Journal articles on the topic 'Mirror Tracing Persistence Task'

The current behavioral tasks assessing distress tolerance measure tolerance to frustration and tolerance to physical discomfort, but do not explicitly assess tolerance to negative emotion. We closely evaluated the conceptual distinctions between current behavioral tasks and self-report tasks assessing distress tolerance, and then developed a new behavioral distress tolerance task called the Emotional Image Tolerance (EIT) task. The EIT task retains elements of existing behavioral tasks (e.g., indices of persistence) while augmenting the reliability and content sufficiency of existing measures by including multiple trials, including a variety of negative affect stimuli, and separating overall task persistence from task persistence after onset of distress. In a series of three studies, we found that the EIT correlated with extant behavioral measures of distress tolerance, the computerized mirror-tracing task and a physical cold pressor task. Across all of the studies, we also evaluated whether the EIT correlated with self-report measures of distress tolerance and measures of psychopathology (e.g., depression, anxiety, and binge eating). Implications for the refinement of the distress tolerance construct are discussed.

The present investigation examined associations between distress tolerance, examined multimodally via self-report and behavioral indices, and suicidality. Participants were 102 psychiatric inpatients (44.1% women; Mage=33.9, SD=10.8). Distress tolerance was measured via the Distress Tolerance Scale (DTS), Mirror-Tracing Persistence Task (MTPT), and Breath-Holding Task. Suicidality was defined as: number of past suicide attempts, self-reported suicidal ideation severity, and suicidality as reason for the current hospital admission. When DT indices were examined concurrently, only MTPT was negatively associated with number of past suicide attempts; perceived DT (DTS) was negatively associated with suicidal ideation severity and suicidality as the reason for current admission.

Objective: The objective of this study was to compare children with ADHD with children without ADHD on frustration tolerance and to examine the role of oppositional defiant disorder (ODD) in frustration tolerance within the sample. Method: Participants included 67 children ages 10 to 14 years-old with ( n = 37) and without ( n = 30) Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (4th ed.; DSM-IV) ADHD who completed the Mirror Tracing Persistence Task (MTPT), a validated computerized behavioral measure of frustration tolerance. Results: Children with ADHD were more likely to quit this task than children without ADHD, demonstrating lower levels of frustration tolerance. There were no differences in frustration tolerance between children with ADHD + ODD and those with ADHD – ODD. Moreover, ODD did not moderate the relationship between ADHD and frustration tolerance. Conclusion: Our results suggest that low frustration tolerance is directly linked to ADHD and not better accounted for by ODD. This research highlights specific behavioral correlates of frustration in children with ADHD.

In this report, we describe the “fractionation of memory systems” in a 62-yr.-old woman following a left anterior stroke. Despite the presence of a significant, persistent declarative memory (verbal learning) deficit, this patient exhibited relatively intact procedural learning. The latter was manifested over a 4-day period by improved performance on a maze task executed under “mirror-tracing” conditions. By the final set of trials, the patient's performance approximated that of a normal control subject with respect to speed, although not errors. The selective preservation of particular learning abilities in brain-damaged patients has implications for rehabilitative interventions.

Abstract Introduction Distress intolerance is an important risk factor for smokers. Smokers have greater problems tolerating distress than nonsmokers, and distress intolerance is theoretically an important predictor of early lapse. However, much of the distress intolerance research has been conducted on daily smokers. Understanding distress intolerance in nondaily or intermittent smokers may help elucidate whether distress intolerance is a function of current smoking habits. Aims and Methods Daily (n = 36) and intermittent (n = 28) smokers completed behavioral distress intolerance tasks (breath holding, mirror tracing persistence, and image persistence) along with self-report measures of both general and smoking-specific distress intolerance. They also completed 1 week of ecological momentary assessment where positive and negative affect were assessed along with momentary distress intolerance, at both random times (7×/day) and immediately prior to smoking a cigarette. Results Results found no differences between intermittent and daily smokers on behavioral distress intolerance tasks or general self-reported distress intolerance. Daily smokers reported greater self-reported smoking-specific distress intolerance compared to intermittent smokers. In addition, across both smoker groups, momentary distress intolerance was higher at smoking compared to random sessions, and low positive affect predicted greater momentary distress intolerance specifically for intermittent smokers prior to smoking. Conclusions The lack of differences between daily and intermittent smokers on general distress intolerance measures suggests that distress intolerance abilities and self-perceptions are not a function of higher levels of current smoking. However, the contextual variation in momentary distress intolerance is worth further exploration in both daily and intermittent smokers. Implications The overall lack of differences between intermittent and daily smokers on distress intolerance tasks and self-report measures suggests that daily smoking is not associated with lower abilities to manage or tolerate distress at the individual difference level. However, understanding fluctuations in distress intolerance across time and context is crucial, as smokers’ perceptions of their abilities to manage distress shift based on affect and smoking contexts. Stabilizing or increasing self-efficacy in tolerating distress during daily life is likely an important avenue for future research.

Objectives: The present study compared yoga practitioners with age- and gender-matched yoga naïve persons on performance in a mirror tracing task which involved tracing a star pattern on a sheet of paper while looking at its reflection in a mirror. Materials and Methods: The present cross-sectional study included twenty yoga practitioners of both sexes (15 females; group mean age ± SD; 24.8 ± 3.4 years) and twenty yoga naïve persons (15 females; group mean age ± SD; 24.2 ± 3.8 years) of the same age range. Both groups were assessed for performance in the mirror tracing task in three trials. The distance covered, total errors, and time taken to complete the task were noted. Results: Yoga practitioners made significantly less errors (P < 0.05) in the third trial and covered greater distance in star tracing in the first (P < 0.05) and second (P < 0.05) trials compared to yoga naïve participants. Mann– Whitney U-test was used for all comparisons. Conclusion: Yoga practice may be useful to facilitate learning in the tasks that require better perceptual and motor skills.

60 right-handed college students classified as preferring either a style of left or right hemisphericity mirror-traced a star pattern once with each hand. Speed of tracing and number of deviations outside the star pattern were the dependent measures. Analysis showed no statistically significant differences in performance between right- and left-style groups or between men and women. However, subjects classified as showing a right-hemisphericity style mirror-traced the star pattern significantly faster and more accurately with the left hand than with the right. The left-hemisphericity-scoring group displayed a nonsignificant tendency to perform better on the reverse pattern.

We investigated the relationship between performance types in skill acquisition and the use of the prefrontal cortex (PFC). We used a modified mirror drawing task in which participants using a pen tablet repeated the tracing of a star displayed on a screen. Changes in cerebral blood flow were measured using near infrared spectroscopy (NIRS). Participants conducted two tasks, mirror drawing, i.e., tracing a mirror image of a star, and an usual drawing, i.e., tracing a star. Performance was scored based on the number of errors and drawn lengths. Results suggested that two types of participants - those whose number of errors decreased when they repeated the task and those whose number of errors did not decrease. We thus concluded that (1) changes in oxy-hemoglobin concentration (Oxy-Hb) are higher in the mirror drawing task than in the usual drawing task; (2) oxy-Hb decreased in the right PFC when participants whose number of errors decreased repeated the task 4 days later, but did not decrease in the left PFC; (3) oxy-Hb decreased in the left PFC when participants whose number of errors did not decrease repeated the task 4 days later, but did not decrease in the right PFC. Our findings indicate that activation of the PFC can be used to assess skill levels in on-going tasks and may provide information on how to time assistance.

Abstract. The effects of 12 hr nicotine administration and abstinence on stress-induced cardiovascular reactivity were assessed within Light/Intermittent cigarette smokers and Habitual cigarette smokers. One hundred thirty-two male smokers (66 Habitual, 66 Light/Intermittent) were assigned to a Nicotine (21 mg) or Placebo patch condition. Cardiovascular reactivity was assessed during Baseline, a 6-min mental arithmetic task (Paced Auditory Serial Arithmetic Task) and a 5-min mirror-tracing task (Star Mirror Tracing Task). Within the Nicotine condition, Light/Intermittent smokers showed greater cardiac output (CO) increases, smaller stroke volume decreases, and smaller total peripheral resistance (TPR) increases than Light/Intermittent smokers in the Placebo condition. No condition differences in cardiovascular reactivity were demonstrated for Habitual smokers. Light/Intermittent smokers also showed greater CO increases than Habitual smokers during the mirror-tracing task but during the Nicotine condition only. During mental arithmetic, Light/Intermittent smokers had greater CO increases and smaller TPR increases than Habitual smokers across nicotine conditions. Habitual smokers responded to stress with increases in peripheral responses whereas Light/Intermittent smokers responded myocardially. Light/Intermittent smokers may have increased density of β-adrenergic receptors whereas Habitual smokers may have decreased density due to chronic smoking.

