Journal articles on the topic 'Gaston Bachelard’s Poetics of space'

In this paper, I will analyse Joan Didion’s poetics of praise and mourning in her first published novel, Run River, understanding the Western landscape she presents in it as an instance of Gaston Bachelard’s idea of the childhood home as a felicitous, eulogised space. I will argue that Didion’s depiction of the Sacramento Valley and the struggle of the families inhabiting it to accept the changing face of the landscape results in a jeremiad narrative of the West as paradise lost. Reflecting on the limitations both of Bachelard’s discussion of the childhood home and of the West as a mythographic space, I will conclude by assessing Didion’s topophilia and her ambiguous stance as a Western writer.

"Venice, deeply imaginary and symbolic, is in various cultural documents, like books, paintings, cinema, music, photography and other arts. In this research, we use the literary and the poetic narrative as privileged sources for understanding the imaginary and the identity of this city, closely connected with love and with death too. This investigation uses as a method Gaston Bachelard’s phenomenology defined in The Poetics of Space and the symbolical imaginary described in relation to the material imagination in Water and Dreams. Venice is a city on water and its identity is closely associated with love, as one mirror side, and with death or even hell, as the other mirror side."

This paper aims to examine the philosophical work of the French epistemologist and phenomenologist - Gaston Bachelard, by transferring its interpretation from the general into a specific field of architecture. The Poetics of Space (La Poétique de l'Espace), as a Bachelard's work that enjoys even today the most comprehensive reception among the architects and theorists of architecture, shall be taken as a starting point of our analysis. Intending not to limit itself to the considerations which encompass only texts that are strictly thematically or problematically dealing with architecture, this paper aims to position and contextualise Bashlar's philosophical thought within the phenomenological reflections that found their applications in the theory of architecture. In this sence, we shall provide an insight into the duality of relations between the Bachelard's concept of poetic image (l'image poétique) and a poetic object/motif, which, in our case, referes to the inherent elements of an architectural object intended for dwelling. Therefore, in addition to the material and geometric, we shall try to apprehend and explain the experiential manner of spatial perception, and single out the echoes of Bashlar's philosophical thought, which carry within themselves a potential to distort architectural thinking. The results of research shall indirectly demonstrate two possible ways of interpreting the Bachelard's work: 1) the analogous application and appropriation of interpretations of Bachelard's text as a reversed manualdreambook for provoking and inscribing the desired experience in the architectural space, and 2) the application of the mechanisms of phenomenological analysis itself, directed towards the interest in the process of creating a poetic image, as guidelines for the actualisation of an architectural object in its specific reality, through the work on its poeticity.

The pivotal objective of this research is to analyse a poetic image of an imaginary window at night as well as a “ghost” room in Samuel Beckett’s play A Piece of Monologue through the binary lens of Gaston Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space, and Beckett’s biography. An absent onstage window, being part of an imagined reality created by the Speaker, becomes the nexus of this short play, and is discussed in relation to its locus, the writer’s memory, and material imagination. Tightly linked to Beckett’s life, childhood home and the instance of his birth, this image becomes a multi-layered construct, which gains a life of its own in the play and represents the universal themes of birth, death, loss of loved ones and mourning.

Abstract This article will ask questions that connect the conceptions of Marc Augé's 'place/non-place' and Gaston Bachelard's 'poetic space' to the avatar of real-time, perpetual, online, three-dimensional virtual builder's worlds, also known as the metaverse. Are metaverses 'places' or 'non-places'? Do we actually live in the metaverse or do we just traverse these worlds very much in the sense that Marc Augé defines them as transitional loci that are assigned only to circumscribed and specific positions? The question following from this is whether there are nevertheless three-dimensionally embodied virtual spaces that go beyond being transitional 'non-places' to locations in which an imaginative relationship to architecture in the sense in which Bachelard describes them in his seminal work The Poetics of Space (1958) or that correspond to Marc Augé's definition of 'place' exist.

Is war suitable for children? Images of war in children’s literature I drew on poetics of space by Gaston Bachelard to describe the reality of war from a child’s perspective. War stories for children were depicted in following books: Zaklęcie na “w” (The w-word spell) by Michał Rusinek, Asiunia by Joanna Papuzińska, Czy wojna jest dla dziewczyn? (Is war suitable for girls?) by Paweł Beręsewicz and Wszystkie moje mamy (All my moms) by Renata Piątkowska. Happy places, where children can cower and find shelter are typical features of Bachelard’s poetics of space. During the war cellars served as bomb shelters and they were also the places where adults and children looked for a hideaway and safety. Another determiner of poetics of space is a small - big opposition which is carried out e.g. by setting a small child against an adult, a strong German. This opposition is connected with good - bad or white - black dialecticc. The phenomenology of roundness is the next determiner of poetics of space and it is exhibited in children songs and games. Even during the war children desired to have ordinary and happy childhood without fear. Warm embrace of parents and storytelling are also very important. The phenomenology of the hidden is a final determiner of poetics of space and it is expressed e.g. as additional packets which people sewed to their clothes to smuggle food and medicine or as special boxes, which served to transporting children from ghetto. Illustrations are very important, because they supplement the text. During the war children must face up to a new reality. Instead of parents’ love, there are harsh rules of war.Key words: war; children; bombing; ghetto; German;

"This text deals with the relationships between the phenomenalizations of hand and engraving art, especially against the background of Gaston Bachelard’s philosophical commentaries on the works of Albert Flocon. Special space is devoted to the interpretation of Flocon’s engraving of two hands in connection with Escher’s similar lithography. Another thematic field is the role of the tool and the hand equipped with the tool. However, the central axis of this thinking is the interconnection or intertwining of body and matter, the interactive relationship between human being and matter, between visual observation and dynamic haptics, which require a certain force and thus also experience the back pressure of matter. The conclusion of the text draws attention to a specific engraving, such as writing, especially the writing of a philosophical text, as we read about it in Bachelard’s book The Flame of a Candle, the last word of which is—surprisingly—engraving. Keywords: poetics of touching, engraving, instrumentality, resistance of matter, work of art "

How can we create possibilities for a generative moment between the research participants and ourselves? In a study about (day)dreaming, we searched for ways of doing our research in which we could meet and jointly explore the becoming of life and important matters through our experiences of dreaming. Inspired by Gaston Bachelard’s phenomenology of dreaming and in particular his book The Poetics of Space, in which he emphasized the importance of small, intimate spaces for poetic moments to occur, we decided to buy a small countryside caravan. Through this inquiry into a new spatiotemporality for our research encounters, we experienced how the caravan offers a rupture from the mundane ongoingness enabling us to reconnect to the moment, the place, each other, and ourselves. This rupture awakens the verticality of time allowing us to be looking anew and making novel connections. What may be seen as self-evident, but it was not for us, is the recognition that in developing research practices for studying dreaming, we had to first start dreaming ourselves.

This critical note addresses two key features of eco-theology with regard to future prospect: that literary analysis is an important mode of eco-theological work and that an important function of eco-theology is to expand readers’ spheres of concern to include even the most remote of global environmental issues. Working from Tweed’s contention in Crossing and Dwelling that a central function of religion is the process of making homes, the note emphasizes the home as the primary sphere of concern and the need for eco-theological work to extend the concern naturally associated with the private home to the broadest possible sphere: the whole earth as conceived as human home. As pertaining to literary-analytical resources for this eco-theological endeavor, the note highlights the importance of Gaston Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space. Bachelard’s work offers a compelling exploration of the psychological connection between the most intimate spheres of concern (the private home) and the most extended ones (the broader world). Broader eco-theological engagement with his work will employ resources both for understanding relations between the relative scales of human ecology and for expanding spheres of concern, particularly in extending that concern often reserved for the most intimate ecological sphere to the most expansive.

AbstractThe purpose of this piece is to probe the nature of Bachelard's subversive hermeneutics by focusing on his predilection for those often unsettling poetic intuitions which emerge with the force of a summons in the experience of reading. My wager is that the hermeneutics of literary texts proposed by Gaston Bachelard in The Poetics of Space (1957) has its antecedents in his polemical theory of "discontinuous time" and the accompanying "pedagogy of discontinuity" set forth in his early work L'Intuition de l'instant: essai sur la Siloé de Gaston Roupnel (1932). The task of this hermeneutics, epitomized by Bachelard's own reading of Siloé, is to detect the ruptures, burning questions, or surprising insights that spark and (re)orient the movement of our life projects, with a view to unfolding the ethical implications of the "call of an instant" upon our sense of intimate duration and history. In the second half of this essay I proceed to set this hermeneutics into motion through a reading of Shelley's Prometheus Unbound that focuses on "lightning" as an image of Bachelardian "instants" in this drama—critical moments charged with contradictions that ultimately seem to steer the poet's course in directions, or towards ethical possibilities, other than his controlling artistic will could have charted out in advance.

In this paper Rachel Fensham returns to the writings of Gaston Bachelard in order to examine the poetics of space from a non-European perspective. Spatial metaphors, such as the ‘dead heart’ that might evoke phenomenological and psychic dimensions of space in Australia, also register in historical and geographical imaginaries. However, postcolonial theories of space disturb visual metaphors and cartographic concepts in the mises en scène of theatrical performance. Here, Fensham analyzes two recent performances that radically reimagine the poetics of (Australian) space through the movement trajectories of walking and falling. Rachel Fensham is a Professor of Dance and Theatre Studies at the University of Surrey. Her book with Denise Varney, The Dolls' Revolution: Australian Theatre and Cultural Imagination (Australian Scholarly Publishing, 2005), examines the influence of women playwrights on mainstream Australian theatre, and she is currently undertaking research on transnationalism and choreographic practice.

Abstract The article discusses picturebooks illustrated by a Norwegian artist, Svein Nyhus, to show his specific symbolic manner of depicting the child’s environment. It is argued that the illustrator employs characteristic recurrent elements of home representations and elaborates an interesting interplay of outer and inner spaces, consistently focusing the child’s perspective. This is demonstrated by an analysis of four picturebooks by the Norwegian artist: Pappa! (1998, Daddy!), Snill (2002, Nice), Sinna mann (2003, Angry Man) and Håret till mamma (2007, Mum’s Hair). The books have been regarded as ambitious literature for children, addressing difficult issues or even sometimes breaking a taboo. To show Nyhus’ visual method of thematising childhood’s traumas in relation to a home space is also one of the aims of the paper. The analysis of visual content is carried out with references to the textual narratives, drawing on ideas about heterotopia by Michel Foucault (1984), self-effacement by Karen Horney (1997) and the poetics of space by Gaston Bachelard (1969).

Partindo da configuração do próprio romance, assim como de duas indicações da fortuna crítica, o presente texto propõe analisar o protagonismo do espaço da casa, assim como suas significações, no romance Alma (1995), de Manuel Alegre. Para tanto, passagens do texto são confrontadas principalmente com propostas que postulam a casa como local central na experiência do sujeito: as de Otto Friedrich Bollnow, em O homem e o espaço; e as de Gaston Bachelard, em A poética do espaço e em A terra e os devaneios do repouso: ensaio sobre as imagens da intimidade. *** House: a rhythm of the memory in Alma, by Manuel Alegre ***Considering the configuration of the novel itself and indications on two essays of literary criticism, this paper intends to analyse the importance of the space of the house, as well as its significations, in the novel Alma (1995), by Manuel Alegre. For this, passages of the text are confronted mainly with proposals that postulate the house as a central place in the individual’s experience, such The Human Space, by Otto Friedrich Bollnow; and The Poetics of Space and Earth and Reveries of Repose: An Essay on Images of Interiority, by Gaston Bachelard.Keywords: Portuguese literature; Portuguese novel; House.

The article studies miniatures in Kaija Saariaho's Lichtbogen for nine musicians and live electronics (1985-86). The research material consists of records, the score and composer's interviews and articles. Methodologically, the article is based on Gaston Bachelard 's phenomenology (The Poetics of Space) and Denis Smalley's "Spectromorphology." Miniatures are subtle spatio-temporal constellations, which require a non-global listening strategy, or an "aural magnification glass" in order to be perceived. In Saariaho's case, these miniatures are often imbued with musical tension, which reverberates across the material borders of music and texts. By working on the borderline between music and language, they challenge the notion that a hard separation exists between the purely musical and the extra-musical.

Abstract Background and Objectives Thriving has been described as a multidimensional concept that can be used to explore place-related well-being; however, there has been limited research into the meaning of thriving in aged care. This study aimed to illuminate meanings of thriving as narrated by persons living in nursing homes. Research Design and Methods Narrative interviews were conducted with 21 persons residing in a rural Australian nursing home. The interviews were audio-recorded, transcribed, and interpreted using a phenomenological hermeneutic approach. Results Meanings of thriving could be understood as: Striving toward acceptance of being in a nursing home while maintaining a positive outlook; Feeling supported and cared for while maintaining a sense of independence; Balancing opportunities for solitude and company while living with others; and, Feeling a sense of home while residing in an institutional environment. The meanings of thriving, as presented through the interpretive lens of Gaston Bachelard’s “Poetics of Space,” encompassed having access to literal, metaphorical, and symbolic doors, as well as having the freedom to open, close, and use these doors however the person wishes. Discussion Exploring meanings of thriving in nursing homes could contribute towards understanding and implementing positive life-world constructs in research and practice. These findings could be used to inform and enhance person-centered care practices by maximizing opportunities for persons residing in nursing homes to have options and choices, and the agency to make decisions where possible, in relation to their everyday care and living environment.

Jung's metaphor of house as psyche is often regarded as little more than an arbitrary and reductive ‘diagram’ that imposes structure onto his conception of psyche with its various parts and underpinning libidinal processes. And yet, as this paper argues, the impact and relevance of the architectural metaphor extends beyond a conceptual consideration of psyche into a lived experience of it. It is thus also Jung's phenomenological description of the way human beings dwell and experience their placement or non-placement within the world in which they find themselves. This paper elucidates these different interpretations. First, through Jung's accounts of his ‘dream-house’ in connection with the likely architectural influences of those houses in which he had lived or had designs to live; and second, through an examination of a curious mistranslation of one of Jung's overlooked descriptions of the architectural metaphor found in the celebrated work, La poetique de l'espace (1957)/The poetics of space (1958) by the renowned French philosopher Gaston Bachelard. The metaphorical description under scrutiny is the relationship between cellar and attic rooms, which Jung uses in his essay ‘Allgemeines zur komplextheorie’ (1934)/‘A review of the complex theory’ (1948a) to expound his understanding of the effects of the complex on ego-consciousness. Bachelard's misreading inadvertently reverts the placement of the two rooms, thereby proffering something akin to a ‘topsy-turvy’ house of psyche. The implications of Bachelard's misreading for an understanding of Jungian complex theory is explored, and the wider conceptual and phenomenological implications for the possible redesign or renovation of Jung's metaphor of house as psyche are ascertained.

