demonstrate how parents manage the information they share about their children by limiting their posts to depictions of idealised family life (Blum-Ross and Livingstone; Ammari et al.; Chalklen and Anderson; Archer). The selective nature of Silkeys protects all members of The Michalak family, but particularly their son, Grayson. As Stefan suggests, part of the motivation for creating Silkeys is to respect Grayson’s privacy, as the Silkey is designed to offer a representation of Grayson that he can be proud of, rather than embarrassed by in the future. We respect our privacy, but we respect Grayson’s a lot more than we respect ours. I mean, that’s why we do Silkeys. That’s why we spend so much time and effort on the videos is because, yeah, [Hannah interjects: he doesn’t have a choice] he doesn’t have a choice. We don’t want him growing up and being like ‘why’d you put out this crap?’ (IT’S Q&amp;A TIME) In a time where children’s privacy is increasingly of concern, as their world is “digital-by-default” (Stoilova et al.) and their digital footprint begins before they are born (Leaver; Leaver and Highfield; Tiidenberg and Baym; Stoilova et al.), families must consider how to navigate their children’s privacy. One of the most concerning aspects of family vlogging is a child’s inability to give informed consent, and it is now becoming clear that parental sharing of children online – or “sharenting” – can cause children embarrassment and distress (Hiniker et al.; Chalkson and Anderson; Ammari et al.). It can also have serious consequences on the child’s sense of self as it denies them the agency of crafting their own digital identity. danah boyd writes, “just because people are adopting tools that radically reshape their relationship to privacy does not mean they are interested in giving up their privacy” (52). Social network sites, such as YouTube, challenge people’s sense of control over their personal information (boyd). As more and more people choose to share their lives online “we need to examine people’s strategies for negotiating control” (52). For The Michalaks, the Silkey is one such method of control. Importantly, The Michalaks recognise that their sharenting and strategies for protecting their son’s privacy will change over time. Consistent with studies that find that the parental right to share shifts over time as children get older (Blum-Ross and Livingstone), The Michalaks recognise that their protective strategies, and content, will change as Grayson gets older, and may one day exclude him altogether. Hannah: I think we would probably just change the style of how we were vlogging. It would be more about what we were doing, and I think we would just both totally respect that. Once he has a choice, if he didn’t want to do it then of course we’re not going to force him to do it. It’s his life, if he doesn’t want to be on camera then I would never force him to be on camera.Stefan interjects: No way. No way. (IT’S Q&amp;A TIME) The Silkey not only serves as a strategy to protect their son Grayson, but it also protects Stefan and Hannah, to some degree. Although many of their videos are raw and intimate, the Silkey gives Stefan and Hannah a brief reprieve from being vulnerable. I argue elsewhere that maintaining the level of vulnerability and intimacy that vlogging requires is unsustainable long term, and as a result, many vloggers tend to disappear from the space (Kennedy "Arriving"). For the Michalaks, the Silkey extends their longevity as it allows them to present both intimate and heavily stylised representations of everyday life. However, YouTube audiences are renowned for rejecting lives and identities that are inauthentic, and therefore Silkeys must be carefully managed. Managing Authenticity Maintaining an impression of authenticity is a critical component in all human interactions and this is particularly true online. Erving Goffman called this “performance management” in his seminal work The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. Managing the performance of authenticity online is especially important for influencers as their success in the space, with both viewers and brands, is dependent upon it. The Michalaks manage their authenticity through transparency and by inviting participation. The Michalaks use disclosure and transparency throughout their vlogs to signal the inauthenticity of Silkeys. They use titles such as “THESE VLOGS AREN’T REAL” (figs. 1 and 2) which underline the entire video, both during Silkey segments and raw segments. They include “AD” at the end of the title videos that include sponsored content (figs. 1, 2, and 3) to indicate paid advertisements present in the video. They also offer reminders to the viewer during the vlog, as seen in fig. 2 “make it silkey,” signalling that the content is purposefully crafted. Lastly, the name they choose to call this type of content—Silkey—implies a product that is smooth, indulgent, luxurious, expensive, and sexy. All these disclosures suggest a deliberate attempt at transparency, which researchers have found is the most successful method