Abstract After a hint from Lang et al.'s (1997) defence cascade, researchers considered cognitive process experienced when encountering mental stress to be composed of four elements: (serially) first attention (Attent), second unpleasant affect (UnplAff) and sometimes pleasant affect (PlAff), and third cognitive coping (CogCop). The present study investigates the effect of each cognitive element on the provocation of the well-known vascular-dominant reaction pattern during mirror tracing: elevation of mean blood pressure mainly because of increases in total peripheral resistance. Twenty-four male students first underwent four computer-simulated mirror-tracing practices of 3 min each, then a 7 min adaptation followed by a 3 min baseline, and further four kinds of actual mirror tracing trials (Attent, UnplAff, PlAff, and CogCop) of 3 min each. Results on the cardiovascular measures indicated that every mirror-tracing trial indisputably provoked the vascular-dominant reaction pattern. An alpha-adrenergic vascular sympathetic activation was heightened. Self-report measures on the four cognitive elements suggested that heightened Attent seemed to contribute to provoking the reaction pattern. Although the UnplAff and PlAff trials had an active coping feature in a narrow sense, they could not provoke the cardiac-dominant reaction pattern. Differences in task difficulty among the mirror tracings could not explain the results. The implications of these results are discussed in order to better understand cardiovascular hemodynamics during mental stress.

Persistence is an important predictor of future successes. The present research addresses the relationship between testosterone and persistence in men. One hundred eighteen men were randomly assigned to win or lose a competitive number tracing task against a confederate or complete the task alone in a non–competitive control condition. Saliva samples were collected prior to and after the competition or control conditions. Participants were then given a maximum time of 30 min to spend attempting to solve unsolvable puzzles, with the option to quit at any time. In contrast to our prediction, changes in testosterone concentrations in response to the competitive interaction did not predict persistence behaviour. However, individual differences in testosterone concentrations (pre–competition/non–competition) were positively correlated with persistence. These findings are the first to examine associations between neuroendocrine function and persistence behaviour in people and suggest that testosterone should also be considered when predicting persistence–related outcomes. Copyright © 2014 European Association of Personality Psychology

The cerebellum is part of a neural circuit involved in procedural motor learning. We examined how congenital cerebellar malformations affect mirror drawing performance, a procedural learning task that involves learning to trace the outline of a star while looking at the reflection of the star in a mirror. Participants were 88 children with spina bifida myelomeningocele, a neural tube defect that results in lesions of the spinal cord, dysmorphology of the cerebellum, and requires shunt treatment for hydrocephalus, and 35 typically developing controls. Participants completed 10 trials in the morning and 10 trials following a 3-hr delay. Although children with spina bifida myelomeningocele were initially slower at tracing and made more errors than controls, all participants improved their performance of the task, as demonstrated by increased speed and accuracy across trials. Moreover, degree of cerebellar dysmorphology was not correlated with level of performance, rate of acquisition, or retention of mirror drawing. The results suggest that congenital cerebellar dysmorphology in spina bifida does not impair motor skill learning as measured by acquisition and retention of the mirror drawing task. (JINS, 2004, 10, 877–887.)

AbstractStudies of chronically deafferented participants have illuminated how regaining some motor control after adult-onset loss of proprioceptive and touch input depends heavily on cognitive control. In this study we contrasted the performance of one such man, IW, with KS, a woman born without any somatosensory fibres. We postulated that her life-long absence of proprioception and touch might have allowed her to automate some simple visually-guided actions, something IW appears unable to achieve. We tested these two, and two age-matched control groups, on writing and drawing tasks performed with and without an audio-verbal echoing task that added a cognitive demand. In common with other studies of skilled action, the dual task was shown to affect visuo-motor performance in controls, with less well-controlled drawing and writing, evident as increases in path speed and reduction in curvature and trial duration. We found little evidence that IW was able to automate even the simplest drawing tasks and no evidence for automaticity in his writing. In contrast, KS showed a selective increase in speed of signature writing under the dual-task conditions, suggesting some ability to automate her most familiar writing. We also tested tracing of templates under mirror-reversed conditions, a task that imposes a powerful cognitive planning challenge. Both IW and KS showed evidence of a visuo-motor planning conflict, as did the controls, for shapes with sharp corners. Overall, IW was much faster than his controls to complete tracing shapes, consistent with an absence of visuo-proprioceptive conflict, whereas KS was slower than her controls, especially as the corners became sharper. She dramatically improved after a short period of practice while IW did not. We conclude that KS, who developed from birth without proprioception, may have some visually derived control of movement not under cognitive control, something not seen in IW. This allowed her to automate some writing and drawing actions, but impaired her initial attempts at mirror-tracing. In contrast, IW, who lost somatosensation as an adult, cannot automate these visually guided actions.

ObjectivesExperience-dependent cortical plasticity observed during post-training sleep has been hypothesized to be part of the global process of memory consolidation. Combining the temporal resolution of microstructure detectors and the spatial resolution of low-resolution brain electromagnetic tomography (LORETA) makes it possible to investigate when and where the experience-dependent reactivation occurs under normal (undisturbed) sleeping conditions.MethodsAfter an adaptation night, in the 2nd and 3rd night 48 young healthy volunteers were randomly assigned either to a control condition or to an experimental condition (declarative memory task: paired-associate word list or procedural memory task: mirror tracing). Sleep stages and sleep microstructures (slow waves, spindles and theta bursts) were detected automatically by means of the Somnolyzer 24x7. Changes in LORETA sources (experimental minus control night) were correlated with changes in memory performance (morning minus evening recall).ResultsOvernight improvements in the mirror tracing task were correlated with increased slow-wave sources in the right posterior parietal cortex (r = .70,p < 0.01) during NREM sleep and with desynchronized (r = −.76,p < 0.01) and synchronized (r = .62,p < 0.01) rolandic mu rhythm sources during periods with theta bursts in REM sleep. Overnight improvements in the declarative memory task were significantly correlated with increased spindle sources (r = .52, p < .01) in frontal, temporal and cingulate brain regions.ConclusionsThe present study supports the hypotheses of (1) a use-dependent reset of synaptic plasticity during slow-wave sleep (restorative function), (2) an experience-dependent reactivation during spindle episodes (stabilizing function) and (3) an off-line neuronal reprocessing during REM sleep (improvement without further training for novel tasks).

In a class demonstration of observer bias, students were led to believe that the response time of a subject's performance would decrease across three trials of a mirror-tracing task, due to alcohol consumption. The subject (a trained confederate who actually drank a nonalcoholic beverage) maintained consistent behavior and performance across trials. Students reported a trend that was consistent with the expectancy yet was not present in the behavior observed. The demonstration had a strong and memorable effect on students. We discuss the value of this classroom exercise for demonstrating observer bias.

Preclinical studies have implicated cholinergic neurotransmission, specifically M1 muscarinic acetylcholine receptor (mAChR) activation, in sleep-associated memory consolidation. In the present study, we investigated the effects of administering the direct M1 mAChR agonist RS-86 on pre-post sleep memory consolidation. Twenty healthy human participants were tested in a declarative word-list task and a procedural mirror-tracing task. RS-86 significantly reduced rapid eye movement (REM) sleep latency and slow wave sleep (SWS) duration in comparison with placebo. Presleep acquisition and postsleep recall rates were within the expected ranges. However, recall rates in both tasks were almost identical for the RS-86 and placebo conditions. These results indicate that selective M1 mAChR activation in healthy humans has no clinically relevant effect on pre-post sleep consolidation of declarative or procedural memories at a dose that reduces REM sleep latency and SWS duration.

Surgery is a challenging domain for motor skill acquisition. A critical contributing factor in this difficulty is that feedback is often delayed from performance and qualitative in nature. Collection of highdensity motion information may offer a solution. Metrics derived from this motion capture, in particular indices of movement smoothness, have been shown to correlate with task outcomes in multiple domains, including endovascular surgery. The open question is whether providing feedback based on these metrics can be used to accelerate learning. In pursuit of that goal, we examined the relationship between a motion metric that is computationally simple to compute—spectral arc length—and performance on a simple but challenging motor task, mirror tracing. We were able to replicate previous results showing that movement smoothness measures are linked to overall performance, and now have performance thresholds to use in subsequent work on using these metrics for training.

Postmodernism, which emerged in the 1960s, involves a wide range of fields and carries out all-round critical reflections on the foundation, tradition and other aspects of the development of modern civilization. Postmodern morality came into being with the popularity of postmodernism in western countries. It features obvious “de-universality” and provides a new mirror for reflec­tions on modern morality. Its progressive significance cannot be ignored. However, some postmodern moral concepts are becoming increasingly relativistic, even going to extremes, bringing about disturbances to society. Tracing the root of moral relativism back to ancient times based on the great history of its development, this study first sorts out the same gene of ancient Western mor­al relativism – using “skepticism” as a weapon against authority and dogmatism, and points out that the key of using moral rel­ativism lies in seeking the proper limit of “skepticism”. Then it draws forth the fact that postmodern morality started with “skepticism” and prevailed because of its “relativism”, pointing out that some postmodern morality moved toward moral relativ­ism because of persistence in “skepticism”, while some fall into a state of moral nihility by radicalising “skepticism”. If a crafts­man wants to do good work, he must first sharpen his tools. This study concludes with suggestions on how to use the “skepticism” of postmodern morality.