Tendo em vista as obras <em>Poética do espaço</em> (1989) e <em>O direito de sonhar</em> (1986), de Gaston Bachelard, este ensaio propõe um exercício de imaginação material sobre a América do Sul, com o intuito de desenvolver perspectivas de criação dramatúrgica tendo por base o continente. Para isso, criou-se uma metodologia particular: (re)esculpindo-se a América do Sul, dela são retirados, um de cada vez, todos os seus países(incluindo o território ultramarino francês da Guiana). Uma a uma, são analisadas as imagens resultantes dessas amputações e alguns significados do vazio deixado por cada país. Finalmente, os mapas resultantes são girados em torno de seus eixos e imageticamente ressignificados.<br /><br />Taking into account the works <em>Poetics of space</em> (1989) and <em>The right to dream</em> (1986), by Gaston Bachelard, it proposes an exercise in imagination over South America, for creating drama, with a particular methodology: (re) carving to South America, it is removed, one at a time, each one of its countries (including overseas territory of French Guyana). One by one, the resulting images are analyzed and some of these amputations meanings of the void left by each country. Finally, the resulting maps are rotated around their axes and imagetically reframe.

Throughout his work, Samuel Beckett interrogates the idea that voice is an authentic conduit for identity. Radio distorts, edits, and projects speech, and so broadcasting was a natural choice for his lifelong experiment. Both objects – radio and voice – are also fundamentally spatial. They distribute waves of sound across a given terrain. Beckett's interest in radio is abstract, in that the medium allows him to investigate general concerns about the construction of subjectivity – the ways in which we are all subject to disparate voices. But the writer's engagement with radio also arises against the backdrop of specific material conditions in post-War France and Europe. These were the years that French spatial theory took up the problem of urban modernisation. Gaston Bachelard's Poetics of Space was published in 1957, the same year that Beckett wrote his first radio play, and also the same year that work began on Le Périphérique, Europe's first ring road. This paper investigates Beckett's radio plays against the backdrop of urban theory ( urbanisme), arguing that Beckett's work can reveal light on theories of space, even urban geography.

As argued, among others, by Gaston Bachelard in The Poetics of Space (1958), a house which has been inhabited over a period of time becomes a composite of its physical structure and the mental space created by its residents’ thoughts, dreams and memories. This article analyses two contemporary novels in which houses as tangible manifestations of temporally remote experience provide a link to the Vic-torian past. Lauren Willig’s That Summer (2014) and Kate Beaufoy’s Another Heartbeat in the House (2015) represent the same type of neo-Victorian fiction: their plots are composed of two strands, one set in the modern age and the other in the nineteenth century, and in the course of each story parallels and conver-gences are revealed between the two ages and the two casts of characters. The article argues that both novels are also typical “romances of the archive” – as defined by Suzanne Keen (2001) − in which the ma-terial legacy of the past triggers a personally motivated inquiry, leading contemporary characters to un-cover certain bygone mysteries, and, crucially, to recognise the past’s continuing appeal and relevance.

Статья представляет попытку анализа метафор и одновременно теоретического обоснования концепта «дом», достаточно разработанного в русской литературе XIX века и в литературоведении. Именно это имплицитно предполагает тематизацию и проблематизацию «центра концепта», который подвергался глубоким трансформациям. В частности, можно говорить даже об автономном его существовании, о развитии внутри художественных произведений по собственным законам. С точки зрения генезиса образ Дома можно классифицировать, упорядочивать его дискурсы по отдельным авторам, отдельному произведению или ряду произведений одного писателя. Сказанное выше в полной мере отразилось на содержании статьи, охватывающей большой круг текстов русской литературы, кроме того, позволило вписать в контекст анализа исследование французского философа и эстетика Гастона Башляра «Поэтика пространства», активно функционировавшее в литературоведении в последние десятилетия The article represents an attempt to analyze metaphors and at the same time to justify theoretically the concept of "home", sufficiently developed in Russian literature of the 19th century and in literary criticism. It is this implicitly suggests the thematization and problematization of the "center of the concept," which has undergone deep transformations. In particular, we can even talk about its autonomous existence, about the development of works of art within it according to its own laws. From the point of view of genesis, the image of the Home can be classified, and its discourses can be ordered according to individual authors, a separate work or a number of works of one writer. The above was fully reflected in the content of the article, covering a large range of texts of Russian literature. In addition, the context of the analysis was complemented by the study of the French philosopher and aesthetics Gaston Bachelard "The Poetics of Space", which has been actively functioning in literary criticism in recent decades

Abstract Gaston Bachelard (1884–1962) occupies a unique position in the history of European thinking. As a philosopher of science, he developed a profound interest in genres of the imagination, notably poetry and novels. While emphatically acknowledging the strength, precision and reliability of scientific knowledge compared to every-day experience, he saw literary phantasies as important supplementary sources of insight. Although he significantly influenced authors such as Lacan, Althusser, Foucault and others, while some of his key concepts (“epistemological rupture,” “epistemological obstacle,” “technoscience”) are still widely used, his oeuvre tends to be overlooked. And yet, as I will argue, Bachelard’s extended series of books opens up an intriguing perspective on contemporary science. First, I will point to a remarkable duality that runs through Bachelard’s oeuvre. His philosophy of science consists of two sub-oeuvres: a psychoanalysis of technoscience, complemented by a poetics of elementary imagination. I will point out how these two branches deal with complementary themes: technoscientific artefacts and literary fictions, two realms of human experience separated by an epistemological rupture. Whereas Bachelard’s work initially entails a panegyric in praise of scientific practice, he becomes increasingly intrigued by the imaginary and its basic images (“archetypes”), such as the Mother Earth archetype.

In a recent book published in Montreal, Bachelard ou le Concept Contre l'image, Jean-Pierre Roy suggests that idealists have in recent years attempted a recouping of Bachelard’s works in a way that would proceed from “a humanist ideology of literature” (1977, p.203) and he mentions Georges Poulet, Jean-Pierre Richard and Paul Ricoeur. Indeed he sees a rupture between Bachelard’s approach to works of art and his epistemology, which would place him in the camp of rigorous knowledge, and Jean-Pierre Roy refers to Barthes, Genette and Derrida (1977, p.219). The author of the book concludes that the poetics of Bachelard belong to a time which is anterior to that of his epistemology. This is of course a verdict which allows for the rejection of a mode of thinking which belongs to the past and which cannot be seen flourishing in the future channels of what Marxists hold as the sense of history.

This paper aims to investigate the role played by Hailsham, the fictional boarding school in Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel Never Let Me Go, in the mind of its central characters as seen through Gaston Bachelard’s conception of space. The article then aims to explore how the memory of Hailsham works as a coping mechanism for some of the novel’s characters, especially for Kathy. After a brief survey of Bachelard’s spatial criticism, the article then discusses the elements of intimacy in the space of Hailsham and portrays the boarding school as a oneiric house or a childhood home in Bachelard’s terms. By using an analytical method, this study offers an examination of two notions, that of memory and that of imagination, which are built upon the aspect of association and intimacy. Following the development of the plot of Never Let Me Go, the article sheds light on the role played by the so-called “cottages” in the shaping of these character’s relations to themselves, to each other, and to the outside world. This paper opens the door to other critics to read Never Let Me Go from the perspective of other spatial theorists like Mitchel Foucault, Henri Lefevbre, and Edward Soja.

This paper focuses on the perceptual-psychological experience of place in Campo Square, in the Italian city of Siena. Viewed from this perspective, it contributes to Gaston Bachelard’s topoanalysis and aims to address a phenomenological analysis of the real, and inhabited images embedded in Campo Square. Bachelard focuses on topoanalysis, which is mainly based on the association of all our senses, most importantly the visual, aural, and tactile, with our lived experiences. The main objectives of this paper are to discover, examine, and interpret the real images that are influential in the creation of strong sense of place attachment in Campo Square. Based on qualitative research, including a textual analysis of Gaston Bachelard’s phenomenological imagination, the memorable character of Campo Square will be analyzed. The analysis will then be compared to that of another square, Haidplatz, in Regensburg, Germany. This comparison will reveal links between images of inhabiting (simplicity and protection) and images of our sensory realm in Campo Square and Haidplatz Square. Consequently the findings across the two squares lead the paper to suggest possibilities and solutions in order to propose a framework for the integration of topoanalysis in the interpretation of architectural-urban space.

ResumoEste artigo é um memorial descritivo do processo de criação da cena “AFETO: amor fervente en(tre) trânsito ordinário” construído como parte da avaliação da disciplina “Dramaturgia do Ator” do curso Licenciatura em Teatro da Universidade Federal do Pará, no ano de 2017. Partimos de atravessamentos sobre os estudos de Gaston Bachelard no livro “A poética do devaneio” e apontamentos do trabalho sobre si presentes na “Dramaturgia Pessoal do Ator” de Wlad Lima, em uma confissão poética, onde o corpo homossexual, do intérprete criador desta cena, expõe suas vivências do ciclo do amor em devaneios transversais entre a poética pessoal e a dramaturgia do ator, desenvolvendo uma escrita autobiográfica narrada da perspectiva das personas criadas durante o processo, entendendo o devaneio poético autobiográfico na criação cênica como um ato necessário de empoderamento de si e resistência.AbstractThis article is a descriptive memorial of the process of creation of the scene “AFETHE: fervent love in (ordinary) transit” constructed as part of the evaluation of the “Dramaturgy of the Actor” course of the Licensed Theater course of the Federal University of Pará, 2017. We start from cross-over on Gaston Bachelard’s studies in the book “The Poetics of Daydreaming” and notes from his work on Wlad Lima’s “Personal Actor’s Dramaturgy” in a poetic confession where the homosexual body of the creative interpreter of this scene, exposes his experiences of the cycle of love in transverse daydreams between the personal poetics and the dramaturgy of the actor, developing an autobiographical writing narrated from the perspective of the people created during the process, understanding the autobiographical poetic reverie in the scenic creation as a necessary act of empowerment and resistance.

The article discusses Henry David Thoreau’s domestic spatial imagery in Walden, in terms of Bachelard’s poetics of space, as a set of angles, nests, crusts, and shells. The analysis identifies uncanny similarities between Thoreau’s imagery and descriptions of megamachines, as defined by Lewis Mumford. The descriptions of megamachines come from a variety of more recent sources from the 20th century, which suggests that the seemingly unrelated, technocratic texts have been inspired by Thoreau.

“Nostalgia,” writes Svetlana Boym, often emerges in times of “historical upheavals” or when the “rhythms of life” are suddenly “accelerated.” One can well understand that such nostalgic outbreaks are the results of the experience change. One such moment was that of the Partition of India in 1947. This paper focuses on this moment as it is depicted in Qurratulain Hyder’s novel, My Temples, Too. Hyder’s novel, that centers around the experience of Partition, is haunted by a palpable sense of loss, of rupture, and an acute longing for the places and spaces of the past that its characters witness as eroding. Following scholars like Boym, Linda Hutcheon, De Brigard, Gaston Bachelard, Edward Casey, and others, this paper first prepare the ground of its argument by showing how memory and nostalgia are often deeply rooted in everyday things, objects, and places of habitation, investing them with a sense of belonging. Thereafter, it situates Hyder’s novel in its immediate context and explores its poetics of loss, longing, and nostalgia.

As part of an aesthetic approach, this design-driven research crosses two methodologies to determine what is common in the perception of atmospheres. First, a case study of the Vals’ thermal baths led to the selection of five different atmospheres, which were then analyzed through Gaston Bachelard’s lens, using his book L’Eau et les rêves. Bachelard’s literary symbols echo in the water contained in the massive stone walls of Vals to identify common generators of sensitive atmospheres. Secondly, the construction of this dialogue between Bachelard and Zumthor leads to the elaboration of a conceptual architecture project which is voluntarily emotional. This project introduces the elements that generate five ambiences identified in the case study. This design-driven research is therefore based on Grégoire Chelkoff’s theory of formants as vectors of transmission of atmosphere, pre-existing to the experienc of a place, of an ambiance, which itself is understood as a sensitive result of the perception of the space. The present work therefore questions the role of water as a sensitive vector, from the architecture to its visitor. The goal is to determine how water, in varying manifestations, can be used by architects to create a “mise en scène” for a voluntarily emotional architecture.

In this article, it is my intention to analyse two theoretical notions related to space, namely Pierre Nora’s idea of the site of memory and Gaston Bachelard’s thoughts on space and the house, as applied to Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited (1945). I base my analysis on the symbolic value of the English country house with regard to the interwar English aristocracy and upper classes as depicted in this novel; that is, as a site of memory. I consider the point of view of three characters: Charles Ryder, the novel’s first-person narrator, Lord Sebastian Flyte, Ryder’s intimate friend, and Lord Marchmain, Sebastian’s father, who triggers the novel’s sudden and unexpected ending through his deathbed conversion to Roman Catholicism, his family’s creed. My conclusion links the decline of aristocratic and Christian ideals with the disappearance of communities of memory and their traditions after the Second World War.

This essay proposes to read Marilynne Robinson’s 1981 novel Housekeeping as a depiction of an imaginary journey that the protagonists undertake in search of habitable domesticity adaptable to change. In a sequence of stages, the house, physically and symbolically, undergoes radical transformation from a solid edifice, firmly rooted in cultural and societal structures, into a mobile Foucauldian heterotopic space (a ship), where boundaries between the inside and the outside, nature and civilization, place and placelessness, presence and absence collapse. Each stage of the transformation is linked to a hero who interacts with the spaces of the house creating, in each case, a unique interconnectedness reminiscent of Bachelard’s poetics of nests and shells. I argue that the tension between permanence and transience in the novel is resolved in the bond which the two main characters forge in the course of their journey.

Resumo: O presente artigo tem por objetivo discutir a importância do espaço no romance A estrela sobe (1939), de Marques Rebelo. A trama dedica-se a um curioso painel dos últimos anos da década de trinta, ao mesmo tempo em que elabora o singular embate entre a cidade do Rio de Janeiro e a personagem Leniza Máier, jovem aspirante à carreira de cantora de rádio. Na trajetória de Leniza, a cidade evidencia-se como espaço de descontinuidade e cisão, observação e discurso. A narrativa de A estrela sobe lança mão de múltiplas significações que vão além da simples esfera descritiva, pois mapeia sensibilidades e encarna questionamentos não só espaciais da urbe moderna, mas, sobretudo, subjetivos e sociais da referida protagonista. Ao escolher o caminho ladeira abaixo para abandonar a inocência do subúrbio onde crescera, Leniza ascende ao estrelato no centro da cidade, ao mesmo tempo em que decai moralmente experimentando conflitos e isolamentos. Os movimentos de descida e subida participam do próprio sentido da obra, oferecendo uma armação estrutural, labiríntica e poética do Rio de Janeiro. Nesse sentido, a espacialidade constitui fonte potencial e emblemática do romance como presença incessante da angústia e solidão vivenciadas pela personagem. Para empreender a análise, o estudo visa o questionamento da funcionalidade do espaço à luz dos conceitos teóricos de Michel Foucault (2001), Iuri Lotman (1978), Gaston Bachelard (2001), entre outros. Ademais, serão considerados ensaios críticos que abordem a ficção moderna de Marques Rebelo.Palavras-chave: espaço; Marques Rebelo; A estrela sobe.Abstract: We aim to discuss the importance of space in Marques Rebelo’s novel A estrela sobe (1939). The plot is centered on a curious overview of the 1930s last years, while it shows the singular shock between Rio de Janeiro city and the character Leniza Máier, a young aspirant to the radio singing career. In Leniza’s trajectory, the city is evidenced as a space of discontinuity and scission, observation and discourse. A estrela sobe narrative gives rise to multiple meanings that go beyond the simple descriptive realm, since it maps out sensitivities and embodies not only spatial matters of the modern city, but especially the subjective and social aspects of the above-mentioned protagonist. By going downhill to abandon the innocence of the suburb where she grew up, Leniza rises as a star in the downtown area, at the same time she morally decays experiencing conflicts and isolation. The movements of going up and down are part of the own story meaning, offering a structural, labyrinthine and poetic picture of Rio de Janeiro. In this sense, spatiality is the potential and emblematic source of the novel as an incessant presence of the anguish and solitude experienced by the character. In order to undertake the analysis, we aim at questioning the functionality of space in the light of the theoretical concepts of Michel Foucault (2001), Iuri Lotman (1978), Gaston Bachelard (2001), among others. In addition, critical essays that address Marques Rebelo’s modern fiction will be considered.Keywords: space; Marques Rebelo; A estrela sobe.