to manage authenticity among influencers. In their study of the sponsored videos of 200 influencers on Bilibili (one of the largest user-generated video-sharing platforms in China), Chen et al. found that sponsorship disclosure resulted in higher audience engagement. Rather than putting viewers off, they found that “sponsorship disclosure (a transparency-based strategy), alone, and in combination with platform-generated disclosure, is associated with higher digital engagement with sponsored influencer videos” (199). In addition to disclosures, The Michalaks extend their transparency by juxtaposing the “real” with the “Silkey”, constantly reminding the viewer that the two are different. A Silkey montage might be followed by Stefan discussing the difficulties of shooting the Silkey, or the effort that went into it, or the painstaking job of editing it. Within the same vlog, the sleepy idyllic Grayson (as he was presented in the Silkey) may later be referred to as a “savage” or a “penis” (FALLEN IN LOVE). In their Q&amp;A video, Stefan refers to the Silkey version of their lives as “the latte version” (IT’S Q&amp;A TIME). Discussing the conscious crafting of the vlog reminds the viewer of its nature as a product for consumption, and rather than putting the viewer off, it increases viewer engagement as the viewer is invited to view the process of creation as well as the product. Not only do viewers get to view the process of creation, but The Michalaks invite the viewers to participate in the construction of their vlogs by making decisions about their content. For example, in one vlog, Stefan introduced a new character to the family, his brother, Keith (EVERYTHING CHANGED). As evident in the side-by-side images of Stefan and Keith (see Figure 4), Keith is Stefan dressed in a wig, with glasses and using an unidentifiable accent. The segment featuring Keith was an attempt at a new type of content, which Stefan tries often (both for content and his own creative development). Shortly after the vlog featuring Keith, Stefan released a Twitter poll asking viewers whether they would like to see more of Keith (fig. 5). Considering the result of the poll was precisely 50/50 (fig. 5), Stefan decided that Keith was “more divisive than Brexit” and concluded that Keith had “to go” (CAMERA STOLEN?). Although Keith was never a serious addition to the family, the viewers were given ownership over the content they consume. Fig. 4: Screenshots, EVERYTHING CHANGED. Fig. 5: Screenshots, Twitter/X @StefMichalak. By openly discussing the editing process and inviting the viewers to make decisions about the vlog, The Michalaks are effectively inviting the viewers “backstage” to participate in the “act” of producing family vlogs. The viewers become collaborators and co-constructors of the family video diaries, which moderates the question of authenticity. While Abidin suggests that “backstage” material is equally constructed and managed, I suggest that all performances of self are carefully constructed and managed, and it is the viewers who work together with the vlogger to shape and maintain authentic narratives online. Conclusion Silkeys serve important functions for The Michalaks as an avenue for personal creative expression and development, as a commercial product that attracts sponsorship and generates an income, and as a protective strategy. The heavily crafted nature of Silkeys removes a layer of intimacy which is usually demanded in family vlogging, giving Stefan and Hannah a brief reprieve from being raw and vulnerable, and protecting Grayson from future embarrassment. Considering that YouTube is built on a core value of authenticity, and sponsored content directly challenges the authenticity of a vlogger’s content and identity, The Michalaks must strategically manage their authenticity despite their Silkeys. They accomplish this using two key strategies. Firstly, they use their vlog titles, and their diary-like content surrounding Silkey montages, to call out the Silkey as inauthentic. The inclusion of behind-the-scenes footage, discussion about the difficulty in, and labour of, capturing and editing the Silkey, notes within the vlogs, and the inclusion of “AD” in vlog titles, all work together to remind the viewer that Silkeys are constructed. By being transparent, disclosing their sponsorships and juxtaposing sponsored content with raw, unfiltered content, The Michalaks maintain viewer and brand engagement. The second strategy is to invite their viewers to participate in the decision-making about, and construction of, their vlogs. By inviting their audience to participate in decisions about the type of content and characters they like to see, the viewers become co-authors and co-constructors of the family video diaries, moderating the question of authenticity as all participants in the space contribute to creating the vlogs. The consistent use of these two key strategies has allowed The Michalaks to maintain their success on YouTube for over a decade, and they show no signs of stopping. References Abidin, Crystal. “#familygoals: Family Influencers, Calibrated Amateurism, and Justifying Young Digital Labor.” Social Media + Society 3.2 (2017). &lt;https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/2056305117707191&gt;. 