The major goals of this study were (1) to determine consistency of autonomic response modes to different laboratory stressors, and (2) to evaluate the strength of the association between autonomic response modes and ambulatory heart rate and variability. The sample consisted of 45 healthy participants. Parasympathetic (PNS) and sympathetic (SNS) reactivity to and recovery from laboratory stressors (handgrip, logical-mathematical, mirror-tracing, and rumination tasks) were estimated by high frequency heart rate variability (HF-HRV), preejection period (PEP), and baroreflex sensitivity (BRS). Ambulatory HR was measured for 24 h on a work and a nonwork day, counterbalanced. As BRS was less reliable compared to PEP and HF-HRV, the latter two parameters were selected for the computation of SNS/PNS patterns. Autonomic modes were consistent across tasks and more stable during the recovery periods. Moreover, recovery appeared to be sensitive to the emotionality of tasks. Reactivity and recovery patterns differed as a function of gender, with women showing higher vagal tone at baseline, higher HR reactivity to the logical task, greater BRS decrease during the rumination task, and a larger decrease in vagal tone during recovery after the rumination task. After controlling for gender and baseline HR and variability, autonomic profiles during reactivity and recovery periods captured substantially different ambulatory information. Specifically, autonomic profiles during reactivity significantly predicted ambulatory HR level during waking hours, whereas autonomic profile during recovery was linked with ambulatory HRV. Coactivation of SNS and PNS activity was associated with the highest ambulatory HR levels and variability. Findings from the laboratory were consistent with a dimensional autonomic model viewing SNS and PNS contributions to heart rate on orthogonal axes and individual stress response stereotypy. Laboratory task-related autonomic reactivity and recovery may reflect parallel differences in HR level and variability in everyday life.

AbstractObjectives: Although motor adaptation is a highly relevant process for both everyday life as well as rehabilitation many details of this process are still unresolved. To evaluate the contribution of primary motor (M1), parietal and cerebellar areas to motor adaptation processes transcranial direct current stimulation (tDCS) has been applied. We hypothesized that anodal stimulation of the cerebellum and the M1 improves the learning process in mirror drawing, a task involving fine grained and spatially well-organized hand movements. Methods: High definition tDCS (HD-tDCS) allows a focal stimulation to modulate brain processes. In a single-session double-blind study, we compared the effects of different anodal stimulation procedures. The groups received stimulation either at the cerebellum (CER), at right parietal (PAR), or at left M1, and a SHAM group was included. Participants (n=83) had to complete several mirror drawing tasks before, during, and after stimulation. They were instructed to re-trace a line in the shape of a pentagonal star as fast and accurate as possible. Tracing time (seconds) and accuracy (deviation in mm) have been evaluated. Results: The results indicated that cerebellar HD-tDCS can facilitate motor adaptation in a single session. The stimulation at M1 showed only a tendency to increase motor adaptation and these effects were visible only during the first part of the stimulation. Stimulating the right parietal area, relevant for visuospatial processing did not lead to increased performance. Conclusions: Our results suggest that motor adaptation relies to a great extent on cerebellar functions and HD-tDCS can speed up this process. (JINS, 2016, 22, 928–936)

Depression increases the risk of adverse cardiac events. Cardiovascular reactivity is defined as the pattern of cardiovascular responses to mental stress. An altered pattern of cardiovascular reactivity is an indicator of subsequent cardiovascular disease. Because depression and adverse cardiac events may have a dose-dependent association, this study examined the differences in cardiovascular reactivity to mental stress between patients with major depressive disorder (MDD) with high depression levels and those with low depression levels. Moreover, autonomic nervous system regulation is a highly plausible biological mechanism for the pattern of cardiovascular reactivity to mental stress. The association between cardiovascular reactivity and parameters of heart rate variability (HRV), an index for quantifying autonomic nervous system activity modulation, was thus examined. This study included 88 patients with MDD. HRV was measured before stress induction. The Stroop Color and Word Test and mirror star-tracing task were used to induce mental stress. We observed no significant association between depressive symptom level and any of the cardiovascular reactivity parameters. Cardiovascular reactivity to mental stress was comparable between patients with MDD with high-level depressive symptoms and those with low-level depressive symptoms. After adjusting for confounding variables, the high-frequency domain of HRV was found to be an independent predictor of the magnitude of heart rate reactivity (β = −.33, p = .002). In conclusion, the magnitude of cardiovascular reactivity may be independent of depression severity in patients with MDD. The autonomic regulation of cardiovascular responses to mental stress primarily influences heart rate reactivity in patients with MDD.

Although a general age-related decline in neural plasticity is evident, the effects of age on neural plasticity after motor practice are inconclusive. Inconsistencies in the literature may be related to between-study differences in task difficulty. Therefore, we aimed to determine the effects of age and task difficulty on motor learning and associated brain activity. We used task-related electroencephalography (EEG) power in the alpha (8–12 Hz) and beta (13–30 Hz) frequency bands to assess neural plasticity before, immediately after, and 24-h after practice of a mirror star tracing task at one of three difficulty levels in healthy younger (19–24 yr) and older (65–86 yr) adults. Results showed an age-related deterioration in motor performance that was more pronounced with increasing task difficulty and was accompanied by a more bilateral activity pattern for older vs. younger adults. Task difficulty affected motor skill retention and neural plasticity specifically in older adults. Older adults that practiced at the low or medium, but not the high, difficulty levels were able to maintain improvements in accuracy at retention and showed modulation of alpha TR-Power after practice. Together, these data indicate that both age and task difficulty affect motor learning, as well as the associated neural plasticity.

Aggression is a prominent interpersonal dysfunction of individuals with borderline personality disorder (BPD). In BPD aggression is predominantly reactive in nature, often triggered by frustration, provocation, or social threat and is associated with intense anger and an inability to regulate this strong, negative emotion. Building on previous research, we were interested in investigating negative emotionality in general and anger in particular in women with BPD before and after frustration induction. To achieve this, 60 medication-free women with BPD and 32 healthy women rated the intensity of negative emotions (angry, frustrated, upset, embarrassed, nervous) before and after performing a Titrated Mirror Tracing Task, which reliably induces frustration and distress. As expected, women with BPD reported significantly greater intensity of negative emotions before and after frustration than healthy women. Specifically, they showed a significantly stronger frustration-induced increase in anger, while other negative emotions remained unaffected by frustration induction. This anger increase was significantly related to aggressive behavior reported in the 2 weeks prior to the experiment, as well as to the level of frustration experienced in the experiment itself, but not with emotion dysregulation. The current data confirm the important role of frustration-induced anger independent of emotion dysregulation in BPD, in particular with regard to aggression, a prominent interpersonal dysfunction of this disorder. These findings underline the importance of interventions with particular focus on anger.