This article is devoted to the imagery problem of the decadence-literature (as a general phenomenon that periodically repeats itself) and of the literature of the decadency (as an oeuvre of crisis developments in art of the late 19th and early 20th century). The decadence-literatureis a manifestation of the irreducibility. It is proposed to analyze the imagery based on the context of the modernist interpretation of the image / icon. Before the image was considered together with its mimetic foundation – as an imitation of the external world. But here the image is freed from its mimetism, and it turns into a kind of "immediate ontology" (it is the Gaston Bachelard’s term). The classical structure of the image (plot, storyline, composition) ceases to play a leading role, and gives way to a writing. The decadence-literature image lets visual elements into literature. Therefore,there is a displacement from the ontology of the image to the image as an ontology in the research of imagery. It is also important to use the methodology proposed by Georges Didi-Huberman and Paul Virilio: the combination of the hermeneutic approach in the philosophy of image with elements of psychoanalysis, and the method of dromology, which is the connection of special aspects of the physics, mathematics and philosophy. The methodology of the School of Sociology of Imagination is also appropriate. The image of the decadence-literature is marked by symbolism, imaginism (it isalso known the same direction in literature – with the same name). There is also the "genres-werewolves" when a work is called, for example, poetry in prose. A personality of the writer-author plays a great role here: the decadence-literature is saturated with a psychology and a biography that is turned insideout. It is the expression of the world of unforgiven, restless personalities, which is explained by the principle of creation from an absence, emptiness, depressive and melancholic states (nostalgia, fatigue, sweet melancholy). It's interesting that decadent moods contribute to creation here. Distinctive features of the authors of decadence-literature: soreness, tenderness, hypersensitivity, a difficult life path and an unstable world. The imagery that is generated by creativity of these individuals is marked by a special attitude to time and space, it is also directed to the past in an attempt to find a lost paradise - that existed before the crash.

ResumenEntre 1939 y 1992, Rudolf Olgiati construyó cerca de 150 casas y pequeños conjuntos residenciales, en un enclave muy limitado de los Grisones. Desarrolló una forma de hacer verdaderamente única, logrando un lenguaje personal que ha trascendido este entorno tan cercano. El artículo plantea la hipótesis de que su trabajo contiene además una valiosa lección que puede aplicarse en otros muchos lugares. Se trata de argumentar cómo desde la armonía en los elementos arquitectónicos, los materiales, el color y los muebles, y a través de una sensibilidad excepcional hacia las percepciones del habitante, Olgiati consigue elevar la casa por encima del objeto arquitectónico y transformarla en un hogar también para la mente. Para ello, el artículo establece la relación entre la arquitectura doméstica de Olgiati y la idea filosófica de hogar descrita por Bachelard en la Poética del Espacio. En 1957, año de la publicación del ensayo, Olgiati comenzaba a construir sus primeras casas. Se señalan aspectos determinantes en su formación y se analizan distintos elementos seleccionados de su arquitectura, con el objetivo de comprender su carácter y su sensibilidad, y entresacar las cuestiones que nos acercan a la cualidad de estas casas. Todas ellas tocan con una distinción emocionante lo cercano, lo concreto, lo útil, a través de la aplicación sensible de lo universal y lo abstracto. Quizá entonces, como el hogar de Bachelard, alcanzan la condición de nido para los recuerdos y las emociones, lugar íntimo para la memoria y los sueños, de instrumento que permite al habitante, en palabras del filósofo, ‘enfrentarse al cosmos’.AbstractIn the period between 1939 and 1992, Rudolf Olgiati built around 150 houses and small residential complexes in a very limited area of Graubünden. He developed a truly unique way of doing things, defining a personal language that has transcended his local context. This paper hypothesises that his work also contains a valuable lesson that can be applied in many other places. It is a matter of arguing how, from the harmony of the architectural elements, the materials, the colour and the furniture, and through an exceptional sensitivity to the perceptions of the inhabitant, Olgiati manages to elevate the house above the architectural object and transform it into a home for the mind as well. To this end, the article establishes the relationship between Olgiati’s domestic architecture and the philosophical idea of home, as described by Bachelard in The Poetics of Space. In 1957, the year the essay was published, Olgiati began to build his first houses. Determining aspects in his training are pointed out, selected elements of his architecture analysed, with the aim of understanding his character and his sensitivity, and identifying the issues that tell us more about the quality of these houses. All of them touch on with emotional distinction the close, the concrete, and the useful, through the sensitive application of the universal and the abstract. Perhaps then, like Bachelard’s home, they become a nest for memories and emotions, an intimate place for memory and dreams, an instrument that allows the inhabitant, in the words of the philosopher, “to face the cosmos”.

The present paper intends to analyze and put under scrutiny Brian Dillon’s memoir In the Dark Room (2005) in the light of Gaston Bachelard’s theories of house as an intimate space explicated and expounded on in his magnum opus The Poetics of Space (1964). Since Bachelard’s ideas are often associated with phenomenology which accentuates the significance of the manner in which phenomena appear to us and are given meaning, the house and objects in it as a place of intimacy are of paramount importance to him. The spaces along with objects are not merely possessions which can be lived in or owned by individuals, but rather they express and suggest human emotions and human soul. They also have the power to transport us back into a distant past and evoke deeply buried memories and feelings. The house, says Bachelard, protects both daydreaming and the dreamer and allows one to dream in peace. Moreover, it provides a restful place in which imagination and thought are both stimulated. The title-mentioned work can be investigated in the light of Gaston Bachelard’s theories to provide proof for the above claim. The narrator of In the Dark Room is surrounded with objects and places which are capable of taking him back to the past arousing his interest and making him conjure up bygone days. Not only does the house function as a metaphor for evoking memories, but also the street and the place in which Dillon’s mother was hospitalized are accentuated. Hence, in the subsequent sections of the current paper, first phenomenology will be defined and elaborated on, then Brian Dillon’s selected work will be scrutinized based on Gaston Bachelard’s house-related theories and notions in order to demonstrate the association of the house and its objects with human soul and imagination.

The intangible value of emotions is often neglected in healthcare evaluations; however, it forms an important part of the hospital experience that needs to be taken into consideration to move toward person-centered care. This article conceptualizes how space and architecture may influence patient, family, and healthcare provider emotions. Building upon Gaston Bachelard’s Poetics of Space, theories on emotional design and architecture, as well as research in environmental design, we suggest several ways to value emotions in hospital design and architecture. The first theme explores several hospital spaces (the waiting room, the hospital room, the treatment room) using Bachelard’s phenomenology in order to show how to facilitate emotional security by catering to the individual needs of the user. The second discusses the overall hospital room environment, notably the influence of light, color, and sound on the patient’s emotional experience. The third explores architectural theorist Giuliana Bruno’s theory of e(motion) to explore the hospital space as vissuto, a space of lived experiences, that invites us to rethink the design and architecture of hospital spaces to allow for patient participation. The article also gives suggestions of qualitative, person-centered methodologies that can be used to move forward this debate.

The English Country House happens to be one of the most iconic topoi in English literary studies. Since narratologists have long privileged time over space, narrative space remained a relatively unexplored territory until the twentieth century, which intensified the interest in the house as the thematic fulcrum of literary works. British novelist Sarah Waters’s first venture into the realm of the sub-genre of English Country House fiction, The Little Stranger (2009) is a befitting discourse that appropriates the poetics of manorial space. Hundreds Hall, the Warwickshire seat of the Ayreses, encapsulates many roles as the epicentre of the story and as a powerful symbol of the gradual decay of English aristocracy in the post-World War II Britain. The article will try to incorporate Gaston Bachelard’s spatial criticism elaborated in his The Poetics of Space (1958) and the concept of heterotopia by Foucault for the interpretation/ (s) of the narrative. The study seeks to locate Bachelard’s bourgeoisie points of view, which the author subverts by portraying the rise of the proletariat. The focus of the article is to highlight the ingenuity of Waters’s creative process, which resorts to the genre of English Country House fiction to capture the condition of British aristocrats in a time of crises.

What does it mean to be home? We began asking this provocative question well before COVID-19, well before the collective crisis the world experienced which sent both of us back into our current homes. Exploring such a question through poetry writing may provide insights about individuals’ lived experiences, and, therefore, we contend it is worthwhile for scholars, artists and educators to widen possibilities for poetic method and craft related to writing about home. In this paper, we, two poets, arts-based education scholars, and Pittsburgh natives, offer pathways into exploring notions of home through the writing of poetry grounded in the ideas of Gaston Bachelard’s (1958/1964) seminal text, The Poetics of Space. To do so, we each offer and discuss two original poems on the topic of home to illustrate a number of compelling avenues scholars and research participants; educators and students might explore as they write poems evoking their own unique conceptions of home.

Whilst urban growth is generally accepted as a global phenomenon, this has numerous and ambivalent implications for Australia and its identity-work. Suburbia the site where the majority of Australians live, located somewhere between the privileged spaces of the city and the bush comes into focus as the emblematic topos through which the representational work of nation is articulated. Here, space becomes imbued with much current Australian political import. This article puts the discursive representation of Australian suburbia into juncture with hegemonic formations of nationness, and posits potential critical refigurations of these formations by mobilising a spatialised politics of cultural difference. Suburbia has come to represent a site of egalitarianism, signifying a truly Australian way of life. The masculinist and colonialist Australian myth of egalitarianism is constituted through a practice of carving up the land into equal portions, such that each man could have his stake in the country (Chambers 87). In this schema, the ownership of a detached house on a plot of land ensures proper and viable national subjects, since what is known as the suburban good life is nestled in a conception of house as home, where home is that which is familiar and secure. Consider John Howard's nationalist rhetoric: I believe that the concept of home is a compelling notion in our psyche…The loss of security challenges traditional notions of home and people feel the need to react to alienation…he or she must embrace what is secure, what people see as 'home.' (qtd. in Burke 8) It comes as no surprise, then, that Howard has initiated a scheme that grants $7000 to young couples toward establishing their first home. Home is not only a metaphor for nation; home is constituted in a material way through the house. The secure, housed, nation is most effectively enacted through the house and its ideal subjects: the white model of the heterosexual nuclear family. If European nostalgia is under threat, Howard's response is to maintain attempts to recover a unified national home. Ghassan Hage writes that the homely nation is itself an aspiration that guides the national subject's practices (68-9, my emphasis). Howard's anxiety is displayed in his response to the recent Tampa crisis, and it has become overwhelmingly evident who or what is not figured in his homely imaginary. Textuality becomes an effective means by which to negotiate and contest these dominant discourses of nation-space, and their prescribed modes of subjectivity. Suneeta Peres da Costa's recent novel Homework provides one such exigent re-mapping of nation-informed discourses of suburbia. Peres da Costa's text enacts a strategic invocation of cultural difference. Here, difference is not meant to connote inclusion or assimilation; difference must be seen as a dynamic constitutive mode of oppositionality, a provisional but insurrectionary and necessarily strategic other to dominant formations of nationness. As the novel's title itself suggests, home is work the work of being between spaces. Working from within the interstices of locatedness and worldliness allows the text to challenge embedded hegemonic inscriptions of nation-space. Whilst the novel was written and set in Australia, its packaging and subsequent reception also evokes the current trend of diasporic cosmopolitanism, signaling a world supposedly exempt from national belonging (Brennan qtd. in Kaplan 123). The novel was published simultaneously in the UK, the US, and Australia by Bloomsbury in 1999. The construction of this worldliness is here constituted in the politics of publishing, but this (dis)juncture between national and international, or the local and global, continues in the narrative itself. The narrative traverses both Australian domestic spaces and (imagined) international spaces. The fictive autobiography details Mina Pereira's late-childhood years as she lives with her family in suburban Rain Hill, Sydney. Whilst Mina and her sisters have grown up in Australia, their parents originate from Portuguese Goa, and Bombay, India. The narrative produces a tension between a global dislocation, where both Mr and Mrs Pereira's different and contradictory forms of homesickness are articulated, and the situatedness of Australia, where colonialism continues to construct hegemonic narratives of nationness. It is at this (dis)juncture that the narrative re-writes suburban space. Integrated into the suburban landscape and, in particular, the house itself, is the psychic space of memory. In the Pereira's house involuntary memories of former spaces and incidents in both Australia and India are evoked. A prolonged melancholia infiltrates the psychic and actual suburban spaces of the text, and in particular, the Federation house that the family lives in. If the Federation house signifies national unification, then this text enacts a kind of dis-unification of nation. With, in Gaston Bachelard's words, the past com[ing] to dwell in the new house (5), the seamless coherence of the suburban house is ruptured. As Homi Bhabha writes, [t]he recesses of the domestic space become sites for history's most intricate invasions. In that displacement, borders between home and world become confused; and, uncannily, the private and the public become part of each other, forcing upon us a vision that is as divided as it is disorienting. (9) In Homework, memory stretches beyond the limits of the nation such that nostalgia, as a politicised construction of the present, productively challenges the nation's boundaries. As Ien Ang writes, diasporas have the potential to unsettle static, essentialist and totalitarian conceptions of 'national culture' or 'national identity' with origins firmly rooted in fixed geography and common history (7). In this sense, the text interrogates the representational work of nation that attempts to maintain integrity and unity through incessant policing and securing of its borders. In Homework, the suburban house becomes unhomely, or unheimlich, in the haunting of subjects' memories that inhabit it, such that the house becomes not a tool for inculcating Australian nationness, but a zone of intermediacy between home and world. From this border space, that Homi Bhabha calls international (38) for the space of translation, negotiation, and hybridity, Australian space is unbounded and defamiliarised. Homework effectively dislodges the nation's homely imaginary by pointing to the excesses of belonging. Here home, as a mode of security and belonging, becomes detached from house. Aamir Mufti and Ella Shohat write that belonging cannot be housed simply within the material space of walls and roofs, of fenced topographies and well-drawn maps (1). This re-writing of hegemonic spatiality is concomitant with the re-constitution of prescribed modes of subjectivity. A politics of difference becomes a tool of creativity to question multiple forms of repression and dominance (Trinh 73). Cultural difference must be seen as disordering, as opening up new spaces for critical exchange (Soja and Hooper 193), and as positing new ways of critically writing and occupying spaces. By spatialising this politics of difference, the supposedly coherent spatiality of suburbia is ruptured and shown to be vulnerable. Re-narrating suburban spaces according to a politics of difference has the potential to dislodge hegemonic narratives that have become naturalised as they are mapped onto, or materialised in, real spaces. At the conclusion of Homework, the Pereira's house is enflamed. In this spectacular climax, part oneiric and fantastical, the house on fire becomes, in its pyrotechnical wizardry (255), a final recalcitrant figure to Australian suburban space. Merging with, and working against, that other sanctioned element of official multiculturalism, food, the fire sends out a toxic vapour to the hegemonic suburb: The pungent perfume that hung in a thick vapour above us was that of a vast spice warehouse burning to the ground. I could smell vast vats of mango and lime pickle; the bittersweet of cardamom spores that, with the intensity of the heat must have burst from their pods; peppercorns and paprika; turmeric, tamarind, and bay leaf; all these now lingered and mingled in a masala of mixed messages with the certain scents of dried cloves and the singular aroma of coriander. (256-7) The Federation house, with its symbolic encodings of nationness, is not only under de(con)struction here, but this image of a monstrous other further insults the suburban landscape's very senses. At the very heart of Australian suburbia is a stirring of the unhomely that is bound to repeat its disturbance to the mappings of nation. References Ang, Ien. Migrations of Chineseness. SPAN 34 (1993) : 9 pp. <http://wwwmcc.murdoch.edu.au/ReadingRoom...> Bachelard, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. 1958. Boston: Beacon, 1994. Bhabha, Homi K. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge, 1994. Burke, Anthony. Australia's Asian Crisis. Australian Humanities Review June (2001) : 9 pp. 27 August 2001 <http://www.lib.latrobe.edu/AHR/archive/I...> Chambers, Deborah. A Stake in the Country: Women's Experiences of Suburban Development. Visions of Suburbia. Ed. Roger Silverstone. London: Routledge, 1997. 86-107. Hage, Ghassan. White Nation: Fantasies of White Supremacy in a Multicultural Society. Leichhardt: Pluto Press, 1998. Kaplan, Caren. Questions of Travel: Postmodern Discourses of Displacement. Durham: Duke UP, 1996. Peres da Costa, Suneeta. Homework. London: Bloomsbury, 1999. Soja, Edward, and Barbara Hooper. The Spaces that Difference Makes: Some Notes on the Geographical Margins of the New Cultural Politics. Place and the Politics of Identity. Ed. Michael Keith and Steve Pile. London: Routledge, 1993. 183-205. Trinh, T. Minh-ha. Not You/Like You: Post-Colonial Women and the Interlocking Questions of Identity and Difference. Inscriptions 3-4 (1988) : 71-7. Links http://wwwmcc.murdoch.edu.au/ReadingRoom/litserv/SPAN/34/Ang.html http://www.lib.latrobe.edu/AHR/archive/Issue-June-2001/burke.html Citation reference for this article MLA Style Bullock, Emily. "Re-Writing Suburbia" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.2 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/suburbia.php>. Chicago Style Bullock, Emily, "Re-Writing Suburbia" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 2 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/suburbia.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Bullock, Emily. (2002) Re-Writing Suburbia. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(2). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/suburbia.php> ([your date of access]).

Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space ponders the image of the wardrobe. Fixated by the figurative nature of its inner space, for Bachelard, the wardrobe is intimate, secret, and ordered. It is a space of protected memories, accessed more through the imagination than the everyday. Besson’s The Fifth Element opens up intimate space. Its external envelope offers no impenetrable boundary but instead a permeable threshold. The Fifth Element suggests an alternative for intimate space, where the incongruous, even conflicting, come together. Such a possibility evokes Bakhtin’s construct of dialogism, which reveled in the potential of dialogue between one and other, across both literal and figurative thresholds. This article brings together disparate strands from philosophy, film, and architecture. Through their juxtaposition, it will consider the potential for a new perspective on intimate space as dialogical space, in which private and public might meet, interact and even embrace, and so see themselves anew.

TopofiliaA presente reflexão tem origem na minha experiência como assistente da disciplina de projecto de Anne Lacaton e Jean-Philippe Vassal, professores convidados na École Polytechnique et Fédérale de Lausanne no ano de 2010/2011. No livro La poétique de l'espace, o filósofo francês Gaston Bachelard fala da problemática da imagem como un produit direct du coeur, de l'âme, de l'être et de l'homme. Bachelard evoca a imagem poética como aquela que se enraíza em nós e desencadeia a reflexão. Partilhando este conceito bachelardiano, o exercício de projecto apresentado aos alunos tratou a imagem como catalisador e motor de aprendizagem. Intencionalmente sem fornecer um programa, um lugar ou um contexto de intervenção, a proposta desafiou o aluno a produzir um projecto de arquitectura à semelhança de uma construção cinematográfica. Através de processos de adição, corte e colagem, transformação e deformação, o aluno analisou dispositivos espaciais e com eles construiu uma narrativa. Para além de se ter apresentado como uma abordagem alternativa ao exercício de projecto "convencional", este trabalho permitiu abandonar um estabelecido savoir-faire para gerar diferentes formas de aprendizagem e concepção da arquitectura a partir do seu interior. Ilustra-se aqui uma possibilidade de “ensinar pelo projecto” através de processos de inversão que permitem oferecer ao aluno outros mecanismos de investigação espacial. Topophilie – a pedagogical experimentEnglish abstractThis paper has its origins in my experience as a teaching assistant for Anne Lacaton and Jean-Philippe Vassal's Design Studio. Lacaton and Vassal were visiting professors at École Polytechnique et Fédérale de Lausanne in 2010-2011. In his book La Poétique de l’Espace, the French philosopher Gaston Bachelard speaks of the image as un produit direct du coeur, de l’âme et de l’homme, a product of the heart, of love, and of Man. The author evokes the poetic image as one that is rooted in us and triggers our imagination. With this idea of the poetic image in mind, the design studio proposed an exercise to the students using image as catalyst and as a motor for learning. Intentionally without providing a programme, a site, or a context to intervene, the exercise challenged the student to produce an architectural design like a cinematic construction. Through processes of addition, cutting and pasting, transformation and deformation, students analysed spacial configurations and were invited to build a narrative. Besides being an alternative approach to the “standard” Design Studio exercise, this work allowed the student to put away an established savoir-faire in order to generate different forms of conceiving architecture within its interior space. Through systematic processes of inversion, the exercise provoked new mechanisms of conceiving architectural space, and offered a different possibility of “learning through design”.

"Space, the limitless area in which all things exist and move." -- Merriam-Webster Dictionary(658) Can we determine our point in time and space at this moment of pre-millennium anticipation? The evolution of our visualisation of space as a culture is shifting and entering the critical consciousness of our global village. The infinite expansion of space's parameters, definitions and visualisation remains the next frontier -- not only for NASA, but for visual culture. Benjamin's vision of loss of the aura of originality through reproduction has come to pass, so has the concept of McLuhan's global village, Baudrillard's simulacra, and Gibson's cyberpunk. Recent technologies such as digital imaging, video, 3-D modelling, virtual reality, and the Internet have brought us to the cusp of the millennium as pioneers of what I call this 'NXT space' for visual thinking, for artistic expression. The vision being constructed in pre-millennium culture takes place in an objectless fictionalised space. This virtual reality is a space that is expanding infinitely, as we speak. The vehicle through which access is gained into this layer takes the form of a machine that requires a mind/body split. The viewer probes through the intangible pixels and collects visual data. The data received on this or that layer have the potential to transport the viewer virtually and yield a visceral experience. The new tools for visualisation allow an expanded perception to an altered state of consciousness. The new works cross the boundaries between media, and are the result of virtual trips via the usage of digital imaging. Their aesthetic reflects our digital society in which people maintain extremely intimate relationships with their computers. This new era is populated by a new generation that is inside more than outside, emailing while faxing, speaking on the phone and surfing the Web with MTV on in the background. We have surpassed postmodernist ideas of pluralism and simultaneity and have produced people for whom the digital age is no revolution. Selected colours, forms and spaces refer to the pixelisation of our daily experience. We are really discussing pop for ahistorical youth, who consider virtual reality to be the norm of visualisation via digitally produced ads, movies, TV shows, music videos, video games and the computer. The term "new media" is already antiquated. We are participating in a realm that is fluent with technology, where the visualisation of space is more natural than an idea of objecthood. (At least as long as we're operating in the technology-rich Western world, that is.) The relationship of these virtual spaces with the mass audience is the cause of pre-millennium anxiety. The cool distance of remote control and the ability to remain in an altered state of consciousness are the residual effects of virtual reality. It is this alienated otherness that allows for the atomisation of the universe. We construct artifice for interface, and simulacra have become more familiar than the "real". NXT space, cyberspace, is the most vital space for visual thinking in the 21st century. The malleability and immateriality of the pixel sub-universe has exponential potential. The artists of this future, who will dedicate themselves successfully to dealing with the new parameters of this installation space, will not consider themselves "computer artists". They will be simply artists working with integrated electronic arts. Digital imaging has permeated our lives to such an extent that like Las Vegas "it's the sunsets that look fake as all hell" (Hickey). Venturi depicts the interior of Las Vegas's casinos as infinite dark spaces with lots of lights transmitting information. Cyberspace is a public/private space occupied by a global village, in that it is a public space through its accessibility to anyone with Internet access, and a social space due to the ability to exchange ideas and meet others through dialogue; however, it is also an intimate private space due to its intangibility and the distance between each loner at their terminal. NXT needs a common sign system that is seductive enough to persuade the visitor into entering the site and can act as a navigational tool. People like to return to places that feel familiar and stimulate reverie of past experiences. This requires the visitor to fantasise while navigating through a cybersite and believe that it is an actual place that exists and where they can dwell. Venturi's model of the sign system as paramount to the identification of the actual architecture is perfect for cyberspace, because you are selling the idea or the fiction of the site, not the desert that it really is. Although NXT can not utilise object cathexion to stimulate fantasy and attachment to site, it can breed familiarity through a consistent sign system and a dynamic and interactive social space which would entice frequent revisiting. NXT Space, a home for the other? "Suddenly it becomes possible that there are just others, that we ourselves are an 'other' among others", as Paul Ricoeur said in 1962. If one were to impose Heidegger's thinking in regards to building and dwelling, they would have to reconstruct NXT as a site that would promote dwelling. It would have to be built in a way in which people were not anonymous or random. A chat room or BBS would have to be attached, where people could actively participate with one another within NXT. Once these visitors had other people that they could identify with and repeatedly interact with, they would form a community within the NXT site. Mortals would roam not on earth, nor under the sky, possibly before divinities (who knows), but rather through pixel light and fiber optics without a physical interface between beings. If the goal of mortals is a Heideggerian notion of attachment to a site through building and building's goal is dwelling and dwelling's goal is identification and identification is accomplished through the cultivation of culture, then NXT could be a successful location. NXT could accommodate an interchange between beings that would be free of physiological constraints and identity separations. This is what could be exchanged and exposed in the NXT site without the interference and taint of socio-physio parameters that separate people from one another. A place where everyone without the convenience or burden of identity becomes simply another other. NXT could implement theory in an integral contextual way that could effect critical consciousness and a transformation of society. This site could serve as a theoretical laboratory where people could exchange and experiment within a dialogue. NXT as a test site could push the parameters of cyberspace and otherness in a real and tangible way. This "cyber-factory" would be interactive and analytical. The fictional simulated world is becoming our reality and cyberspace is becoming a more reasonable parallel to life. Travelling through time and space seems more attainable than ever before through the Internet. Net surfing is zipping through the Louvre, trifling through the Grand Canyon and then checking your horoscope. People are becoming used to this ability and the abstract is becoming more tangible to the masses. As techno-literacy and access increase, so should practical application of abstract theory. NXT would escape reification of theory through dynamic accessibility. The virtual factory could be a Voltaire's cafe of cyber-thinkers charting the critical consciousness and evolution of our Web-linked world. Although ultimately in the West we do exist within a capitalist system where every good thought leaks out to the masses and becomes popular, popularity creates fashion, fashion is fetishistic, thereby desirable, and accumulates monetary value. Market power depoliticises original content and enables an idea to become dogma; another trophy in the cultural hall of fame. Ideas do die, but in another time and place can be resurrected and utilised as a template for counter-reaction. This is analogous to genetic evolution -- DNA makes RNA which makes retro-DNA, etc. --, and the helix spirals on, making reification an organic process. However, will cyberspace ever be instrumental in transforming society in the next century? Access is the largest inhibitor. Privileged technophiles often forget that they are in the minority. How do we become more inclusive and expand the dialogue to encompass the infinite number of different voices on our planet? NXT space is limited to a relatively small number of individuals with the ability to afford and gain access to high-tech equipment. This will continue the existing socio-economic imbalance that restricts our critical consciousness. Without developing the Internet into the NXT space, we will be tremendously bothered by ISPs, with data transfer control and content police. My fear for the global village, surfing through our virtual landscape, is that we will all skid off this swiftly tilting planet. The addiction to the Net and to simulated experiences will subject us to remote control. The inundation of commercialism bombarding the spectator was inevitable, and subsequently there are fewer innovative sites pushing the boundaries of experimentation with this medium. Pre-millennium anxiety is abundant in technophobes, but as a technophile I too am afflicted. My fantasy of a NXT space is dwindling as the clock ticks towards the Y2K problem and a new niche for community and social construction has already been out-competed. If only we could imagine all the people living in the NXT space with its potential for tolerance, dialogue, and community. References Bachelard, Gaston. The Poetics of Space: The Classic Look at How We Experience Intimate Places. Boston, MA: Beacon, 1994. Benjamin, Walter. Illuminations. New York: Schocken, 1978. Gibson, William. Neuromancer. San Francisco: Ace Books, 1984. Heidegger, Martin. The Question Concerning Technology, and Other Essays. Trans. William Lovitt. New York: Garland, 1977. Hickey, David. Air Guitar: Four Essays on Art and Democracy. Los Angeles: Art Issues, 1997. Koch, Stephen. Stargazer: Andy Warhol's World and His Films. London: Calder and Boyars, 1973. McLuhan, Marshall. Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1994. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary. Springfield, MA: G.&.C. Merriam, 1974. Venturi, Robert. Learning from Las Vegas: The Forgotten Symbolism of Architectual Form. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1977. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Sherry Mayo. "NXT Space for Visual Thinking: An Experimental Cyberlab." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 1.4 (1998). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9811/nxt.php>. Chicago style: Sherry Mayo, "NXT Space for Visual Thinking: An Experimental Cyberlab," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 1, no. 4 (1998), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9811/nxt.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Sherry Mayo. (1998) NXT space for visual thinking: an experimental cyberlab. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 1(4). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9811/nxt.php> ([your date of access]).