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A young woman in bikini bottoms and a vest top scrunched up to just below her breasts stands facing the camera. Behind her lies the neatened clutter of domestic space with family photographs arranged next to a fish tank. As this gently buzzes in its fluorescent pool of light, she begins to speak: I’ve just finished eating my McDonald’s meal, which was one of the new quarter pounders with the bacon and the cheese and ten nuggets and a large fries but I have not finished my drink. Pausing to hold up her drink to the camera, she shakes the takeaway cup to assess how much remains inside. With her other hand she gently pats her uncovered stomach, saying: I’m feeling very full and very tight on the top… very very tight like, here and here too… like a drum …Very full! But I know that I can probably fit more with liquids so I’m going to top it off with the rest of this drink and them I’m going to fill in all the spaces with the rest of the drink. After drinking the Dr Pepper before the screen fades to black, she says: I think next time I gotta get the double quarter pounder. I probably could take it, I could probably take on that double quarter pounder with the nuggets. So I’ll have to try that next time for you guys. This video on You Tube is one of many on the Internet labelled BBW, which stands for Big Beautiful Woman. This term dates back to the 1979 launch of BBW Magazine, a fashion and lifestyle magazine for women. As it was then, BBW is also used within spaces of size acceptance, such as among the women participating in Alexandra Lescaze’s documentary All of Me, which charts the lives of friends who met through the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance. In such spaces, as on Internet blogs and discussion pages, BBW is employed to assert the desirability, rather than abjection, of a fat female body; it thereby counters the “stigma that still is associated with being a large person in a small society” as one of the women in All of Me, Dawn, puts it. BBW is also a term that features frequently in ‘fat forums’. These are adult content cyberspaces for, as one homepage states, “plus size models and their admirers.” Alongside these, there is also a genre of BBW pornography in which sexually explicit activity takes place. This is found on dedicated websites as well as in sub-sections of more ‘mainstream’ porn sites. In these latter the videos that feature BBWs are often labelled “fat fetish.” Against this background, this article draws on content analysis conducted between 2013 and 2015 of forty videos posted on You Tube by women who self-identify as fat (see Longhurst) and, specifically, as BBWs. In particular, it focuses on videos to which eating is central. In these, eating is either performed on camera or has taken place just before filming began. In the latter instance eating and its bodily resonances are visible in two ways: the BBW might describe the meal just eaten or her feeling of fullness, or there may be a textual description such as “after a big mac.” These videos have so far received little scholarly attention other than through a lens of sex, as enactments of “fat pornography” (cf. Kulick). Yet, analysing them as porn risks privileging an imagised rather than lived body and implicitly engaging only with a spectator’s viewpoint. It thereby potentially repeats the power dynamics it seeks to interrogate. This article instead suggests that there are key distinctions between these videos and porn. Although a discussion of gender and sexuality is precluded by limited space, focusing on eating offers a way to unpick this analytic conflation whilst also recognising how wider entanglements among sex, power and fat may texture the videos. As such, whilst being careful not to reduce the BBWs in these videos to no more than eating bodies, this focus seeks primarily to pay attention to their agency and embodiment. Drawing on literature that has critically engaged with fat from a variety of perspectives (cf. Evans Braziel and LeBesco; Forth and Leitch; Rothblum and Solovay), this discussion is particularly shaped by recent work that has sought to take account of lived experiences of moving through and encountering the world with a fat female body (cf. Murray; Tischner). In order to think through this, the article reflects on the Internet as a space not only of visuality, but also of viscerality. Defined by Robyn Longhurst et al. as “the sensations, moods and ways of being that emerge from our sensory engagement with the material and discursive environments in which we live” (334), viscerality has been argued to be a way in which to reflect on identity and power by paying attention to the materiality of everyday experiences (Hayes-Conroy and Hayes-Conroy, taste and visceral). It attends to the simultaneity of politics and intimacy as social relations are forged “at the level of the