Fig. 1: "Xiao Ming (little Ming) and xiao meng (little sprout/cutie)", satirical take on a popular Chinese textbook character. Shared online Introduction: Cuteness, Online Vernaculars, and Digital FolkloreThis short essay presents some preliminary materials for a discussion of the social circulation of contemporary Chinese vernacular terms among digital media users. In particular, I present the word meng (萌, literally "sprout", recently adopted as a slang term for "cute") as a case in point for a contextual analysis of elements of digital folklore in their transcultural flows, local appropriations, and social practices of signification. One among many other neologisms that enter Mandarin Chinese from seemingly nowhere and gain a widespread popularity in everyday online and offline linguistic practices, meng belongs to a specific genealogy of Japanese animation fansubbing communities, and owes its rapid popularisation to its adaptation to local contexts in different syntactic forms. The resulting inclusion of meng in the changing repertoire of wangluo liuxing ciyu ("words popular on the Internet")—the online vernacular common among Chinese Internet users which is often the target of semantic or structural analyses—is in fact just the last step of processes of networked production and social signification happening across digital media and online platforms.As an anthropologist of media use, I aim to advance the thesis that, in the context of widespread access to digital media, vernacular terms popularised across online platforms and making their way into everyday linguistic interactions are not necessarily the epiphenomena of subcultural formations, nor can they be simply seen as imported aesthetics, or understood through semantic analyses. Rather, “words popular on the Internet” must be understood as part of a local digital folklore, the open repertoire of vernacular content resulting from the daily interaction of users and digital technologies (Lialina & Espenschied 9) in a complex and situated media ecology (Fuller). I argue that the difference between these two approaches is the same passing between a classical structural understanding of signification proposed by Lévi-Strauss and the counter-Copernican revolution proposed by Latour’s quasi-objects proliferating in collectives of actors. Are incredibly pervasive terms like meng actually devoid of meaning, floating signifiers enabling the very possibility of signification? Or are they rather more useful when understood as both signifiers and signifieds, quasi-objects tracing networks and leading to collectives of other hybrids and practices?The materials and observations presented in this essay are part of the data collected for my PhD research on Chinese digital folklore, a study grounded on both ethnographic and archaeological methods. The ethnographic part of my project consists of in-depth interviews, small talk and participant observation of users on several Chinese online platforms such as AcFun, Baidu Tieba, Douban, Sina Weibo and WeChat (Hine). The archaeological part, on the other hand, focuses on the sampling of user-generated content from individual feeds and histories of these online platforms, an approach closer to the user-focused Internet archaeology of Nicholson than to the media archaeology of Parikka. My choice of discussing the term meng as an example is motivated by its pervasiveness in everyday interactions in China, and is supported by my informants identifying it as one of the most popular vernacular terms originating in online interaction. Moreover, as a rather new term jostling its way through the crowded semantic spectrum of cuteness, meng is a good example of the minor aesthetic concepts identified by Ngai as pivotal for judgments of taste in contemporary consumer societies (812). If, as in the words of one of my informants, meng "just means 'cute'," why did it end up on Coca-Cola bottle labels which were then featured in humorous self-portraits with perplexed cats? Fig. 2: "Meng zhu" (Cute leader, play on word on homophone “alliance leader”) special edition Coca-Cola bottle with cat, uploaded on Douban image gallery. Screenshot by the author Cuteness after JapanContemporary Japan is often portrayed as the land of cuteness. Academic explanations of the Japanese fascination with the cute, neotenic and miniaturised abound, tackling the topic from the origins of cute aesthetics in Japanese folkloric characters (Occhi) and their reappearance in commercial phenomena such as Pokémon (Allison), to the role of cuteness as gender performance and normativity (Burdelski & Mitsuhashi) and the "spectacle of kawaii" (Yano 681) as a trans-national strategy of cultural soft power (683). Although the export and localisation of Japanese cultural products across and beyond Asia has been widely documented (Iwabuchi), the discussion has often remained at the level of specific products (comics, TV series, games). Less frequently explored are the repertoires of recontextualised samples, snippets and terms that local audiences piece together after the localisation and consumption of these transnational cultural products. In light of this, is it the case that "the very aesthetic and sensibility that seems to dwell in the playful, the girlish, the infantilized, and the inevitably sexualized" are inevitably adopted after the "widespread distribution and consumption of Japanese cute goods and aesthetics to other parts of the industrial world" (Yano 683)? Or is it rather the case that language precedes aesthetics, and that terms end up reconfigured according to the local discursive contexts in ongoing dialogic and situated negotiations? In other words, what happens when the Japanese word moe (萌え), a slang term "originally referring to the fictional desire for characters of comics, anime, and games or for pop idols” (Azuma 48) is read in its Mandarin Chinese pronunciation meng by amateur translators of anime and manga, picked up by audiences of video streaming websites, and popularised on discussion boards and other online platforms? On a broader level, this is a question of how the vocabularies of specialised fan cultures mutate when they move across language barriers on the vectors of digital media and amateur translations. While in Japanese otaku culture moe indicates a very specific, physically arousing form of aesthetic appreciation that is proper to a devote fan (Azuma 57), the appropriation of the (originally Chinese) logograph by the audiences of dongman (animation and comics) products in Mainland China results in the general propagation of meng as a way of saying 'cute' slightly more fashionable and hip than the regular Mandarin word ke'ai. Does this impact on the semantics or the aesthetics of cuteness in China? These questions have not been ignored by researchers; Chinese academics in particular, who have a first-hand experience of the unpredictable moods of vernacular terms circulating from digital media user cultures to everyday life interactions, appear concerned with finding linguistic explanations or establishing predictors for these rogue terms that seem to ignore lexical rules and traditional etymologies. Liu, for example, tries to explain the popularity of this particular term through Dawkins' neo-Darwinian theorisation of memes as units of cultural transmission, identifying in meng the evolutionary advantages of shortness and memorisability. As simplistic treatments of language, this sort of explanations does not account for the persistence of various other ways of describing general and specific kinds of cuteness in Mandarin Chinese, such as ke'ai, dia or sajiao, as described by Zhang & Kramarae (767). On the other hand, most of the Chinese language research about meng at least acknowledges how the word appears under the sign of a specific media ecology: Japanese comics and animation (dongman) translated and shared online by fan communities, Japanese videogames and movies widely consumed by Chinese young audiences, and the popularisation of Internet access and media literacy across China. It is in this context that this and other neologisms "continuously end up in the latest years' charts of most popular words" (Bai 28, translation by the author), as vernacular Mandarin integrates words from digital media user cultures and online platforms. Similar comparative analyses also recognise that "words move faster than culture" (Huang 15, translation by the author), and that it is now young Chinese digital media users who negotiate their understanding of meng, regardless of the implications of the Japanese moe culture and its aesthetic canons (16). According to Huang, this process indicates on the one hand the openness and curiosity of Chinese youth for Japanese culture, and on the other "the 'borrowist' tendency of the language of Internet culture" (18). It is precisely the speed and the carefree ‘borrowist’ attitude with which these terms are adopted, negotiated and transformed across online platforms which makes it questionable to inscribe them in the classic relationship of generational resistance such as the one that Moore proposes in his treatment of ku, the Chinese word for 'cool' described as the "verbal icon of a youth rebellion that promises to transform some of the older generation's most enduring cultural values" (357). As argued in the following section, meng is definitely not the evolutionary winner in a neo-Darwinian lexical competition between Chinese words, nor occupies a clear role in the semantics of cuteness, nor is it simply deployed as an iconic and rebellious signifier against the cultural values of a previous generation. Rather, after reaching Chinese digital media audiences along the "global wink of pink globalization" (Yano 684) of Japanese animation, comics, movies and videogames, this specific subcultural term diffracts along the vectors of the local media ecology. Specialised communities of translators, larger audiences of Japanese animation streaming websites, larger populations of digital media users and ultimately the public at large all negotiate meng’s meaning and usage in their everyday interactions, while the term quickly becomes just another "word popular on the Internet” listed in end-of-the-year charts, ready to be appropriated by marketing as a local wink to Chinese youth culture. Fig. 3: Baidu image search for 萌 (meng), as of 28 February 2014: the term ‘cute’ elicits neotenic puppies, babies, young girls, teen models, and eroticised Japanese comic characters. Screenshot by the author Everything Meng: Localising and Appropriating CutenessIn the few years since it entered the Chinese vernacular, first as a specialised term adopted by dongman fans and then as a general exclamation for "cute!", meng has been repurposed and adapted to local usages in many different ways, starting from its syntactic function: while in Japanese moe is usually a verb (the action of arousing feelings of passion in the cultivated fan), meng is more frequently used in Chinese as an adjective (cute) and has been quickly compounded in new expressions such as maimeng (literally "to sell cuteness", to act cute), mengwu (cute thing), mengdian (cute selling point), widening the possibilities for its actual usage beyond the specific aesthetic appreciation of female pre-teen anime characters that the word originally refers to. This generalisation of a culturally specific term to the general domain of aesthetic judgments follows local linguistic patterns: for example maimeng (to act cute) is clearly modelled on pre-existing expressions like zhuang ke'ai (acting cute) or sajiao (acting like a spoiled child) which, as Zhang & Kramarae (762) show, are common Mandarin Chinese terms to describe infantilised gender performativity. This connection between being meng and setting up a performance is confirmed by the commentative practices and negotiations around the cuteness of things: as one of my informants quipped regarding a recently popular Internet celebrity: "Some people think that he is meng. But I don't think he's meng, I think he's just posing." Hence, while Japanese moe characters belong to a specific aesthetic canon in the realm of 2D animation, the cuteness that meng indicates in Chinese refers to a much broader scope of content and interactions, in which the semantic distinctions from other descriptors of cuteness are quite blurred, and negotiated in individual use. As another informant put it, commenting on the new WeChat avatar of one of her contacts: "so meng! This is not just ke'ai, this is more ke'ai than ke'ai, it's meng!" Other informants explained meng variably as a more or less performed and faked cuteness, as regular non-specified cuteness, as a higher degree or as a different form of it, evidencing how the term is deployed in both online and offline everyday life interactions according to imitation, personal invention, context and situation, dialogic