It is remarkable that in fundamental and inspiring texts about the experience of the interior, the perspective is often that of a solitary dweller, as in in Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space (1958) or Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows (1933). However compelling their accounts are, they run the risk of forgetting the kind of spatial encounters that disrupt the distinction between one body and another, between the self and its environment. This article considers the erotic effect of the night-time as a metaphor for understanding and exploring (interior) space. By using the works of Lakoff and Johnson, Handelman, and Kristeva as a constructed theoretical framework, the article sketches the outlines of a phenomenology of darkness, a skotology, that allows us to explore ‘dark space,’ a conceptualisation of space that confronts us with other subjective modes of perception, sensation, and cognition. We will follow the wanderings of an amorous Walter Benjamin through different ‘dark spaces’ in Capri, Berlin, Moscow, and of course Paris. Benjamin’s sensual writing about these intimate spaces provides us with some key elements of a possible skotology of space: a subjective process of gaining knowledge, based on a fusion with some of the bodies, spaces and cultural intertexts that surround us, a form of spatial research that also takes into account fictionality and non-linear temporality as important aspects of the experience of dark space. ‘Wears not everything that inspires us the color of the Night?’ Novalis, Hymns to the Night (1800)

Neil Jordan’s Breakfast on Pluto (2005) reconceives transience and domesticity together. This queer Irish road film collapses opposition between mobility and home by uncoupling them from heteronormative structures of gender, desire, and space—male/female, public/private. The film’s protagonist, Patrick “Kitten” Braden (Cillian Murphy), wanders in search of a loved one without whom she does not feel at home. Along the way, the film exposes and exploits the doubleness of both “mobility” and “home” in the traditional road narrative, queering the conventions of the road film to convey the desire and possibilities for an alternative domesticity. In its rerouting of the traditional road plot, Breakfast on Pluto does not follow a hero escaping the obligations of home and family to find autonomy on the road. Instead, the film charts Kitten’s quest to realise a sense of home through trans-domesticity—that is, to find shelter in non-heteronormative, mutual care while in both transient and public spaces.I affix “trans-” to “domesticity” to signal both the queerness and mobility that transform understandings of domestic spaces and practices in Breakfast on Pluto. To clarify, trans-domesticity is not queer assimilation to heteronormative domesticity, nor is it a relegation of queer culture to privatised and demobilised spaces. Rather, trans-domesticity challenges the assumption that all forms of domesticity are inherently normalising and demobilising. In other words, trans-domesticity uncovers tensions and violence swept under the rugs of hegemonic domesticity. Moreover, this alternative domesticity moves between and beyond the terms of gender and spatial oppositions that delimit the normative home.Specifically, “trans-domesticity” names non-normative homemaking practices that arise out of the “desire to feel at home”, a desire that Anne-Marie Fortier identifies in queer diasporic narratives (1890-90). Accordingly, “trans-domesticity” also registers the affective processes that foster the connectedness and belonging of “home” away from private domestic spaces and places of origin, a “rethinking of the concept of home”, which Ed Madden traces in lesbian and gay migrant narratives (175-77). Building on the assumption of queer diaspora theorists “that not only can one be at home in movement, but that movement can be one’s very own home” (Rapport and Dawson 27), trans-domesticity focuses critical attention on the everyday practices and emotional labour that create a home in transience.As Breakfast on Pluto tracks its transgender protagonist’s movement between a small Irish border town, Northern Ireland, and London, the film invokes both a specifically Irish migration and the broader queer diaspora of which it is a part. While trans-domesticity is a recurring theme across a wide range of queer diasporic narratives, in Breakfast on Pluto it also simultaneously drives the plot and functions as a narrative frame. The film begins and ends with Kitten telling her story as she wanders through the streets of Soho and cares for a member of her made family, her friend Charlie’s baby.Although I am concerned with the film adaptation, Patrick McCabe’s “Prelude” to his novel, Breakfast on Pluto (1998), offers a useful point of departure: Patrick “Pussy” Braden’s dream, “as he negotiates the minefields of this world”, is “ending, once and for all, this ugly state of perpetual limbo” and “finding a map which might lead to that place called home” (McCabe x). In such a place, McCabe’s hero might lay “his head beneath a flower-bordered print that bears the words at last ‘You’re home’”(McCabe xi). By contrast, the film posits that “home” is never a “place” apart from “the minefields of this world”, and that while being in transit and in limbo might be a perpetual state, it is not necessarily an ugly one.Jordan’s film thus addresses the same questions as does Susan Fraiman in her book Extreme Domesticity: “But what about those for whom dislocation is not back story but main event? Those who, having pulled themselves apart, realize no timely arrival at a place of their own, so that being not-unpacked is an ongoing condition?” (155). Through her trans-domestic shelter-making and caregiving practices, Kitten enacts “home” in motion and in public spaces, and thereby realises the elision in the flower-bordered print in McCabe’s “Prelude” (xi), which does not assure “You are at home” but, rather, “You are home”.From Housed to Trans-Domestic SubjectivitySelf and home are equated in the dominant cultural narratives of Western modernity, but “home” in such formulations is assumed to be a self-owned, self-contained space. Psychoanalytic theorist Carl Jung describes this Ur-house as “a concretization of the individuation process, […] a symbol of psychic wholeness” (225). Philosopher Gaston Bachelard sees in the home “the topography of our intimate being”, a structure that “concentrates being within limits that protect” (xxxii). However, as historian Carolyn Steedman suggests, the mythic house that has become “the stuff of our ‘cultural psychology,’ the system of everyday metaphors by which we see ourselves”, is far from universal; rather, it reflects “the topography of the houses” of those who stand “in a central relationship to the dominant culture” (75, 17).For others, the lack of such housing correlates with political marginalisation, as the house functions as both a metaphor and material marker for culturally-recognised selfhood. As cultural geographer John Agnew argues, in capitalist societies the self-owned home is both a sign of autonomous individuality and a prerequisite for full political subjectivity (60). Philosopher Rosi Braidotti asserts that this figuration of subjectivity in “the phallo-Eurocentric master code” treats as “disposable” the “bodies of women, youth, and others who are racialised or marked off by age, gender, sexuality, and income” (6). These bodies are “reduced to marginality” and subsequently “experience dispossession of their embodied and embedded selves, in a political economy of repeated and structurally enforced eviction” (Braidotti 6).To shift the meaning of “home” and the intimately-linked “self” from a privately-owned, autonomous structure to trans-domesticity, to an ethos of care enacted even, and especially in, transient and public spaces, is not to romanticise homelessness or to deny the urgent necessity of material shelter. Breakfast on Pluto certainly does not allow viewers to do either. Rather, the figure of a trans-domestic self, like Braidotti’s “nomadic subject”, has the potential to challenge and transform the terms of power relations. Those now on the margins might then be seen as equally-embodied selves and full political subjects with the right to shelter and care.Such a political project also entails recognising and revaluing—without appropriating and demobilising—existing trans-domesticity. As Fraiman argues, “domesticity” must be “map[ped] from the margins” in order to include the homemaking practices of gender rebels and the precariously housed, of castaways and outcasts (4-5). This alternative map would allow “outsiders to normative domesticity” to “claim domesticity while wrenching it away from such things as compulsory heterosexuality […] and the illusion of a safely barricaded life” (Fraiman 4-5). Breakfast on Pluto shares in this re-mapping work by exposing the violence embedded in heteronormative domestic structures, and by charting the radical political potential of trans-domesticity.Unsettling HousesIn the traditional road narrative, “home” tends to be a static, confining structure from which the protagonist escapes, a space that then functions as “a structuring absence” on the road (Robertson 271). Bachelard describes this normative structure as a “dream house” that constitutes “a body of images that give mankind proofs or illusions of stability” (17); the house functions, Henri Lefebvre argues, as “the epitome of immobility” (92). Whether the dream is to escape and/or to return, “to write of houses”, as Adam Hanna asserts, “is to raise ideas of shelters that are fixed and secure” (113).Breakfast on Pluto quickly gives lie to those expectations. Kitten is adopted by Ma Braden (Ruth McCabe), a single woman who raises Kitten and her adopted sister in domestic space that is connected to, and part of, a public house. That spatial contiguity undermines any illusion of privacy and security, as is evident in the scene in which a school-aged Kitten, who thought herself safely home alone and thus able to dress in her mother’s and sister’s clothes, is discovered in the act by her mother and sister from the pub’s street entrance. Further, the film lays bare the built-in mechanisms of surveillance and violence that reinforce heteronormative, patriarchal structures. After discovering Kitten in women’s clothes, Ma Braden violently scrubs her clean and whacks her with a brush until Kitten says, “I’m a boy, not a girl”. The public/house space facilitates Ma Braden’s close monitoring of Kitten thereafter.As a young writer in secondary school, Kitten satirises the violence within the hegemonic home by narrating the story of the rape of her biological mother, Eily Bergin (Eva Birthistle), by Kitten’s father, Father Liam (Liam Neeson) in a scene of hyper-domesticity set in the rectory kitchen. As Patrick Mullen notes, “the rendition of the event follows the bubble-gum logic and tone of 1950s Hollywood culture” (130). The relationship between the ideal domesticity thereby invoked and the rape then depicted exposes the sexual violence for what it is: not an external violation of the double sanctity of church and home space, but rather an internal and even intrinsic violence that reinforces and is shielded by the power structures from which normative domesticity is never separate.The only sense of home that seems to bind Kitten to her place of origin is based in her affective bonds to friends Charlie (Ruth Negga) and Lawrence (Seamus Reilly). When Lawrence is killed by a bomb, Kitten is no longer at home, and she leaves town to search for the “phantom” mother she never knew. The impetus for Kitten’s wandering, then, is connection rather than autonomy, and neither the home she leaves, nor the sense of home she seeks, are fixed structures.Mobile Homes and Queering of the Western RoadBreakfast on Pluto tracks how the oppositions that seem to structure traditional road films—such as that between home and mobility, and between domestic and open spaces—continually collapse. The film invokes the “cowboy and Indian” mythology from which the Western road narrative descends (Boyle 19), but to different ends: to capture a desire for non-heteronormative affective bonds rather than “lone ranger” autonomy, and to convey a longing for domesticity on the trail, for a home that is both mobile and open. Across the past century of Irish fiction and film, “cowboy and Indian” mythology has often intersected with queer wandering, from James Joyce’s Dubliners story “An Encounter” (1914) to Lenny Abrahamson’s film Adam & Paul (2004). In this tradition, Breakfast on Pluto queers “cowboy and Indian” iconography to convey an alternative conception of domesticity and home. The prevailing ethos in the film’s queered Western scenes is of trans-domesticity—of inclusion and care during transience and in open spaces. After bar bouncers exclude Kitten and friends because of her transgenderism and Lawrence’s Down syndrome, “The Border Knights” (hippie-bikers-cum-cowboys) ride to their rescue and bring them to their temporary home under the stars. Once settled around the campfire, the first biker shares his philosophy with a cuddled-up Kitten: “When I’m riding my hog, you think I’m riding the road? No way, man. I’m travelling from the past into the future with a druid at my back”. “Druid man or woman?” Kitten asks. “That doesn’t matter”, the biker clarifies, “What matters is the journey”. What matters is not place as fixed destination or gender as static difference, but rather the practice of travelling with open relationships to space, to time, and to others. The bikers welcome all to their fire and include both Kitten and Lawrence in their sharing of jokes and joints. The only exclusion is of reference to political violence, which Charlie’s boyfriend, Irwin (Laurence Kinlan), tries to bring into the conversation.Further, Kitten uses domesticity to try to establish a place for herself while on the road with “Billy Hatchett and The Mohawks”, the touring band that picks her up when she leaves Ma Braden’s. As Mullen notes, “Kitten literally works herself into the band by hand sewing a ‘squaw’ outfit to complement the group’s glam-rock Native American image” (Mullen 141). The duet that Kitten performs with Billy (Gavin Friday), a song about a woman inviting “a wandering man” to share the temporary shelter of her campfire, invokes trans-domesticity. But the film intercuts their performance with scenes of violent border-policing: first, by British soldiers at a checkpoint who threaten the group and boast about the “13 less to deal with” in Derry, and then by members of the Republican Prisoners Welfare Association, who throw cans at the group and yell them off stage. A number of critics have noted the postcolonial implications of Breakfast on Pluto’s use of Native American iconography, which in these intercut scenes clearly raises the national stakes of constructions of domestic belonging (see, for instance, Winston 153-71). In complementary ways, the film queers “cowboy and Indian” mythology to reimagine “mobility” and “home” together.After Kitten is forced out by the rest of the band, Billy sets her up in a caravan, a mobile home left to him by his mother. Though Billy “wouldn’t exactly call it a house”, Kitten sees in it her first chance at a Bachelardian “dream house”: she calls it a “house of dreams and longing” and cries, “Oh, to have a little house, to own the hearth, stool, and all”. Kitten ecstatically begins to tidy the place, performing what Fraiman terms a “hyper-investment in homemaking” that functions “as compensation for domestic deprivation” (20).Aisling Cormack suggests that Kitten’s hyper-investment in homemaking signals the film’s “radical disengagement with politics” to a “femininity that is inherently apolitical” (169-70). But that reading holds only if viewers assume a gendered, spatial divide between public and private, and between the political and the domestic. As Fraiman asserts, “the political meaning of fixating on domestic arrangements is more complex […] For the poor or transgendered person, the placeless immigrant or the woman on her own, aspiring to a safe, affirming home doesn’t reinforce hierarchical social relations but is pitched, precisely, against them” (20).Trans-Domesticity as Political ActEven as Kitten invokes the idea of a Bachelardian dream house, she performs a trans-domesticity that exposes the falseness of the gendered, spatial oppositions assumed to structure the normative home. Her domesticity is not an apolitical retreat; rather, it is pitched, precisely, against the violence that public/private and political/domestic oppositions enable within the house, as well as beyond it. As she cleans, Kitten discovers that violence is literally embedded in her caravan home when she finds a cache of Irish Republican Army (IRA) guns under the floor. After a bomb kills Lawrence, Kitten throws the guns into a reservoir, a defiant act that she describes to the IRA paramilitaries who come looking for the guns as “spring cleaning”. Cormack asserts that Kitten “describing her perilous destruction of the guns in terms of domestic labor” strips it “of all political significance” (179). I argue instead that it demonstrates the radical potential of trans-domesticity, of an ethos of care-taking and shelter-making asserted in public and political spaces. Kitten’s act is not apolitical, though it is decidedly anti-violence.From the beginning of Breakfast on Pluto, Kitten’s trans-domesticity exposes the violence structurally embedded in heteronormative domestic ideology. Additionally, the film’s regular juxtaposition of scenes of Kitten’s homemaking practices with scenes of political violence demonstrates that no form of domesticity functions as a private, apolitical retreat from “the minefields of this world” (McCabe x). This latter counterpoint throws into relief the political significance of Kitten’s trans-domesticity. Her domestic practices are her means of resisting and transforming the structural violence that poses an existential threat to marginalised and dispossessed people.After Kitten is accused of being responsible for an IRA bombing in London, the ruthless, violent interrogation of Kitten by British police officers begins to break down her sense of self. Throughout this brutal scene, Kitten compulsively straightens the chairs and tidies the room, and she responds to her interrogators with kindness and even affection. Fraiman’s theorisation of “extreme domesticity” helps to articulate how Kitten’s homemaking in carceral space—she calls it “My Sweet Little Cell”—is an “urgent” act that, “in the wake of dislocation”, can mean “safety, sanity, and self-expression; survival in the most basic sense” (25). Cormack reads Kitten’s reactions in this scene as “masochistic” and the male police officers’ nurturing response as of a piece with the film’s “more-feminine-than-feminine disengagement from political realities” (185-89). However, I disagree: Kitten’s trans-domesticity is a political act that both sustains her within structures that would erase her and converts officers of the state to an ethos of care and shelter. Inspector Routledge, for example, gently carries Kitten back to her cell, and after her release, PC Wallis ensures that she is safely (if not privately) housed with a cooperatively-run peep show, the address at which an atoning Father Liam locates her in London.After Kitten and a pregnant Charlie are burned out of the refuge that they temporarily find with Father Liam, Kitten and Charlie return to London, where Charlie’s baby is born soon after into the trans-domesticity that opens the film. Rejoining the story’s frame, Breakfast on Pluto ends close to where it begins: Kitten and the baby meet Charlie outside a London hospital, where Kitten sees Eily Bergin with her new son, Patrick. Instead of meeting where their paths intersect, the two families pass each other and turn in opposite directions. Kitten now knows that hers is both a different road and a different kind of home. “Home”, then, is not a place gained once and for all. Rather, home is a perpetual practice that does not separate one from the world, but can create the shelter of mutual care as one wanders through it.The Radical Potential and Structural Limits of Trans-DomesticityBreakfast on Pluto demonstrates the agency that trans-domesticity can afford in the lives of marginalised and dispossessed individuals, as well as the power of the structures that militate against its broader realisation. The radical political potential of trans-domesticity manifests in the transformation in the two police officers’ relational practices. Kitten’s trans-domesticity also inspires a reformation in Father Liam, the film’s representative of the Catholic Church and a man whose relationship to others transmutes from sexual violence and repressive secrecy to mutual nurturance and inclusive love. Although these individual conversions do not signify changes in structures of power, they do allow viewers to imagine the possibility of a state and a church that cherish, shelter, and care for all people equally. The film’s ending conveys this sense of fairy-tale-like possibility through its Disney-esque chattering birds and the bubble-gum pop song, “Sugar Baby Love”.In the end, the sense of hopefulness that closes Breakfast on Pluto coexists with the reality that dominant power structures will not recognise Kitten’s trans-domestic subjectivity and family, and that those structures will work to contain any perceived threat, just as the Catholic Church banishes the converted Father Liam to Kilburn Parish. That Kitten and Charlie nevertheless realise a clear contentment in themselves and in their made family demonstrates the vital importance of trans-domesticity and other forms of “extreme domesticity” in the lives of those who wander.ReferencesAgnew, John. “Home Ownership and Identity in Capitalist Societies.” Housing and Identity: Cross Cultural Perspectives. Ed. James S. Duncan. New York: Holmes and Meier, 1982. 60–97.Bachelard, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. 1957. Trans. Maria Jolas. Boston: Beacon Press, 1969.Boyle, Kevin Jon, ed. Rear View Mirror: Automobile Images and American Identities. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000.Braidotti, Rosi. Nomadic Subjects: Embodiment and Sexual Difference in Contemporary Feminist Theory. 2nd ed. New York: Columbia University Press, 2011.Breakfast on Pluto. Dir. Neil Jordan. Pathé Pictures International, 2005.Cormack, Aisling B. “Toward a ‘Post-Troubles’ Cinema? The Troubled Intersection of Political Violence and Gender in Neil Jordan’s The Crying Game and Breakfast on Pluto.” Éire-Ireland 49.1–2 (2014): 164–92.Fortier, Anne-Marie. “Queer Diaspora.” Handbook of Lesbian and Gay Studies. Eds. Diane Richardson and Steven Seidman. London: Sage Publishing, 2002. 183–97.Fraiman, Susan. Extreme Domesticity: A View from the Margins. New York: Columbia University Press, 2017.Hanna, Adam. Northern Irish Poetry and Domestic Space. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015. Jung, Carl. Memories, Dreams, Reflections. 1957. Ed. Aniela Jaffe. Trans. Clara Winston and Richard Winston. New York: Vintage Books, 1989.Lefebvre, Henri. The Production of Social Space. Trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991.Madden, Ed. “Queering the Irish Diaspora: David Rees and Padraig Rooney.” Éire-Ireland 47.1–2 (2012): 172–200.McCabe, Patrick. Breakfast on Pluto. London: Picador, 1998.Mullen, Patrick R. The Poor Bugger’s Tool: Irish Modernism, Queer Labor, and Postcolonial History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012.Rapport, Nigel, and Andrew Dawson. Migrants of Identity: Perceptions of ‘Home’ in a World of Movement. Oxford: Berg, 1998.Robertson, Pamela. “Home and Away: Friends of Dorothy on the Road in Oz.” The Road Movie Book. Eds. Steven Cohen and Ina Rae Hark. London: Routledge, 1997. 271–306.Steedman, Carolyn. Landscape for a Good Woman: A Story of Two Lives. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1987.Winston, Greg. “‘Reluctant Indians’: Irish Identity and Racial Masquerade.” Irish Modernism and the Global Primitive. Eds. Maria McGarrity and Claire A. Culleton. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. 153–71.