guts” (Probyn 1). In turn, recent attention to eating has suggested this to be an act that forges social connections at myriad scales (see Abbots and Lavis) as people, places and objects are brought into encounter by ingestion and digestion. An attention to what eating is and does in these videos therefore recognises power dynamics between BBWs and viewing Others, whilst also not taking these to preclude other modalities of agency. It elucidates the co-production of bodily materialities and lived experiences, whilst also tracing the multi-directional slippages between consuming and becoming the Other. Engaging with affects and socialities set in motion by eating offers up a vision of this as an act that may be shared among bodies in ways at once disembodied but visceral. Visuality The homepage of a pornographic website describing itself as “the home of BBWs” suggests that the viewer click on links to see women diving into the kinkiest fetishes and activities you’d ever want to see BBWs do! From face-sitting and squashing, to eating anything and everything, these big fat chicks do it. It goes on to state that “these girls are massive, like their stomachs and appetites” and, illustrating assumptions regarding whose gaze is turned on this page, that “your dick won’t know what to do with itself!” The juxtaposition of the seemingly mundane, and also individual, activity of eating with overtly sexual and corporeally social activities such as face-sitting, suggests that to think through BBW videos focused on eating and trace their divergences from porn, we perhaps first need to attend to this wider landscape in which eating features as “kinky fetish”; it involves recognising intersections as well as disconnects. An undercurrent of sex does resonate through some of the eating videos posted on You Tube by BBWs. Although women are clothed and no sexual activity takes place, many of the titles contain the words “sexy BBW.” Likewise, the language used by participants to talk about their bodies during or after eating is often sexually inflected. Just as the BBW above said of her Dr Pepper that she could “take it,” others talk of being “filled” in a way that folds food into an imaginary of penetrative sex. Bodily boundaries are also shown to be porous in further ways as fat is described as “bursting out of trousers.” A woman eating ice cream directs the camera downwards, saying, “look at that, my underwear’s rolling right down […] my tummy cannot be contained anymore.” Furthermore, to shift our analytic positioning for a moment, it is clear that the BBWs in these videos are regarded as sexually desirable by viewers. A You Tube video in which a woman eats a burger is accompanied by a viewer’s comment: Hello beautiful, I wish that I was there so I could do the fondling and caressing of your beautiful, fat belly while you just concentrated on eating your food. This contrasts to other viewers whose derogatory comments range from the denigrating “you are so ugly and disgusting” to the rather less articulate “eww.” These clearly highlight the “derision and even repulsion” (Lupton 3. See also Cain et al., Erdman Farrell) often directed at, especially female, fat. In contrast, by establishing a fat female – and indeed eating – body as desirable, these videos instead denote themselves as spaces of fat acceptance. Self-identified BBW and adult actress April Flores links her work in porn films to a wider politics of fat acceptance, saying: I want to have my work be a catalyst for change in people seeing fat women as sexual beings. Because we are, and we're not viewed that way. Right now, fat women are relegated to being the punch line and I want my work to change that. (Flores quoted in Wischhover) Flores would seem to articulate a neoliberal narrative of pornography as female empowerment (see Gill) here and it is important to recognise the connections between this and a wider context of disempowerment and stigma. Yet, the power dynamics of gaining social and sexual acceptance through a desiring gaze are also problematic. They highlight, as Rachel Colls puts it, “what the risks are for fat, female bodies and a re-framing of fatness more generally when designating acceptance according to a particular space and to ‘an’ admiring audience” (19). This links the pornographic works of April Flores with the eating videos that are the focus of this article. In both spaces, being visually consumed by an Other is invested with the power to circumscribe one’s own body as acceptable. In one video, a woman who has just finished eating pulls up her top to show her belly. Looking directly into the camera, she asks “do you like that?” A well-known self-described BBW, Donna Simpson, has poignantly written about her decision to shut down her website after years of charging 19 dollars a month to watch her eat (Simpson). She states that “the bottom line is that it was a fantasy created for men […] It’s about control” (quoted in Rose). One way in which control manifested was in how largely-male members of her website not only watched her eat but also directed this, circumscribing