negotiations, shared literacies, and involvements in specific communities. Moreover, besides using it without the sexual overtones of its Japanese counterpart, my research participants were generally not aware of the process of cross-linguistic borrowing and specialised aesthetic meaning of meng—for most of them, it just meant 'cute', although it did so in very personal ways. These observations do not exclude, however, that meng maintains its linkages to Japanese cultural products and otaku fandom: on the same online platforms where meng was originally borrowed from the lines of fansubbed Japanese anime series, its definition continues to be discussed and compared to its original meaning. The extremely detailed entries on Mengniang Baike (MoeGirl Wiki, http://zh.moegirl.org) testify a devoted effort in collecting and rationalising the Japanese moe aesthetics for an audience of specialised Chinese zhainan (literally 'shut-in guy", the Chinese word for otaku), while Weimeng (Micro-Moe, http://www.weimoe.com) provides a microblogging platform specifically dedicated to sharing dongman content and discuss all things meng. The recent popularity of the word is not lost on the users of these more specialised online platforms, who often voice their discontent with the casual and naive appropriations of uncultured outsiders. A simple search query of the discussion board archives of AcFun, a popular zhainan culture video streaming website, reveals the taste politics at play around these vernacular terms. Here are some complaints, voiced directly by anonymous users of the board, regarding meng: "Now I really detest this meng word, day and night everywhere is meng meng meng and maimeng but do you really understand what do these words mean?" "Don't tell me, alternative people think that watching anime is fashionable; they watch it, learn some new word and use it everywhere. Last time I was playing videogames I heard a girl saying Girl: 'Do you know what does meng mean?' Guy: 'I don't know' Girl: 'You don't even know this! Meng means beautiful, lovely' Fuck your mom's cunt hearing this I wanted to punch through the screen" "Anyway these 'popular words' are all leftovers from our playing around, then a bunch of boons start using them and feel pleased of 'having caught up with fashion', hehe" Fig. 4: "Don't tell me, alternative people think that watching anime is fashionable…", anonymous post commenting on the use of meng on the AcFun message board. Screenshot by the authorConclusion: Do Signifiers Float in Media Ecologies? The choice of examining the networks traced by a slang term signifying cuteness was determined by the conviction that the "minor aesthetics" described by Ngai (812) play an important role in the social construction of taste and judgment in contemporary consumer societies. This is especially significant when discussing digital folklore as the content produced by the everyday interactions of users and digital media: cuteness and the negotiations around its deployment are in fact important features of the repertoires of user-generated content shared and consumed on online platforms. In the case of this essay, the strange collective included green sprouts, textbook illustrations, cats, Japanese anime characters, selfies, and Coke bottle label designs. Summing up the overview of the word meng presented above, and attempting a critical response to Ngai's linkage of the minor aesthetics of cuteness to national contexts which make them "ideologically meaningful" (819), I suggest the recuperation of Lévi-Strauss’ concept of floating signifier as developed in his analysis of Melanesians’ fuzzy notion of mana. This theoretical choice comes almost naturally when dealing with pervasive terms: as Holbraad explains, “part of the original attraction of mana-terms to anthropologists was their peculiarly double universality – their semantic breadth (‘mana is everywhere’, said the native) coupled with their geographical diffusion (‘mana-terms are everywhere’, replied the anthropologist)” (189). Meng seems to be everywhere in China as both a term (in everyday, online and offline interactions) and as cuteness (in popular culture and media), thus making it an apparently perfect candidate for the role of floating signifier. Lévi-Strauss deployed Mauss’ concept as a reinforcement of his structuralist conception of meaning against a surfeit of signifiers (Holbraad 196-197), "a symbol in its pure state, therefore liable to take on any symbolic content whatever [...] a zero symbolic value […] a sign marking the necessity of a supplementary symbolic content over and above that which the signified already contains" (Lévi-Strauss 63-64). Moore’s framing of the Chinese ku and the American cool as “basic slang terms” (360) follows the same structuralist logic: extremely pervasive terms lose in meaning and specificity what they gain in supplementary symbolic content (in his case, generational distinction). Yet, as shown through the examples presented in the essay, meng does in no case reach a zero symbolic value—rather, it is “signifier and signified (and more)” (Holbraad 197), meaning different kinds of cuteness and aesthetic judgement across more or less specialised usages, situated contexts, individual understandings and dialogic negotiations. This oversimplified rebuttal to Lévi-Strauss' concept is my attempt to counter several arguments that I believe to be grounded in the structuralist theorisation of series of signifiers and signified: the linkage between aesthetic categories and national contexts (Ngai); the correlation between language and cultural practices or aesthetics (Yano); the semantic analyses of slang terms (Moore, Bai); the memetic explanations of digital folklore (Liu). As briefly illustrated, meng’s popularity does not necessarily convey a specific Japanese aesthetic culture, nor does its adaptation mirror a peculiarly Chinese one; the term does not necessarily define a different form of cuteness, nor does it confront generational values. It could be more useful to conceptualise meng, and other elements of digital folklore, as what Latour calls quasi-objects, strange hybrids existing in different versions and variations across different domains. Understood in this way, meng traces a network leading to: the specialised knowledge of fansubbing communities, the large audiences of video streaming websites, the echo chambers of social networking platforms and participatory media, and the ebbs and flows of popular culture consumption. To conclude, I agree with Yano that "it remains useful for Asia analysts to observe these ebbs and flows as they intersect with political frameworks, economic trends, and cultural values" (687-88). Meng, as scores of other Chinese slang terms that crowd the yearly charts of ‘words popular on the Internet’ might not be here to stay. But digital folklore is, as long as there will be users interacting and negotiating the minor aesthetics of their everyday life on online platforms. The general theoretical aim of this brief discussion of one vernacular term is evidencing how the very idea of a "Internet culture", when understood through the concepts of media ecology, online vernaculars and quasi-objects becomes hard to grasp through simple surveying, encyclopaedic compilations, statistical analyses or linguistic mapping. Even in a brief contextualisation of one simple slang term, what is revealed is in fact a lively bundle of practices: the cross-linguistic borrowing of a specialised aesthetic, its definition on crowdsourced wikis and anonymous discussion boards, the dialogic negotiations regarding its actual usage in situated contexts of everyday life, and the sectorial dynamics of distinction and taste. Yet, meng just means 'cute'.ReferencesAllison, Anne. “Portable Monsters and Commodity Cuteness: Pokémon as Japan’s New Global Power.” Postcolonial Studies 6.3 (2003): 381–95. Azuma, Hiroki. Otaku: Japan's Database Animals. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 2009. Bai, Lin. “Qianxi Wangluo Liuxingyu - Meng [A Brief Analysis of a Popular Internet Term - Meng].” Wuyi Xueyuan Xuebao 31.3 (2012): 28–30. Burdelski, Matthew, and Koji Mitsuhashi. “‘She Thinks You’re Kawaii’: Socializing Affect, Gender, and Relationships in a Japanese Preschool.” Language in Society 39.1 (2010): 65–93. 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Introduction to the Work of Marcel Mauss. London: Routlege & K. Paul, 1987. Lialina, Olia, and Dragan Espenschied. “Do You Believe in Users?” In Digital Folklore, eds. Olia Lialina and Dragan Espenschied. Stuttgart: Merz & Solitude, 2009. Liu, Yiting. “Cong Moyinlun Jiaodu Qianxi ‘Meng’ Ci de Liuxing [A Brief Analysis of the Word ‘Meng’ from a Memetic Point of View].” Yuyan Wenxue 7 (2013): 168. Moore, Robert L. “Generation Ku: Individualism and China’s Millennial Youth.” Ethnology 44.4 (2005): 357–76. Ngai, Sianne. “The Cuteness of the Avant-Garde.” Critical Inquiry 31.4 (2005): 811–847. Nicholson, Scott. “A Framework for Internet Archeology: Discovering Use Patterns in Digital Library and Web–Based Information Resources.” First Monday 10.2 (2005). Occhi, Debra J. “Consuming Kyara ‘Characters:’ Anthropomorphization and Marketing in Contemporary Japan.” Comparative Culture 15 (2010): 77–86. Parikka, Jussi. What Is Media Archaeology?. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2012. 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Despite the now-traditional tendency of noir scholarship to call attention to the retrospective and constructed nature of this genre— James Naremore argues that film noir is best regarded as a “mythology”— one feature that has rarely come under question is its association with the city (2). Despite the existence of numerous rural noirs, the depiction of urban space is associated with this genre more consistently than any other element. Even in critical accounts that attempt to deconstruct the solidity of the noir genre, the city is left as an implicit inclusion, and the country, an implict exclusion. Naremore, for example, does not include the urban environment in a list of the central tenets of film noir that he calls into question: “nothing links together all the things described as noir—not the theme of crime, not a cinematographic technique, not even a resistance to Aristotelian narratives or happy endings” (10). Elizabeth Cowie identifies film noir a “fantasy,” whose “tenuous critical status” has been compensated for “by a tenacity of critical use” (121). As part of Cowie’s project, to revise the assumption that noirs are almost exclusively male-centered, she cites character types, visual style, and narrative tendencies, but never urban spaces, as familiar elements of noir that ought to be reconsidered. If the city is rarely tackled as an unnecessary or part-time element of film noir in discursive studies, it is often the first trait identified by critics in the kind of formative, characteristic-compiling studies that Cowie and Naremore work against.Andrew Dickos opens Street with No Name: A History of the Classic American Film Noir with a list of noir’s key attributes. The first item is “an urban setting or at least an urban influence” (6). Nicholas Christopher maintains that “the city is the seedbed of film noir. […] However one tries to define or explain noir, the common denominator must always be the city. The two are inseparable” (37). Though the tendencies of noir scholars— both constructive and deconstructive— might lead readers to believe otherwise, rural locations figure prominently in a number of noir films. I will show that the noir genre is, indeed, flexible enough to encompass many films set predominantly or partly in rural locations. Steve Neale, who encourages scholars to work with genre terms familiar to original audiences, would point out that the rural noir is an academic discovery not an industry term, or one with much popular currency (166). Still, this does not lessen the critical usefulness of this subgenre, or its implications for noir scholarship.While structuralist and post-structuralist modes of criticism dominated film genre criticism in the 1970s and 80s, as Thomas Schatz has pointed out, these approaches often sacrifice close attention to film texts, for more abstract, high-stakes observations: “while there is certainly a degree to which virtually every mass-mediated cultural artifact can be examined from [a mythical or ideological] perspective, there appears to be a point at which we tend to lose sight of the initial object of inquiry” (100). Though my reading of these films sidesteps attention to social and political concerns, this article performs the no-less-important task of clarifying the textual features of this sub-genre. To this end, I will survey the tendencies of the rural noir more generally, mentioning more than ten films that fit this subgenre, before narrowing my analysis to a reading of Moonrise (Frank Borzage, 1948), Thieves’ Highway (Jules Dassin, 1949), They Live By Night (Nicholas Ray, 1949) and On Dangerous Ground (Nicholas Ray, 1952). Robert Mitchum tries to escape his criminal life by settling in a small, mountain-side town in Out of the Past (Jacques Tourneur, 1947). A foggy marsh provides a dramatic setting for the Bonnie and Clyde-like demise of lovers on the run in Gun Crazy (Joseph Lewis, 1950). In The Asphalt Jungle (John Huston, 1950), Sterling Hayden longs to return home after he is forced to abandon his childhood horse farm for a life of organised crime in the city. Rob Ryan plays a cop unable to control his violent impulses in On Dangerous Ground (Nicholas Ray, 1952). He is re-assigned from New York City to a rural community up-state in hopes that a less chaotic environment will have a curative effect. The apple orchards of Thieves’ Highway are no refuge from networks of criminal corruption. In They Live By Night, a pair of young lovers, try to leave their criminal lives behind, hiding out in farmhouses, cabins, and other pastoral locations in the American South. Finally, the location of prisons explains a number of sequences set in spare, road-side locations such as those in The Killer is Loose (Budd Boetticher, 1956), The Hitch-Hiker (Ida Lupino, 1953), and Raw Deal (Anthony Mann, 1948). What are some common tendencies of the rural noir? First, they usually feature both rural and urban settings, which allows the portrayal of one to be measured against the other. What we see of the city structures the definition of the country, and vice versa. Second, the lead character moves between these two locations by driving. For criminals, the car is more essential for survival in the country than in the city, so nearly all rural noirs are also road movies. Third, nature often figures as a redemptive force for urbanites steeped in lives of crime. Fourth, the curative quality of the country is usually tied to a love interest in this location: the “nurturing woman” as defined by Janey Place, who encourages the protagonist to forsake his criminal life (60). Fifth, the country is never fully crime-free. In The Killer is Loose, for example, an escaped convict’s first victim is a farmer, whom he clubs before stealing his truck. The convict (Wendell Corey), then, easily slips through a motorcade with the farmer’s identification. Here, the sprawling countryside provides an effective cover for the killer. This farmland is not an innocent locale, but the criminal’s safety-net. In films where a well-intentioned lead attempts to put his criminal life behind him by moving to a remote location, urban associates have little trouble tracking him down. While the country often appears, to protagonists like Jeff in Out of the Past or Bowie in They Live By Night, as an ideal place to escape from crime, as these films unfold, violence reaches the countryside. If these are similar points, what are some differences among rural noirs? First, there are many differences by degree among the common elements listed above. For instance, some rural noirs present their location with unabashed romanticism, while others critique the idealisation of these locations; some “nurturing women” are complicit with criminal activity, while others are entirely innocent. Second, while noir films are commonly known for treating similar urban locations, Los Angeles in particular, these films feature a wide variety of locations: Out of the Past and Thieves’ Highway take place in California, the most common setting for rural noirs, but On Dangerous Ground is set in northern New England, They Live by Night takes place in the Depression-era South, Moonrise in Southern swampland, and the most dynamic scene of The Asphalt Jungle is in rural Kentucky. Third, these films also vary considerably in the balance of settings. If the three typical locations of the rural noir are the country, the city, and the road, the distribution of these three locations varies widely across these films. The location of The Asphalt Jungle matches the title until its dramatic conclusion. The Hitch-hiker, arguably a rural noir, is set in travelling cars, with just brief stops in the barren landscape outside. Two of the films I analyse, They Live By Night and Moonrise are set entirely in the country; a remarkable exception to the majority of films in this subgenre. There are only two other critical essays on the rural noir. In “Shadows in the Hinterland: Rural Noir,” Jonathan F. Bell contextualises the rural noir in terms of post-war transformations of the American landscape. He argues that these films express a forlorn faith in the agrarian myth while the U.S. was becoming increasingly developed and suburbanised. That is to say, the rural noir simultaneously reflects anxiety over the loss of rural land, but also the stubborn belief that the countryside will always exist, if the urbanite needs it as a refuge. Garry Morris suggests the following equation as the shortest way to state the thematic interest of this genre: “Noir = industrialisation + (thwarted) spirituality.” He attributes much of the malaise of noir protagonists to the inhospitable urban environment, “far from [society’s] pastoral and romantic and spiritual origins.” Where Bell focuses on nine films— Detour (1945), The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946), Out of the Past (1947), Key Largo (1948), Gun Crazy (1949), On Dangerous Ground (1952), The Hitch-Hiker (1953), Split Second (1953), and Killer’s Kiss (1955)— Morris’s much shorter article includes just The Asphalt Jungle (1950) and Gun Crazy. Of the four films I discuss, only On Dangerous Ground has previously been treated as part of this subgenre, though it has never been discussed alongside Nicholas Ray’s other rural noir. To further the development of the project that these authors have started— the formation of a rural noir corpus— I propose the inclusion of three additional films in this subgenre: Moonrise (1948), They Live by Night (1949), and Thieves’ Highway (1949). With both On Dangerous Ground and They Live by Night to his credit, Nicholas Ray has the distinction of being the most prolific director of rural noirs. In They Live by Night, two young lovers, Bowie (Farley Granger) and Keechie (Cathy O’Donnell), attempt to escape from their established criminal lives. Twenty-three year old Bowie has just been released from juvenile prison and finds rural Texas refreshing: “Out here, the air smells different,” he says. He meets Keechie through her father, a small time criminal organiser who would be happy to keep her secluded for life. When one of Bowie’s accomplices, Chicamaw (Howard DaSilva), shoots a policeman after a robbing a bank with Bowie, the young couple is forced to run. Foster Hirsch calls They Live by Night “a genre rarity, a sentimental noir” (34). The naïve blissfulness of their affection is associated with the primitive settings they navigate. Though Bowie and Keechie are the most sympathetic protagonists of any rural noir, this is no safeguard against an inevitable, characteristically noir demise. Janey Place writes, “the young lovers are doomed, but the possibility of their love transcends and redeems them both, and its failure criticises the urbanised world that will not let them live” (63). As indicated here, the country offers the young lovers refuge for some time, and their bond is depicted as wonderfully strong, but it is doomed by the stronger force of the law.Raymond Williams discusses how different characteristics are associated with urban and rural spaces:On the country has gathered the idea of a natural way of life: of peace, innocence, and simple virtue. On the city has gathered the idea of an achieved center: of learning, communication, light. Powerful hostile associations have also developed: on the city as a place of noise, worldliness and ambition; on the country as a place of backwardness, ignorance, limitation. (1) They Live By Night breaks down these dichotomies, showing the persistence of crime rooted in rural areas.Bowie desires to “get squared around” and live a more natural life with Keechie. Williams’ country adjectives— “peace, innocence, and simple virtue”— describe the nature of this relationship perfectly. Yet, criminal activity, usually associated with the city, has an overwhelmingly strong presence in this region and their lives. Bowie, following the doomed logic of many a crime film character, plans to launch a new, more honest life with cash raised in a heist. Keechie recognises the contradictions in this plan: “Fine way to get squared around, teaming with them. Stealing money and robbing banks. You’ll get in so deep trying to get squared, they’ll have enough to keep you in for two life times.” For Bowie, crime and the pursuit of love are inseparably bound, refuting the illusion of the pure and innocent countryside personified by characters like Mary Malden in On Dangerous Ground and Ann Miller in Out of the Past.In Ray’s other rural noir, On Dangerous Ground, a lonely, angry, and otherwise burned out cop, Wilson (Rob Ryan), finds both love and peace in his time away from the city. While on his up-state assignment, Wilson meets Mary Walden (Ida Lupino), a blind woman who lives a secluded life miles away from this already desolate, rural community. Mary has a calming influence on Wilson, and fits well within Janey Place’s notion of the archetypal nurturing woman in film noir: “The redemptive woman often represents or is part of a primal connection with nature and/or with the past, which are safe, static states rather than active, exciting ones, but she can sometimes offer the only transcendence possible in film noir” (63).If, as Colin McArthur observes, Ray’s characters frequently seek redemption in rural locales— “[protagonists] may reject progress and modernity; they may choose to go or are sent into primitive areas. […] The journeys which bring them closer to nature may also offer them hope of salvation” (124) — the conclusions of On Dangerous Ground versus They Live By Night offer two markedly different resolutions to this narrative. Where Bowie and Keechie’s life on the lam cannot be sustained, On Dangerous Ground, against the wishes of its director, portrays a much more romanticised version of pastoral life. According to Andrew Dickos, “Ray wanted to end the film on the ambivalent image of Jim Wilson returning to the bleak city,” after he had restored order up-state (132). The actual ending is more sentimental. Jim rushes back north to be with Mary. They passionately kiss in close-up, cueing an exuberant orchestral score as The End appears over a slow tracking shot of the majestic, snow covered landscape. In this way, On Dangerous Ground overturns the usual temporal associations of rural versus urban spaces. As Raymond Williams identifies, “The common image of the country is now an image of the past, and the common image of the city an image of the future” (297). For Wilson, by contrast, city life was no longer sustainable and rurality offers his best means for a future. Leo Marx noted in a variety of American pop culture, from Mark Twain to TV westerns and magazine advertising, a “yearning for a simpler, more harmonious style of life, and existence ‘closer to nature,’ that is the psychic root of all pastoralism— genuine and spurious” (Marx 6). Where most rural noirs expose the agrarian myth as a fantasy and a sham, On Dangerous Ground, exceptionally, perpetuates it as actual and effectual. Here, a bad cop is made good with a few days spent in a sparsely populated area and with a woman shaped by her rural upbringing.As opposed to On Dangerous Ground, where the protagonist’s movement from city to country matches his split identity as a formerly corrupt man wishing to be pure, Frank Borzage’s B-film Moonrise (1948) is located entirely in rural or small-town locations. Set in the fictional Southern town of Woodville, which spans swamps, lushly wooded streets and aging Antebellum mansions, the lead character finds good and bad within the same rural location and himself. Dan (Dane Clark) struggles to escape his legacy as the son of a murderer. This conflict is irreparably heightened when Dan kills a man (who had repeatedly teased and bullied him) in self-defence. The instability of Dan’s moral compass is expressed in the way he treats innocent elements of the natural world: flies, dogs, and, recalling Out of the Past, a local deaf boy. He is alternately cruel and kind. Dan is finally redeemed after seeking the advice of a black hermit, Mose (Rex Ingram), who lives in a ramshackle cabin by the swamp. He counsels Dan with the advice that men turn evil from “being lonesome,” not for having “bad blood.” When Dan, eventually, decides to confess to his crime, the sheriff finds him tenderly holding a search hound against a bucolic, rural backdrop. His complete comfortability with the landscape and its creatures