Perhaps nothing in media culture today makes clearer the connection between people’s bodies and their homes than the Emmy-winning reality TV program Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Home Edition is a spin-off from the original Extreme Makeover, and that fact provides in fundamental form the strong connection that the show demonstrates between bodies and houses. The first EM, initially popular for its focus on cosmetic surgery, laser skin and hair treatments, dental work, cosmetics and wardrobe for mainly middle-aged and self-described unattractive participants, lagged after two full seasons and was finally cancelled entirely, whereas EMHE has continued to accrue viewers and sponsors, as well as accolades (Paulsen, Poniewozik, EMHE Website, Wilhelm). That viewers and the ABC network shifted their attention to the reconstruction of houses over the original version’s direct intervention in problematic bodies indicates that sites of personal transformation are not necessarily within our own physical or emotional beings, but in the larger surround of our environments and in our cultural ideals of home and body. One effect of this shift in the Extreme Makeover format is that a seemingly wider range of narrative problems can be solved relating to houses than to the particular bodies featured on the original show. Although Extreme Makeover featured a few people who’d had previously botched cleft palate surgeries or mastectomies, as Cressida Heyes points out, “the only kind of disability that interests the show is one that can be corrected to conform to able-bodied norms” (22). Most of the recipients were simply middle-aged folks who were ordinary or aged in appearance; many of them seemed self-obsessed and vain, and their children often seemed disturbed by the transformation (Heyes 24). However, children are happy to have a brand new TV and a toy-filled room decorated like their latest fantasy, and they thereby can be drawn into the process of identity transformation in the Home Edition version; in fact, children are required of virtually all recipients of the show’s largess. Because EMHE can do “major surgery” or simply bulldoze an old structure and start with a new building, it is also able to incorporate more variety in its stories—floods, fires, hurricanes, propane explosions, war, crime, immigration, car accidents, unscrupulous contractors, insurance problems, terrorist attacks—the list of traumas is seemingly endless. Home Edition can solve any problem, small or large. Houses are much easier things to repair or reconstruct than bodies. Perhaps partly for this reason, EMHE uses disability as one of its major tropes. Until Season 4, Episode 22, 46.9 percent of the episodes have had some content related to disability or illness of a disabling sort, and this number rises to 76.4 percent if the count includes families that have been traumatised by the (usually recent) death of a family member in childhood or the prime of life by illness, accident or violence. Considering that the percentage of people living with disabilities in the U.S. is defined at 18.1 percent (Steinmetz), EMHE obviously favours them considerably in the selection process. Even the disproportionate numbers of people with disabilities living in poverty and who therefore might be more likely to need help—20.9 percent as opposed to 7.7 percent of the able-bodied population (Steinmetz)—does not fully explain their dominance on the program. In fact, the program seeks out people with new and different physical disabilities and illnesses, sending out emails to local news stations looking for “Extraordinary Mom / Dad recently diagnosed with ALS,” “Family who has a child with PROGERIA (aka ‘little old man’s disease’)” and other particular situations (Simonian). A total of sixty-five ill or disabled people have been featured on the show over the past four years, and, even if one considers its methods maudlin or exploitive, the presence of that much disability and illness is very unusual for reality TV and for TV in general. What the show purports to do is to radically transform multiple aspects of individuals’ lives—and especially lives marred by what are perceived as physical setbacks—via the provision of a luxurious new house, albeit sometimes with the addition of automobiles, mortgage payments or college scholarships. In some ways the assumptions underpinning EMHE fit with a social constructionist body theory that posits an almost infinitely flexible physical matter, of which the definitions and capabilities are largely determined by social concepts and institutions. The social model within the disability studies field has used this theoretical perspective to emphasise the distinction between an impairment, “the physical fact of lacking an arm or a leg,” and disability, “the social process that turns an impairment into a negative by creating barriers to access” (Davis, Bending 12). Accessible housing has certainly been one emphasis of disability rights activists, and many of them have focused on how “design conceptions, in relation to floor plans and allocation of functions to specific spaces, do not conceive of impairment, disease and illness as part of domestic habitation or being” (Imrie 91). In this regard, EMHE appears as a paragon. In one of its most challenging and dramatic Season 1 episodes, the “Design Team” worked on the home of the Ziteks, whose twenty-two-year-old son had been restricted to a sub-floor of the three-level structure since a car accident had paralyzed him. The show refitted the house with an elevator, roll-in bathroom and shower, and wheelchair-accessible doors. Robert Zitek was also provided with sophisticated computer equipment that would help him produce music, a life-long interest that had been halted by his upper-vertebra paralysis. Such examples abound in the new EMHE houses, which have been constructed for families featuring situations such as both blind and deaf members, a child prone to bone breaks due to osteogenesis imperfecta, legs lost in Iraq warfare, allergies that make mold life-threatening, sun sensitivity due to melanoma or polymorphic light eruption or migraines, fragile immune systems (often due to organ transplants or chemotherapy), cerebral palsy, multiple sclerosis, Krabbe disease and autism. EMHE tries to set these lives right via the latest in technology and treatment—computer communication software and hardware, lock systems, wheelchair-friendly design, ventilation and air purification set-ups, the latest in care and mental health approaches for various disabilities and occasional consultations with disabled celebrities like Marlee Matlin. Even when individuals or familes are “[d]iscriminated against on a daily basis by ignorance and physical challenges,” as the program website notes, they “deserve to have a home that doesn’t discriminate against them” (EMHE website, Season 3, Episode 4). The relief that they will be able to inhabit accessible and pleasant environments is evident on the faces of many of these recipients. That physical ease, that ability to move and perform the intimate acts of domestic life, seems according to the show’s narrative to be the most basic element of home. Nonetheless, as Robert Imrie has pointed out, superficial accessibility may still veil “a static, singular conception of the body” (201) that prevents broader change in attitudes about people with disabilities, their activities and their spaces. Starting with the story of the child singing in an attempt at self-comforting from Deleuze and Guattari’s A Thousand Plateaus, J. MacGregor Wise defines home as a process of territorialisation through specific behaviours. “The markers of home … are not simply inanimate objects (a place with stuff),” he notes, “but the presence, habits, and effects of spouses, children, parents, and companions” (299). While Ty Pennington, EMHE’s boisterous host, implies changes for these families along the lines of access to higher education, creative possibilities provided by musical instruments and disability-appropriate art materials, help with home businesses in the way of equipment and licenses and so on, the families’ identity-producing habits are just as likely to be significantly changed by the structural and decorative arrangements made for them by the Design Team. The homes that are created for these families are highly conventional in their structure, layout, decoration, and expectations of use. More specifically, certain behavioural patterns are encouraged and others discouraged by the Design Team’s assumptions. Several themes run through the show’s episodes: Large dining rooms provide for the most common of Pennington’s comments: “You can finally sit down and eat meals together as a family.” A nostalgic value in an era where most families have schedules full of conflicts that prevent such Ozzie-and-Harriet scenarios, it nonetheless predominates. Large kitchens allow for cooking and eating at home, though featured food is usually frozen and instant. In addition, kitchens are not designed for the families’ disabled members; for wheelchair users, for instance, counters need to be lower than usual with open space underneath, so that a wheelchair can roll underneath the counter. Thus, all the wheelchair inhabitants depicted will still be dependent on family members, primarily mothers, to prepare food and clean up after them. (See Imrie, 95-96, for examples of adapted kitchens.) Pets, perhaps because they are inherently “dirty,” are downplayed or absent, even when the family has them when EMHE arrives (except one family that is featured for their animal rescue efforts); interestingly, there are no service dogs, which might obviate the need for some of the high-tech solutions for the disabled offered by the show. The previous example is one element of an emphasis on clutter-free cleanliness and tastefulness combined with a rampant consumerism. While “cultural” elements may be salvaged from exotic immigrant families, most of the houses are very similar and assume a certain kind of commodified style based on new furniture (not humble family hand-me-downs), appliances, toys and expensive, prefab yard gear. Sears is a sponsor of the program, and shopping trips for furniture and appliances form a regular part of the program. Most or all of the houses have large garages, and the families are often given large vehicles by Ford, maintaining a positive take on a reliance on private transportation and gas-guzzling vehicles, but rarely handicap-adapted vans. Living spaces are open, with high ceilings and arches rather than doorways, so that family members will have visual and aural contact. Bedrooms are by contrast presented as private domains of retreat, especially for parents who have demanding (often ill or disabled) children, from which they are considered to need an occasional break. All living and bedrooms are dominated by TVs and other electronica, sometimes presented as an aid to the disabled, but also dominating to the point of excluding other ways of being and interacting. As already mentioned, childless couples and elderly people without children are completely absent. Friends buying houses together and gay couples are also not represented. The ideal of the heterosexual nuclear family is thus perpetuated, even though some of the show’s craftspeople are gay. Likewise, even though “independence” is mentioned frequently in the context of families with disabled members, there are no recipients who are disabled adults living on their own without family caretakers. “Independence” is spoken of mostly in terms of bathing, dressing, using the bathroom and other bodily aspects of life, not in terms of work, friendship, community or self-concept. Perhaps most salient, the EMHE houses are usually created as though nothing about the family will ever again change. While a few of the projects have featured terminally ill parents seeking to leave their children secure after their death, for the most part the families are considered oddly in stasis. Single mothers will stay single mothers, even children with conditions with severe prognoses will continue to live, the five-year-old will sleep forever in a fire-truck bed or dollhouse room, the occasional grandparent installed in his or her own suite will never pass away, and teenagers and young adults (especially the disabled) will never grow up, marry, discover their homosexuality, have a falling out with their parents or leave home. A kind of timeless nostalgia, hearkening back to Gaston Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space, pervades the show. Like the body-modifying Extreme Makeover, the Home Edition version is haunted by the issue of normalisation. The word ‘normal’, in fact, floats through the program’s dialogue frequently, and it is made clear that the goal of the show is to restore, as much as possible, a somewhat glamourised, but status quo existence. The website, in describing the work of one deserving couple notes that “Camp Barnabas is a non-profit organisation that caters to the needs of critically and chronically ill children and gives them the opportunity to be ‘normal’ for one week” (EMHE website, Season 3, Episode 7). Someone at the network is sophisticated enough to put ‘normal’ in quotation marks, and the show demonstrates a relatively inclusive concept of ‘normal’, but the word dominates the show itself, and the concept remains largely unquestioned (See Canguilhem; Davis, Enforcing