what she did and did not put into her own body. Although the financial transaction of the membership fee underpinned this access to Donna Simpson by offering the possibility of one-on-one video chats, there is some similar interaction afforded by the comments posted in response to the eating videos on You Tube. Beneath a video of a woman eating cake, one viewer has written “you’re adorable” to which the BBW herself has replied “you're sweet! thank you.” As such, accompanying these videos there are many requests from viewers centred on eating and food, along the lines of “eat this for me.” These are sometimes responded to in follow-up videos or with links to a paying website like Donna Simpson’s. Such requests demonstrate diverse self-positionings on the part of viewers; the more overtly sexual, such as “eat me” and “I wish to be that cake,” are joined by the expression of desire to be close to the BBW: Wow you are one big sexy fatty with a Huge Blubber Belly!! that thing is soo sexy. I would kill to see you waddling to the buffet bar with your fat jiggling and leading the way. But, to more explicitly address the problematic dynamics of power that have resonated through this discussion so far, these comments are commonly joined by a desire to feed the woman in the video. One viewer writes, “I’d love to get a huge funnel and tube and pour gallons upon gallons of beer down your throat and watch your belly expand!!” These words (at least seek to) intervene in and shape the body of the BBW to whom they are directed. It has been suggested that food “and its relations to bodies is fundamentally about power” (Goody 37) and directions to “eat an éclair for me,” for example, draw forth the power dynamics here by illustrating the co-production of corporeal materialities; the BBWs’ body fat is (at least to a certain extent) made and mediated by viewers. Moreover, in this process, some viewers not only position themselves as feeders but also assume the existence of a feeder off-camera, thereby framing the woman’s eating as always directed by an Other rather than autonomous. This aligns these videos with a wider context of feederism (see Giovanelli and Peluso) and this is sometimes made explicit; beneath one video, a viewer writes somewhat aggressively “your feeder's nice with you, you'd be twice that size with me.” The first half of this article has recognised the setting of these videos within a wider cyber-landscape of porn/power/fat/stigma entanglements. Yet, to suggest that although “the single most striking thing about this genre of pornography is that the women who are pictured do not engage in sex” (Kulick 79) and argue that they instead “have food” (79) reveals the problem with calling them porn and ending our analysis there. It defines the videos, and thus the women in them, through that which is absent, swapping sex for food. This risks repeating in analysis “the kind of harmful behavior in which men reduce fat women to sexual objects” (Saguy 553) by implicitly aligning with the viewer. To avoid this necessitates engaging with the BBWs themselves, their modes of embodiment and lived materialities. As Don Kulick notes, “most of the camera work is focused on their stomachs” (79) and it is here that such an engagement begins. Viscerality Reclaiming the ubiquitous imagery of “headless fatties” (Cooper) in media discussions of obesity, one video begins with a full-screen shot of a woman’s stomach. The camera pans to reveal a box of chocolates balanced on her lap and a hand reaches down to take one. Over the next three wordless minutes, as her fingers move between half-glimpsed chocolate box and unseen mouth, the woman rubs her belly with her other hand, folding and kneading her fat before letting it tumble onto her thighs. In other videos BBWs hold their stomachs to the camera to show how “full of food,” as one woman puts it, these are. Others adjust their position, clothing and webcams to enable a better view of their stomachs, or as they are more habitually called, their “bellies.” Rather than read this focus simply as a fetishisation of dislocated body parts, which echoes pornography, here bellies take on significance precisely because they are the “site of incorporation” (Carden-Coyne and Forth 1); they are indexical of eating. Momentarily altering our viewpoint to elucidate this, on the comment board of another video a viewer has simply written “digestion yeah!” Bellies, thus, gain meaning from eating rather than the other way around. This shift from visuality to viscerality draws us back to the viewpoint of the BBWs; their agency, pleasure and lived materiality is brought literally into the line of the camera. In another video, a woman rubs her belly sensuously. To elucidate the contours of this embodied performance, the video’s tagline reads: A family size lasagne a double milkshake a pound of butter melted in mash potatoes with a can of cheese for lunch wait till i get finished stuffing myself becoming fat is the ultimate pleasure. This woman is not alone in asserting the pleasure of becoming fat. Juxtaposed with articulations