finally allows Dan to reconcile the film’s opening opposition. He is no longer torturously in between good and evil, but openly recognises his wrongs and commits to do good in the future. If I had to select just a single shot to illustrate that noirs are set in rural locations more often than most scholarship would have us believe, it would be the opening sequence of Moonrise. From the first shot, this film associates rural locations with criminal elements. The credit sequence juxtaposes pooling water with an ominous brass score. In this disorienting opening, the camera travels from an image of water, to a group of men framed from the knees down. The camera dollies out and pans left, showing that these men, trudging solemnly, are another’s legal executioners. The frame tilts upward and we see a man hung in silhouette. This dense shot is followed by an image of a baby in a crib, also shadowed, the water again, and finally the execution scene. If this sequence is a thematic montage, it can also be discussed, more simply, as a series of establishing shots: a series of images that, seemingly, could not be more opposed— a baby, a universal symbol of innocence, set against the ominous execution, cruel experience— are paired together by virtue of their common location. The montage continues, showing that the baby is the son of the condemned man. As Dan struggles with the legacy of his father throughout the film, this opening shot continues to inform our reading of this character, split between the potential for good or evil.What a baby is to Moonrise, or, to cite a more familiar reference, what the insurance business is to many a James M. Cain roman noir, produce distribution is to Jules Dassin’s Thieves’ Highway (1949). The apple, often a part of wholesome American myths, is at the centre of this story about corruption. Here, a distribution network that brings Americans this hearty, simple product is connected with criminal activity and violent abuses of power more commonly portrayed in connection with cinematic staples of organised crime such as bootlegging or robbery. This film portrays bad apples in the apple business, showing that no profit driven enterprise— no matter how traditional or rural— is beyond the reach of corruption.Fitting the nature of this subject, numerous scenes in the Dassin film take place in the daylight (in addition to darkness), and in the countryside (in addition to the city) as we move between wine and apple country to the market districts of San Francisco. But if the subject and setting of Thieves’ Highway are unusual for a noir, the behaviour of its characters is not. Spare, bright country landscapes form the backdrop for prototypical noir behaviour: predatory competition for money and power.As one would expect of a film noir, the subject of apple distribution is portrayed with dynamic violence. In the most exciting scene of the film, a truck careens off the road after a long pursuit from rival sellers. Apples scatter across a hillside as the truck bursts into flames. This scene is held in a long-shot, as unscrupulous thugs gather the produce for sale while the unfortunate driver burns to death. Here, the reputedly innocent American apple is subject to cold-blooded, profit-maximizing calculations as much as the more typical topics of noir such as blackmail, fraud, or murder. Passages on desolate roads and at apple orchards qualify Thieves’ Highway as a rural noir; the dark, cynical manner in which capitalist enterprise is treated is resonant with nearly all film noirs. Thieves’ Highway follows a common narrative pattern amongst rural noirs to gradually reveal rural spaces as connected to criminality in urban locations. Typically, this disillusioning fact is narrated from the perspective of a lead character who first has a greater sense of safety in rural settings but learns, over the course of the story, to be more wary in all locations. In Thieves’, Nick’s hope that apple-delivery might earn an honest dollar (he is the only driver to treat the orchard owners fairly) gradually gives way to an awareness of the inevitable corruption that has taken over this enterprise at all levels of production, from farmer, to trucker, to wholesaler, and thus, at all locations, the country, the road, and the city.Between this essay, and the previous work of Morris and Bell on the subject, we are developing a more complete survey of the rural noir. Where Bell’s and Morris’s essays focus more resolutely on rural noirs that relied on the contrast of the city versus the country— which, significantly, was the first tendency of this subgenre that I observed— Moonrise and They Live By Night demonstrate that this genre can work entirely apart from the city. From start to finish, these films take place in small towns and rural locations. As opposed to Out of the Past, On Dangerous Ground, or The Asphalt Jungle, characters are never pulled back to, nor flee from, an urban life of crime. Instead, vices that are commonly associated with the city have a free-standing life in the rural locations that are often thought of as a refuge from these harsh elements. If both Bell and Morris study the way that rural noirs draw differences between the city and country, two of the three films I add to the subgenre constitute more complete rural noirs, films that work wholly outside urban locations, not just in contrast with it. Bell, like me, notes considerable variety in rural noirs locations, “desert landscapes, farms, mountains, and forests all qualify as settings for consideration,” but he also notes that “Diverse as these landscapes are, this set of films uses them in surprisingly like-minded fashion to achieve a counterpoint to the ubiquitous noir city” (219). In Bell’s analysis, all nine films he studies, feature significant urban segments. He is, in fact, so inclusive as to discuss Stanley Kubrick’s Killer’s Kiss as a rural noir even though it does not contain a single frame shot or set outside of New York City. Rurality is evoked only as a possibility, as alienated urbanite Davy (Jamie Smith) receives letters from his horse-farm-running relatives. Reading these letters offers Davy brief moments of respite from drudgerous city spaces such as the subway and his cramped apartment. In its emphasis on the centrality of rural locations, my project is more similar to David Bell’s work on the rural in horror films than to Jonathan F. Bell’s work on the rural noir. David Bell analyses the way that contemporary horror films work against a “long tradition” of the “idyllic rural” in many Western texts (95). As opposed to works “from Henry David Thoreau and Walt Whitman to contemporary television shows like Northern Exposure and films such as A River Runs Through It or Grand Canyon” in which the rural is positioned as “a restorative to urban anomie,” David Bell analyses films such as Deliverance and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre that depict “a series of anti-idyllic visions of the rural” (95). Moonrise and They Live By Night, like these horror films, portray the crime and the country as coexistent spheres at the same time that the majority of other popular culture, including noirs like Killer’s Kiss or On Dangerous Ground, portray them as mutually exclusive.To use a mode of generic analysis developed by Rick Altman, the rural noir, while preserving the dominant syntax of other noirs, presents a remarkably different semantic element (31). Consider the following description of the genre, from the introduction to Film Noir: An Encyclopedic Reference Guide: “The darkness that fills the mirror of the past, which lurks in a dark corner or obscures a dark passage out of the oppressively dark city, is not merely the key adjective of so many film noir titles but the obvious metaphor for the condition of the protagonist’s mind” (Silver and Ward, 4). In this instance, the narrative elements, or syntax, of film noir outlined by Silver and Ward do not require revision, but the urban location, a semantic element, does. Moonrise and They Live By Night demonstrate the sustainability of the aforementioned syntactic elements— the dark, psychological experience of the leads and their inescapable criminal past— apart from the familiar semantic element of the city.The rural noir must also cause us to reconsider— beyond rural representations or film noir— more generally pitched genre theories. Consider the importance of place to film genre, the majority of which are defined by a typical setting: for melodramas, it is the family home, for Westerns, the American west, and for musicals, the stage. Thomas Schatz separates American genres according to their setting, between genres which deal with “determinate” versus “indeterminate” space:There is a vital distinction between kinds of generic settings and conflicts. Certain genres […] have conflicts that, indigenous to the environment, reflect the physical and ideological struggle for its control. […] Other genres have conflicts that are not indigenous to the locale but are the results of the conflict between the values, attitudes, and actions of its principal characters and the ‘civilised’ setting they inhabit. (26) Schatz discusses noirs, along with detective films, as films which trade in “determinate” settings, limited to the space of the city. The rural noir slips between Schatz’s dichotomy, moving past the space of the city, but not into the civilised, tame settings of the genres of “indeterminate spaces.” It is only fitting that a genre whose very definition lies in its disruption of Hollywood norms— trading high- for low-key lighting, effectual male protagonists for helpless ones, and a confident, coherent worldview for a more paranoid, unstable one would, finally, be able to accommodate a variation— the rural noir— that would seem to upset one of its central tenets, an urban locale. Considering the long list of Hollywood standards that film noirs violated, according to two of its original explicators, Raymond Borde and Etienne Chaumeton— “a logical action, an evident distinction between good and evil, well-defined characters with clear motives, scenes that are more spectacular than brutal, a heroine who is exquisitely feminine and a hero who is honest”— it should, perhaps, not be so surprising that the genre is flexible enough to accommodate the existence of the rural noir after all (14). AcknowledgmentsIn addition to M/C Journal's anonymous readers, the author would like to thank Corey Creekmur, Mike Slowik, Barbara Steinson, and Andrew Gorman-Murray for their helpful suggestions. ReferencesAltman, Rick. “A Semantic/Syntactic Approach to Film Genre.” Film Genre Reader III. Ed. Barry Keith Grant. Austin: U of Texas P, 2003. 27-41.The Asphalt Jungle. Dir. John Huston. MGM/UA, 1950.Bell, David. “Anti-Idyll: Rural Horror.” Contested Countryside Cultures. Eds. Paul Cloke and Jo Little. London, Routledge, 1997. 94-108.Bell, Jonathan F. “Shadows in the Hinterland: Rural Noir.” Architecture and Film. Ed. Mark Lamster. New York: Princeton Architectural P, 2000. 217-230.Borde, Raymond and Etienne Chaumeton. A Panorama of American Film Noir. San Francisco: City Lights Books, 2002.Christopher, Nicholas. Somewhere in the Night: Film Noir and the American City. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1997.Cowie, Elizabeth. “Film Noir and Women.” Shades of Noir. Ed. Joan Copjec. New York: Verso, 1993. 121-166.Dickos, Andrew. Street with No Name: A History of the Classic American Film Noir. Lexington: UP of Kentucky, 2002.Hirsch, Foster. Detours and Lost Highways: A Map of Neo-Noir. New York: Limelight Editions, 1999.Marx, Leo. The Machine in the Garden. New York: Oxford UP, 1964.McArthur, Colin. Underworld U.S.A. London: BFI, 1972.Moonrise. Dir. Frank Borzage. Republic, 1948.Morris, Gary. “Noir Country: Alien Nation.” Bright Lights Film Journal Nov. 2006. 13. Jun. 2008 http://www.brightlightsfilm.com/54/noircountry.htm Muller, Eddie. Dark City: The Lost World of Film Noir. New York: St. Martin’s P, 1998.Naremore, James. More Than Night: Film Noir in its Contexts. Berkeley, C.A.: U of California P, 2008.Neale, Steve. “Questions of Genre.” Film Genre Reader III. Ed. Barry Keith Grant. Austin: U of Texas P, 2003. 160-184.On Dangerous Ground. Dir. Nicholas Ray. RKO, 1951.Out of the Past. Dir. Jacques Tourneur. RKO, 1947.Place, Janey. “Women in Film Noir.” Women in Film Noir. Ed. E. Ann Kaplan. London: BFI, 1999. 47-68.Schatz, Thomas. Hollywood Genres. New York: Random House, 1981.Schatz, Thomas. “The Structural Influence: New Directions in Film Genre Study.” Film Genre Reader III. Ed. Barry Keith Grant. Austin: U of Texas P, 2003. 92-102.Silver, Alain and Elizabeth Ward. Film Noir: An Encyclopedic Reference Guide. London: Bloomsbury, 1980.They Live by Night. Dir. Nicholas Ray. RKO, 1949.Thieves’ Highway. Dir. Jules Dassin. Fox, 1949.Williams, Raymond. The Country and the City. New York: Oxford UP, 1973.