Normalcy; and Snyder and Mitchell, Narrative, for critiques of the process of normalization in regard to disability). In EMHE there is no sense that disability or illness ever produces anything positive, even though the show also notes repeatedly the inspirational attitudes that people have developed through their disability and illness experiences. Similarly, there is no sense that a little messiness can be creatively productive or even necessary. Wise makes a distinction between “home and the home, home and house, home and domus,” the latter of each pair being normative concepts, whereas the former “is a space of comfort (a never-ending process)” antithetical to oppressive norms, such as the association of the home with the enforced domesticity of women. In cases where the house or domus becomes a place of violence and discomfort, home becomes the process of coping with or resisting the negative aspects of the place (300). Certainly the disabled have experienced this in inaccessible homes, but they may also come to experience a different version in a new EMHE house. For, as Wise puts it, “home can also mean a process of rationalization or submission, a break with the reality of the situation, self-delusion, or falling under the delusion of others” (300). The show’s assumption that the construction of these new houses will to a great extent solve these families’ problems (and that disability itself is the problem, not the failure of our culture to accommodate its many forms) may in fact be a delusional spell under which the recipient families fall. In fact, the show demonstrates a triumphalist narrative prevalent today, in which individual happenstance and extreme circumstances are given responsibility for social ills. In this regard, EMHE acts out an ancient morality play, where the recipients of the show’s largesse are assessed and judged based on what they “deserve,” and the opening of each show, when the Design Team reviews the application video tape of the family, strongly emphasises what good people these are (they work with charities, they love each other, they help out their neighbours) and how their situation is caused by natural disaster, act of God or undeserved tragedy, not their own bad behaviour. Disabilities are viewed as terrible tragedies that befall the young and innocent—there is no lung cancer or emphysema from a former smoking habit, and the recipients paralyzed by gunshots have received them in drive-by shootings or in the line of duty as police officers and soldiers. In addition, one of the functions of large families is that the children veil any selfish motivation the adults may have—they are always seeking the show’s assistance on behalf of the children, not themselves. While the Design Team always notes that there are “so many other deserving people out there,” the implication is that some people’s poverty and need may be their own fault. (See Snyder and Mitchell, Locations 41-67; Blunt and Dowling 116-25; and Holliday.) In addition, the structure of the show—with the opening view of the family’s undeserved problems, their joyous greeting at the arrival of the Team, their departure for the first vacation they may ever have had and then the final exuberance when they return to the new house—creates a sense of complete, almost religious salvation. Such narratives fail to point out social support systems that fail large numbers of people who live in poverty and who struggle with issues of accessibility in terms of not only domestic spaces, but public buildings, educational opportunities and social acceptance. In this way, it echoes elements of the medical model, long criticised in disability studies, where each and every disabled body is conceptualised as a site of individual aberration in need of correction, not as something disabled by an ableist society. In fact, “the house does not shelter us from cosmic forces; at most it filters and selects them” (Deleuze and Guattari, What Is Philosophy?, qtd. in Frichot 61), and those outside forces will still apply to all these families. The normative assumptions inherent in the houses may also become oppressive in spite of their being accessible in a technical sense (a thing necessary but perhaps not sufficient for a sense of home). As Tobin Siebers points out, “[t]he debate in architecture has so far focused more on the fundamental problem of whether buildings and landscapes should be universally accessible than on the aesthetic symbolism by which the built environment mirrors its potential inhabitants” (“Culture” 183). Siebers argues that the Jamesonian “political unconscious” is a “social imaginary” based on a concept of perfection (186) that “enforces a mutual identification between forms of appearance, whether organic, aesthetic, or architectural, and ideal images of the body politic” (185). Able-bodied people are fearful of the disabled’s incurability and refusal of normalisation, and do not accept the statistical fact that, at least through the process of aging, most people will end up dependent, ill and/or disabled at some point in life. Mainstream society “prefers to think of people with disabilities as a small population, a stable population, that nevertheless makes enormous claims on the resources of everyone else” (“Theory” 742). Siebers notes that the use of euphemism and strategies of covering eventually harm efforts to create a society that is home to able-bodied and disabled alike (“Theory” 747) and calls for an exploration of “new modes of beauty that attack aesthetic and political standards that insist on uniformity, balance, hygiene, and formal integrity” (Culture 210). What such an architecture, particularly of an actually livable domestic nature, might look like is an open question, though there are already some examples of people trying to reframe many of the assumptions about housing design. For instance, cohousing, where families and individuals share communal space, yet have private accommodations, too, makes available a larger social group than the nuclear family for social and caretaking activities (Blunt and Dowling, 262-65). But how does one define a beauty-less aesthetic or a pleasant home that is not hygienic? Post-structuralist architects, working on different grounds and usually in a highly theoretical, imaginary framework, however, may offer another clue, as they have also tried to ‘liberate’ architecture from the nostalgic dictates of the aesthetic. Ironically, one of the most famous of these, Peter Eisenman, is well known for producing, in a strange reversal, buildings that render the able-bodied uncomfortable and even sometimes ill (see, in particular, Frank and Eisenman). Of several house designs he produced over the years, Eisenman notes that his intention was to dislocate the house from that comforting metaphysic and symbolism of shelter in order to initiate a search for those possibilities of dwelling that may have been repressed by that metaphysic. The house may once have been a true locus and symbol of nurturing shelter, but in a world of irresolvable anxiety, the meaning and form of shelter must be different. (Eisenman 172) Although Eisenman’s starting point is very different from that of Siebers, it nonetheless resonates with the latter’s desire for an aesthetic that incorporates the “ragged edge” of disabled bodies. Yet few would want to live in a home made less attractive or less comfortable, and the “illusion” of permanence is one of the things that provide rest within our homes. Could there be an architecture, or an aesthetic, of home that could create a new and different kind of comfort and beauty, one that is neither based on a denial of the importance of bodily comfort and pleasure nor based on an oppressively narrow and commercialised set of aesthetic values that implicitly value some people over others? For one thing, instead of viewing home as a place of (false) stasis and permanence, we might see it as a place of continual change and renewal, which any home always becomes in practice anyway. As architect Hélène Frichot suggests, “we must look toward the immanent conditions of architecture, the processes it employs, the serial deformations of its built forms, together with our quotidian spatio-temporal practices” (63) instead of settling into a deadening nostalgia like that seen on EMHE. If we define home as a process of continual territorialisation, if we understand that “[t]here is no fixed self, only the process of looking for one,” and likewise that “there is no home, only the process of forming one” (Wise 303), perhaps we can begin to imagine a different, yet lovely conception of “house” and its relation to the experience of “home.” Extreme Makeover: Home Edition should be lauded for its attempts to include families of a wide variety of ethnic and racial backgrounds, various religions, from different regions around the U.S., both rural and suburban, even occasionally urban, and especially for its bringing to the fore how, indeed, structures can be as disabling as any individual impairment. That it shows designers and builders working with the families of the disabled to create accessible homes may help to change wider attitudes and break down resistance to the building of inclusive housing. However, it so far has missed the opportunity to help viewers think about the ways that our ideal homes may conflict with our constantly evolving social needs and bodily realities. References Bachelard, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. Tr. Maria Jolas. Boston: Beacon Press, 1969. Blunt, Alison, and Robyn Dowling. Home. London and New York: Routledge, 2006. Canguilhem, Georges. The Normal and the Pathological. New York: Zone Books, 1991. Davis, Lennard. Bending Over Backwards: Disability, Dismodernism & Other Difficult Positions. New York: NYUP, 2002. ———. Enforcing Normalcy: Disability, Deafness, and the Body. New York: Verso, 1995. Deleuze, Gilles, and Felix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Tr. B. Massumi. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987. ———. What Is Philosophy? Tr. G. Burchell and H. Tomlinson. London and New York: Verso, 1994. Eisenman, Peter Eisenman. “Misreading” in House of Cards. New York: Oxford University Press, 1987. 21 Aug. 2007 http://prelectur.stanford.edu/lecturers/eisenman/biblio.html#cards>. Peter Eisenman Texts Anthology at the Stanford Presidential Lectures and Symposia in the Humanities and Arts site. 5 June 2007 http://prelectur.stanford.edu/lecturers/eisenman/texts.html#misread>. “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition” Website. 18 May 2007 http://abc.go.com/primetime/xtremehome/index.html>; http://abc.go.com/primetime/xtremehome/show.html>; http://abc.go.com/primetime/xtremehome/bios/101.html>; http://abc.go.com/primetime/xtremehome/bios/301.html>; and http://abc.go.com/primetime/xtremehome/bios/401.html>. Frank, Suzanne Sulof, and Peter Eisenman. House VI: The Client’s Response. New York: Watson-Guptill, 1994. Frichot, Hélène. “Stealing into Gilles Deleuze’s Baroque House.” In Deleuze and Space, eds. Ian Buchanan and Gregg Lambert. Deleuze Connections Series. Toronto: University of Toronto P, 2005. 61-79. Heyes, Cressida J. “Cosmetic Surgery and the Televisual Makeover: A Foucauldian feminist reading.” Feminist Media Studies 7.1 (2007): 17-32. Holliday, Ruth. “Home Truths?” In Ordinary Lifestyles: Popular Media, Consumption and Taste. Ed. David Bell and Joanne Hollows. Maidenhead, Berkshire, England: Open UP, 2005. 65-81. Imrie, Rob. Accessible Housing: Quality, Disability and Design. London and New York: Routledge, 2006. Paulsen, Wade. “‘Extreme Makeover: Home Edition’ surges in ratings and adds Ford as auto partner.” Reality TV World. 14 October 2004. 27 March 2005 http://www.realitytvworld.com/index/articles/story.php?s=2981>. Poniewozik, James, with Jeanne McDowell. “Charity Begins at Home: Extreme Makeover: Home Edition renovates its way into the Top 10 one heart-wrenching story at a time.” Time 20 Dec. 2004: i25 p159. Siebers, Tobin. “Disability in Theory: From Social Constructionism to the New Realism of the Body.” American Literary History 13.4 (2001): 737-754. ———. “What Can Disability Studies Learn from the Culture Wars?” Cultural Critique 55 (2003): 182-216. Simonian, Charisse. Email to network affiliates, 10 March 2006. 18 May 2007 http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/0327062extreme1.html>. Snyder, Sharon L., and David T. Mitchell. Cultural Locations of Disability. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2006. ———. Narrative Prosthesis: Disability and the Dependencies of Discourse. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000. Steinmetz, Erika. Americans with Disabilities: 2002. U.S. Department of Commerce, Economics, and Statistics Administration, U.S. Census Bureau, 2006. 15 May 2007 http://www.census.gov/prod/2006pubs/p70-107.pdf>. Wilhelm, Ian. “The Rise of Charity TV (Reality Television Shows).” Chronicle of Philanthropy 19.8 (8 Feb. 2007): n.p. Wise, J. Macgregor. “Home: Territory and Identity.” Cultural Studies 14.2 (2000): 295-310. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Roney, Lisa. "The Extreme Connection Between Bodies and Houses." M/C Journal 10.4 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/03-roney.php>. APA Style Roney, L. (Aug. 2007) "The Extreme Connection Between Bodies and Houses," M/C Journal, 10(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/03-roney.php>.