of the pleasures of food, together these statements suggest that eating on camera is not so much directed outwards to a desiring gaze. Rather, it is turned inwards as women look down at their bodies, roll food around their mouths and lick their fingers. A video in which a woman eats in her parked car begins: Okay, for lunch I’ve got some fried chicken; it’s two pieces with fries, and there’s lots of ketchup here… I also got a gravy and a macaroni salad to go with it… on yeah and I did pay an extra dollar for an extra piece of chicken so it’s three pieces of chicken. Here the BBW’s eating and its pleasures map the space of this video as closed. Yet her simultaneous narration also opens up this savoured moment of ingestion to a listening and viewing Other. This suggests that it may be not so much bodies that are shared or desired in these videos (as they are in pornography, perhaps), but rather the act of eating itself; these spaces invoke a “mimetic desire” (Girard) to be in this food-consuming moment. In another video a woman talks the viewer through the various flavours of cotton candy in her hand before deciding to try the pink vanilla. After taking a bite she offers this to the camera, saying, “you can eat that part […] does it melt on your tongue?” Although the sharing of eating is verbally articulated here, there are many other instances in which this is less explicit but also present, as visceral viewing becomes a moment of eating from afar (Lavis). That viewers often leave comments such as “I can taste that burger” suggests that these videos engender “vicarious consumption” (Kirkwood) that may be a form of eating as affective as taking food into the mouth. As such, here we glimpse the multi-directional flows of agency, affect and sociality engendered by eating. Recent explorations of eating bodies have seen these as entangled in myriad social and material relations. By engaging with eating as instigating encounters between bodies and worlds, this work has thereby argued that “in the act of placing food in the mouth, landscapes, people, objects and imaginings not only juxtapose with and fold into one another, but are also reconstituted and reordered” (Abbots and Lavis 5. See also Probyn). Against this background, “vicarious consumption” (Kirkwood) offered by these videos folds the bodies of viewer and viewed together to reconfigure taken-for-granted notions of outsides and insides, eater and eaten. Visceral viewing as embodied consumption recognises eating as an act that may be shared and thereby take place among many bodies at once. It has been suggested that an attention to viscerality engages with “contextualized and interactive versions of the self and other” (Hayes-Conroy and Hayes-Conroy, visceral, 1273). As such, as consuming the Other slip-slides into becoming Other through mimetic eating, it is now viewers’ bodily materialities that are affected and reshaped; their hungering, salivating bodies are mediated by the BBWs’ moments of eating. In this reversal, our sense of the power dynamics of these videos shifts. As eating becomes shared and contingently and dynamically distributed across bodies, power too is dissipated between the actors that perhaps co-produce these (eating) spaces and bodies. Thus, these videos offer participants on both side of the lens the possibility of being caught up in affective flows, whilst also being “articulating subjects” (Probyn 17) who “reforge new meanings, new identities” (17) through eating. Conclusion By engaging with videos in which self-identified Big Beautiful Women eat online, this article has reflected on the diverse imaginings, socialities and flows of power that texture these spaces. Paying attention to eating has afforded an alternative view of these videos, challenging a pornographic reading by recognising other intimacies and affective connections. As such, this discussion has sought to re-prioritise the experiences and agency of the BBWs in the videos themselves, whilst also interrogating how their bodies may be patrolled and even produced by the gaze of Others. Thus, whilst being careful not to reduce the BBWs to no more than food – “dehumanised as symbols of cultural fear: the body, the belly, the arse, food” as Charlotte Cooper puts it - an attention to eating has responded to her suggestion to “try to get a hold of their humanity” in analysis. This article therefore set out to explore how a visceral attention might forge a more nuanced understanding of these videos. Yet, in so doing, it has also become clear that they inform wider theorisations of eating. Thinking through what eating is and where its boundaries lie in these spaces has illustrated that this is an act that may take diverse forms and be shared among bodies that are spatially and temporally apart. That the visceral viewing of an Other’s ingestion and digestion may itself be a form of eating offers a novel way to think through contingent and affective connections among foods, bodies and persons. References Abbots, Emma-Jayne, and Anna Lavis (eds.) 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