If thinking about home necessitates thinking about “place, space, scale, identity and power,” as Alison Blunt and Robyn Dowling (2) suggest, then thinking about home themes in popular music makes no less a conceptual demand. Song lyrics and titles most often invoke dominant readings such as intimacy, privacy, nurture, refuge, connectedness and shared belonging, all issues found within Blunt and Dowling’s analysis. The spatial imaginary to which these authors refer takes vivid shape through repertoires of songs dealing with houses and other specific sites, vast and distant homelands, communities or, less tangibly, geographical or cultural settings where particular relationships can be found, supporting Blunt and Dowling’s major claim that home is complex, multi-scalar and multi-layered. Shelley Mallett’s claim that the term home “functions as a repository for complex, inter-related and at times contradictory socio-cultural ideas about people’s relationships with one another…and with places, spaces and things” (84) is borne out heavily by popular music where, for almost every sentiment that the term home evokes, it seems an opposite sentiment is evoked elsewhere: familiarity versus alienation, acceptance versus rejection, love versus loneliness. Making use of conceptual groundwork by Blunt and Dowling and by Mallett and others, the following discussion canvasses a range of meanings that home has had for a variety of songwriters, singers and audiences over the years. Intended as merely partial and exploratory rather than exhaustive, it provides some insights into contrasts, ironies and relationships between home and gender, diaspora and loss. While it cannot cover all the themes, it gives prominence to the major recurring themes and a variety of important contexts that give rise to these home themes. Most prominent among those songs dealing with home has been a nostalgia and yearning, while issues of how women may have viewed the home within which they have often been restricted to a narrowly defined private sphere are almost entirely absent. This serves as a reminder that, while some themes can be conducive to the medium of popular music, others may be significantly less so. Songs may speak directly of experience but not necessarily of all experiences and certainly not of all experiences equally. B. Lee Cooper claims “most popular culture ventures rely upon formula-oriented settings and phrasings to attract interest, to spur mental or emotional involvement” (93). Notions of home have generally proved both formulaic and emotionally-charged. Commonly understood patterns of meaning and other hegemonic references generally operate more successfully than alternative reference points. Those notions with the strongest cultural currency can be conveyed succinctly and denote widely agreed upon meanings. Lyrics can seldom afford to be deeply analytical but generally must be concise and immediately evocative. Despite that, this discussion will point to diverse meanings carried by songs about home. Blunt and Dowling point out that “a house is not necessarily nor automatically a home” (3). The differences are strongly apparent in music, with only a few songs relating to houses compared with homes. When Malvina Reynolds wrote in 1962 of “little boxes, on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky-tacky,” she was certainly referring to houses, not homes, thus making it easier to bypass the relationships which might have vested the inhabitants with more warmth and individuality than their houses, in this song about conformity and homogeneity. The more complex though elusive concept of home, however, is more likely to feature in love songs and to emanate from diasporal songs. Certainly these two genres are not mutually exclusive. Irish songs are particularly noteworthy for adding to the array of music written by, or representational of, those who have been forced away from home by war, poverty, strife or other circumstances. They manifest identities of displacement rather than of placement, as studied by Bronwen Walter, looking back at rather than from within their spatial imaginary. Phil Eva claims that during the 19th Century Irish émigrés sang songs of exile in Manchester’s streets. Since many in England’s industrial towns had been uprooted from their homes, the songs found rapport with street audiences and entered popular culture. For example, the song Killarney, of hazy origins but thought to date back to as early as 1850, tells of Killarney’s lakes and fells, Emerald isles and winding bays; Mountain paths and woodland dells… ...her [nature’s] home is surely there. As well as anthropomorphising nature and giving it a home, the song suggests a specifically geographic sense of home. Galway Bay, written by A. Fahy, does likewise, as do many other Irish songs of exile which link geography with family, kin and sometimes culture to evoke a sense of home. The final verse of Cliffs of Doneen gives a sense of both people and place making up home: Fare thee well to Doneen, fare thee well for a while And to all the kind people I’m leaving behind To the streams and the meadows where late I have been And the high rocky slopes round the cliffs of Doneen. Earlier Irish songs intertwine home with political issues. For example, Tho’ the Last Glimpse of Erin vows to Erin that “In exile thy bosum shall still be my home.” Such exile resulted from a preference of fleeing Ireland rather than bowing to English oppression, which then included a prohibition on Irish having moustaches or certain hairstyles. Thomas Moore is said to have set the words of the song to the air Coulin which itself referred to an Irish woman’s preference for her “Coulin” (a long-haired Irish youth) to the English (Nelson-Burns). Diasporal songs have continued, as has their political edge, as evidenced by global recognition of songs such as Bayan Ko (My Country), written by José Corazon de Jesus in 1929, out of love and concern for the Philippines and sung among Filipinos worldwide. Robin Cohen outlines a set of criteria for diaspora that includes a shared belief in the possibility of return to home, evident in songs such as the 1943 Welsh song A Welcome in the Hillside, in which a Welsh word translating roughly as a yearning to return home, hiraeth, is used: We’ll kiss away each hour of hiraeth When you come home again to Wales. However, the immensely popular I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen, not of Irish origin but written by Thomas Westendorf of Illinois in 1875, suggests that such emotions can have a resonance beyond the diaspora. Anti-colonial sentiments about home can also be expressed by long-time inhabitants, as Harry Belafonte demonstrated in Island in the Sun: This is my island in the sun Where my people have toiled since time begun. Though I may sail on many a sea, Her shores will always be home to me. War brought a deluge of sentimental songs lamenting separation from home and loved ones, just as likely to be parents and siblings as sweethearts. Radios allowed wider audiences and greater popularity for these songs. If separation had brought a longing previously, the added horrors of war presented a stronger contrast between that which the young soldiers were missing and that which they were experiencing. Both the First and Second World Wars gave rise to songs long since sung which originated in such separations, but these also had a strong sense of home as defined by the nationalism that has for over a century given the contours of expectations of soldiers. Focusing on home, these songs seldom speak of the details of war. Rather they are specific about what the singers have left behind and what they hope to return to. Songs of home did not have to be written specifically for the war effort nor for overseas troops. Irving Berlin’s 1942 White Christmas, written for a film, became extremely popular with US troops during WWII, instilling a sense of home that related to familiarities and festivities. Expressing a sense of home could be specific and relate to regions or towns, as did I’m Goin’ Back Again to Yarrawonga, or it could refer to any home, anywhere where there were sons away fighting. Indeed the American Civil War song When Johnny Comes Marching Home, written by Patrick Sarsfield Gilmour, was sung by both Northerners and Southerners, so adaptable was it, with home remarkably unspecified and undescribed. The 1914 British song Keep the Home Fires Burning by Ivor Novello and Lena Ford was among those that evoked a connection between home and the military effort and helped establish a responsibility on those at home to remain optimistic: Keep the Homes fires burning While your hearts are yearning, Though your lads are far away They dream of home, There’s a silver lining Through the dark clouds shining, Turn the dark clouds inside out, Till the boys come Home. No space exists in this song for critique of the reasons for war, nor of a role for women other than that of homemaker and moral guardian. It was women’s duty to ensure men enlisted and home was rendered a private site for emotional enlistment for a presumed public good, though ironically also a point of personal hope where the light of love burned for the enlistees’ safe return. Later songs about home and war challenged these traditional notions. Two serve as examples. One is Pink Floyd’s brief musical piece of the 1970s, Bring the Boys Back Home, whose words of protest against the American war on Viet Nam present home, again, as a site of safety but within a less conservative context. Home becomes implicated in a challenge to the prevailing foreign policy and the interests that influence it, undermining the normal public sphere/private sphere distinction. The other more complex song is Judy Small’s Mothers, Daughters, Wives, from 1982, set against a backdrop of home. Small eloquently describes the dynamics of the domestic space and how women understood their roles in relation to the First and Second World Wars and the Viet Nam War. Reinforcing that “The materialities and imaginaries of home are closely connected” (Blunt and Dowling 188), Small sings of how the gold frames held the photographs that mothers kissed each night And the doorframe held the shocked and silent strangers from the fight. Small provides a rare musical insight into the disjuncture between the men who left the domestic space and those who return to it, and we sense that women may have borne much of the brunt of those awful changes. The idea of domestic bliss is also challenged, though from the returned soldier’s point of view, in Redgum’s 1983 song I Was Only Nineteen, written by group member John Schuman. It touches on the tragedy of young men thrust into war situations and the horrific after-affects for them, which cannot be shrugged off on return to home. The nurturing of home has limits but the privacy associated with the domestic sphere has often concealed the violence and mental anguish that happens away from public view. But by this time most of the songs referring to home were dominated once more by sentimental love, often borne of travel as mobility rose. Journeys help “establish the thresholds and boundaries of home” and can give rise to “an idealized, ideological and ethnocentric view of home” (Mallett 78). Where previously songsters had sung of leaving home in exile or for escape from poverty, lyrics from the 1960s onwards often suggested that work had removed people from loved ones. It could be work on a day-by-day basis, as in A Hard Day’s Night from the 1964 film of the same name, where the Beatles illuminate differences between the public sphere of work and the private sphere to which they return: When I’m home, everything seems to be alright, When I’m home feeling you holding me tight, tight, yeah and reiterated by Paul McCartney in Every Night: And every night that day is through But tonight I just want to stay in And be with you. Lyrics such as these and McCartney’s call to be taken “...home to the Mull of Kintyre,” singled him out for his home-and-hearth messages (Dempsey). But work might involve longer absences and thus more deepfelt loneliness. Simon and Garfunkel’s exemplary Homeward Bound starkly portrays a site of “away-ness”: I’m sittin’ in the railway station, got a ticket for my destination… Mundaneness, monotony and predictability contrast with the home to which the singer’s thoughts are constantly escaping. The routine is familiar but the faces are those of strangers. Home here is, again, not simply a domicile but the warmth of those we know and love. Written at a railway station, Homeward Bound echoes sentiments almost identical to those of (Leaving on a) Jet Plane, written by John Denver at an airport in 1967. Denver also co-wrote (Take Me Home) Country Roads, where, in another example of anthropomorphism as a tool of establishing a strong link, he asks to be taken home to the place I belong West Virginia, mountain momma, Take me home, Country Roads. The theme has recurred in numerous songs since, spawning examples such as Darin and Alquist’s When I Get Home, Chris Daughtry’s Home, Michael Bublé’s Home and Will Smith’s Ain’t No Place Like Home, where, in an opening reminiscent of Homeward Bound, the singer is Sitting in a hotel room A thousand miles away from nowhere Sloped over a chair as I stare… Furniture from home, on the other hand, can be used to evoke contentment and bliss, as demonstrated by George Weiss and Bob Thiele’s song The Home Fire, in which both kin and the objects of home become charged with meaning: All of the folks that I love are there I got a date with my favourite chair Of course, in regard to earlier songs especially, while the traveller associates home with love, security and tenderness, back at home the waiting one may have had feelings more of frustration and oppression. One is desperate to get back home, but for all we know the other may be desperate to get out of home or to develop a life more meaningful than that which was then offered to women. If the lot of homemakers was invisible to national economies (Waring), it seemed equally invisible to mainstream songwriters. This reflects the tradition that “Despite home being generally considered a feminine, nurturing space created by women themselves, they often lack both authority and a space of their own within this realm” (Mallett 75). Few songs have offered the perspective of the one at home awaiting the return of the traveller. One exception is the Seekers’ 1965 A World of Our Own but, written by Tom Springfield, the words trilled by Judith Durham may have been more of a projection of the traveller’s hopes and expectations than a true reflection of the full experiences of housebound women of the day. Certainly, the song reinforces connections between home and intimacy and privacy: Close the door, light the lights. We’re stayin’ home tonight, Far away from the bustle and the bright city lights. Let them all fade away, just leave us alone And we’ll live in a world of our own. This also strongly supports Gaston Bachelard’s claim that one’s house in the sense of a home is one’s “first universe, a real cosmos” (qtd. in Blunt and Dowling 12). But privacy can also be a loneliness when home is not inhabited by loved ones, as in the lyrics of Don Gibson’s 1958 Oh, Lonesome Me, where Everybody’s going out and having fun I’m a fool for staying home and having none. Similar sentiments emerge in Debbie Boone’s You Light up My Life: So many nights I’d sit by my window Waiting for someone to sing me his song. Home in these situations can be just as alienating as the “away” depicted as so unfriendly by Homeward Bound’s strangers’ faces and the “million people” who still leave Michael Bublé feeling alone. Yet there are other songs that depict “away” as a prison made of freedom, insinuating that the lack of a home and consequently of the stable love and commitment presumably found there is a sad situation indeed. This is suggested by the lilting tune, if not by the lyrics themselves, in songs such as Wandrin’ Star from the musical Paint Your Wagon and Ron Miller’s I’ve Never Been to Me, which has both a male and female version with different words, reinforcing gendered experiences. The somewhat conservative lyrics in the female version made it a perfect send-up song in the 1994 film Priscilla: Queen of the Desert. In some songs the absentee is not a traveller but has been in jail. In Tie a Yellow Ribbon round the Ole Oak Tree, an ex-inmate states “I’m comin’ home. I’ve done my time.” Home here is contingent upon the availability and forgivingness of his old girl friend. Another song juxtaposing home with prison is Tom Jones’ The Green, Green Grass of Home in which the singer dreams he is returning to his home, to his parents, girlfriend and, once again, an old oak tree. However, he awakes to find he was dreaming and is about to be executed. His body will be taken home and placed under the oak tree, suggesting some resigned sense of satisfaction that he will, after all, be going home, albeit in different circumstances. Death and home are thus sometimes linked, with home a euphemism for the former, as suggested in many spirituals, with heaven or an afterlife being considered “going home”. The reverse is the case in the haunting Bring Him Home of the musical Les Misérables. With Marius going off to the barricades and the danger involved, Jean Valjean prays for the young man’s safe return and that he might live. Home is connected here with life, safety and ongoing love. In a number of songs about home and absence there is a sense of home being a place where morality is gently enforced, presumably by women who keep men on the straight and narrow, in line with one of the women’s roles of colonial Australia, researched by Anne Summers. These songs imply that when men wander from home, their morals also go astray. Wild Rover bemoans Oh, I’ve been a wild rover for many a year, and I’ve spent all my money on whiskey and beer… There is the resolve in the chorus, however, that home will have a reforming influence. Gene Pitney’s Twenty-Four Hours from Tulsa poses the dangers of distance from a wife’s influence, while displaying opposition to the sentimental yearning of so many other songs: Dearest darlin’, I have to write to say that I won’t be home anymore ‘cause something happened to me while I was drivin’ home And I’m not the same anymore Class as well as gender can be a debated issue in meanings attached to home, as evident in several songs that take a more jaundiced view of home, seeing it as a place from which to escape. The Animals’ powerful We Gotta Get Outta This Place clearly suggests a life of drudgery in a home town or region. Protectively, the lyrics insist “Girl, there’s a better life for me and you” but it has to be elsewhere. This runs against the grain of other British songs addressing poverty or a working class existence as something that comes with its own blessings, all to do with an area identified as home. These traits may be loyalty, familiarity or a refusal to judge and involve identities of placement rather than of displacement in, for instance, Gerry and the Pacemakers’ Ferry Cross the Mersey: People around every corner, they seem to smile and say “We don’t care what your name is, boy. We’ll never send you away.” This bears out Blunt and Dowling’s claim that “people’s senses of themselves are related to and produced through lived and metaphorical experiences of home” (252). It also resonates with some of the region-based identity and solidarity issues explored a short time later by Paul Willis in his study of working class youth in Britain, which help to inform how a sense of home can operate to constrict consciousness, ideas and aspirations. Identity features strongly in other songs about home. Several years after Neil Young recorded his 1970 song Southern Man about racism in the south of the USA, the group Lynyrd Skynyrd, responded with Sweet Home Alabama. While the meaning of its lyrics are still debated, there is no debate about the way in which the song has been embraced, as I recently discovered first-hand in Tennessee. A banjo-and-fiddle band performing the song during a gig virtually brought down the house as the predominantly southern audience clapped, whopped and stamped its feet. The real meanings of home were found not in the lyrics but in the audience’s response. Wally Johnson and Bob Brown’s 1975 Home Among the Gum Trees is a more straightforward ode to home, with lyrics that prescribe a set of non-commodified values. It is about simplicity and the right to embrace a lifestyle that includes companionship, leisure and an enjoyment of and appreciation of nature, all threatened seriously in the three decades since the song’s writing. The second verse in which large shopping complexes – and implicitly the consumerism they encourage – are eschewed (“I’d trade it all tomorrow for a little bush retreat where the kookaburras call”), is a challenge to notions of progress and reflects social movements of the day, The Green Bans Movement, for instance, took a broader and more socially conscientious attitude towards home and community, putting forward alternative sets of values and insisting people should have a say in the social and aesthetic construction of their neighbourhoods as well as the impacts of their labour (Mundey). Ironically, the song has gone on to become the theme song for a TV show about home gardens. With a strong yet more vague notion of home, Peter Allen’s I Still Call Australia Home, was more prone to commodification and has been adopted as a promotional song for Qantas. Nominating only the desire to travel and the love of freedom as Australian values, both politically and socially innocuous within the song’s context, this catchy and uplifting song, when not being used as an advertisement, paradoxically works for a “diaspora” of Australians who are not in exile but have mostly travelled for reasons of pleasure or professional or financial gain. Another paradox arises from the song Home on the Range, dating back to the 19th century at a time when the frontier was still a strong concept in the USA and people were simultaneously leaving homes and reminiscing about home (Mechem). Although it was written in Kansas, the lyrics – again vague and adaptable – were changed by other travellers so that versions such as Colorado Home and My Arizona Home soon abounded. In 1947 Kansas made Home on the Range its state song, despite there being very few buffalo left there, thus highlighting a disjuncture between the modern Kansas and “a home where the buffalo roam” as described in the song. These themes, paradoxes and oppositional understandings of home only scratch the surface of the wide range of claims that are made on home throughout popular music. It has been shown that home is a flexible concept, referring to homelands, regions, communities and private houses. While predominantly used to evoke positive feelings, mostly with traditional views of the relationships that lie within homes, songs also raise challenges to notions of domesticity, the rights of those inhabiting the private sphere and the demarcation between the private and public spheres. Songs about home reflect contexts and challenges of their respective eras and remind us that vigorous discussion takes place about and within homes. The challenges are changing. Where many women once felt restrictively tied to the home – and no doubt many continue to do so – many women and men are now struggling to rediscover spatial boundaries, with production and consumption increasingly impinging upon relationships that have so frequently given the term home its meaning. With evidence that we are working longer hours and that home life, in whatever form, is frequently suffering (Beder, Hochschild), the discussion should continue. In the words of Sam Cooke, Bring it on home to me! References Bacheland, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. Boston, MA: Beacon Press, 1994. Beder, Sharon. Selling the Work Ethic: From Puritan Pulpit to Corporate PR. London: Zed Books, 2000. Blunt, Alison, and Robyn Dowling. Home. London: Routledge, 2006. Cohen, Robin. Global Diasporas: An Introduction. London: UCL Press, 1997. Cooper, B. Lee. “Good Timin’: Searching for Meaning in Clock Songs.” Popular Music and Society 30.1 (Feb. 2007): 93-106. 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Damned Whores and God’s Police: The Colonization of Women in Australia. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1975. Walter, Bronwen. Outsiders Inside: Whiteness, Place and Irish Women. London: Routledge, 2001. Waring, Marilyn. Counting for Nothing: What Men Value and What Women Are Worth. Wellington, NZ: Allen & Unwin, 1988. Willis, Paul. Learning to Labor: How Working Class Kids Get Working Class Jobs. New York: Columbia UP, 1977. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Varney, Wendy. "Homeward Bound or Housebound?: Themes of Home in Popular Music." M/C Journal 10.4 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/16-varney.php>. APA Style Varney, W. (Aug. 2007) "Homeward Bound or Housebound?: Themes of Home in Popular Music," M/C Journal, 10(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/16-varney.php>.