IntroductionAlt, or alternative, accounts are secondary profiles people use in addition to a main account on a social media platform. They are a kind of automediation, a way of representing the self, that deliberately displays a different identity facet, and addresses a different audience, to what someone considers to be their main account. The term “alt” seems to have originated from videogame culture and been incorporated into understandings of social media accounts. A wiki page about alternate accounts on virtual world Second Life calls an alt “an account used by a resident for something other than their usual activity or to do things in privacy” (n.p.).Studying alts gives an insight into practices of managing and contextualising identities on networked platforms that are visible, persistent, editable, associable (Treem and Leonardi), spreadable, searchable (boyd), shareable (Papacharissi "Without"), and personalised (Schmidt). When these features of social media are understood as limitations that lead to context collapse (Marwick and boyd 122; Wesch 23), performative incoherence (Papacharissi Affective 99), and the risk of overexposure, people respond by developing alternative ways to use platforms.Plenty of scholarship on social media identities claims the self is fragmented, multifaceted, and contextual (Marwick 355; Schmidt 369). But the scholarship on multiple account use on single platforms is still emerging. Joanne Orlando writes for The Conversation that teens increasingly have more than one account on Instagram: “finstas” are “fake” or secondary accounts used to post especially candid photos to a smaller audience, thus they are deployed strategically to avoid the social pressure of looking polished and attractive. These accounts are referred to as “fake” because they are often pseudonymous, but the practice of compartmentalising audiences makes the promise that the photos posted are more authentic, spontaneous, and intimate. Kylie Cardell, Kate Douglas, and Emma Maguire (162) argue that while secondary accounts promise a less constructed version of life, speaking back to the dominant genre of aesthetically pleasing Instagram photos, all social media posts are constructed within the context of platform norms and imagined audiences (Litt & Hargittai 1). Still, secondary accounts are important for revealing these norms (Cardell, Douglas & Maguire 163). The secondary account is particularly prevalent on Twitter, a platform that often brings together multiple audiences into a public profile. In 2015, author Emily Reynolds claimed that Twitter alts were “an appealingly safe space compared to main Twitter where abuse, arguments and insincerity are rife” (n.p.).This paper draws on a survey of Twitter users with alts to argue that the strategic use of pseudonyms, profile photos without faces, locked accounts, and smaller audiences are ways to overcome some of the built-in limitations of social media automediality.Identity Is Multiple Chris Poole, founder of anonymous bulletin board 4chan, believes identity is a fluid concept, and designed his platform as a space in which people could connect over interests, not profiles. Positioning 4chan against real-name platforms, he argues:Your identity is prismatic […] we’re all multifaceted people. Google and Facebook would have you believe that you’re a mirror, that there is one reflection that you have, there is one idea of self. But in fact we’re more like diamonds. You can look at people from any angle and see something totally different, but they’re still the same. (n.p.)Claiming that identities are contextual performances stems from longstanding sociological and philosophical work on identity from theorists like Erving Goffman, who in the 1950s proposed a dramaturgical framework of the self to consider interactions as fundamentally social and performative rather than reflecting one core, essential inner self.Social media profiles allow people to use the language of the platform to represent themselves (Marwick 362), meaning identity performances are framed by platform architecture and features, formal and informal rules, and social ties (Schmidt 369). Social media profiles shape how people can engage in how they represent themselves, argue Shelly Farnham and Elizabeth Churchill, who claim that the assumption that a single, unified online identity is sufficient is a problematic trend in platform design. They argue that when facets of their lives are incompatible, people segment those lives into separate areas in order to maintain social norms and boundaries.Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson consider identity multiplicities to be crucial to automediality, which is built on an aesthetic of bricolage and pastiche rather than understanding subjectivity to be the essence of the self. In her work on automediality and online girlhood, Maguire ("Home"; "Self-Branding" 74) argues that an automedial approach attends to how mediation shapes the way selves can be represented online, claiming that the self is brought into being through these mediation practices.This article understands alt accounts as a type of social media practice that Nick Couldry (52) identifies as presencing: sustaining a public presence with media. I investigate presencing through studying alts as a way to manage separate publics, and the tension between public and private, on Twitter by surveying users who have a main and an alt account. Although research into multiple account use is nascent, Alice Marwick lists maintaining multiple accounts as a tactic to mitigate context collapse, alongside other strategies such as using nicknames, only sharing posts when they are appropriate for multiple audiences, and keeping more personal interactions to private messenger and text message.Ben Light argues that while connection is privileged on social media, disconnective practices like editing out, deleting, unfriending, untagging, rejecting follower requests, and in this case, creating alt accounts, are crucial. Disconnecting from some aspects of the social media experience allows people to stay connected on a particular platform, by negotiating the dynamics that do not appeal to them. While the disconnective practice of presencing through an alt has not been studied in detail, research I discuss in the next section focuses on multi-account use to argue that people who have more than one account on a single platform are aware of their audiences, and want control over which people see which posts.Multi-Platform and Multi-Account UseA conference presentation by Frederic Stutzman and Woodrow Hartzog calls maintaining multiple profiles on a single platform a strategy for boundary regulation, through which access is selectively granted to specific people. Stutzman and Hartzog interviewed 20 people with multiple profiles to determine four main motives for this kind of boundary regulation: privacy, identity management, utility (using one profile for a distinct purpose, like managing a restaurant page), and propriety (conforming to social norms around appropriate disclosure).Writing about multiple profiles on Reddit, Alex Leavitt argues that temporary or “throwaway” accounts give people the chance to disclose sensitive or off-topic information. For example, some women use throwaways when posting to a bra sizing subreddit, so men don’t exploit their main account for sexual purposes. Throwaways are a boundary management technique Leavitt considers beneficial for Redditors, and urges platform designers to consider implementing alternatives to single accounts.Jessa Lingel and Adam Golub also call for platforms to allow for multiple accounts, suggesting Facebook should let users link their profiles at a metadata level and be able to switch between them. They argue that this would be especially beneficial for those who take on specific personas, such as drag queens. In their study of drag queens with more than one Facebook profile, Lingel and Golub suggest that drag queens need to maintain boundaries between fans and friends, but creating a separate business page for their identity as a performer was inadequate for the kind of nuanced personal communication they engaged in with their fans. Drag queens considered this kind of communication relationship maintenance, not self-branding. This demonstrates that drag queens on Facebook are attentive to their audience, which is a common feature of users posting to social media: they have an idea, no matter how accurate, of who they are posting to.Eden Litt and Eszter Hargittai (1) call this perception the imagined audience, which serves as a guide for how to present the self and what to post about when an audience is unknown or not physically present. People in their study would either claim they were posting to no-one in particular, or that they had an audience in mind, whether this was personal ties (close friends, family, specific individuals like a best friend), communal ties (people interested in cleaning tips, local art community, people in Portland), professional ties (colleagues, clients, my radio show audience), and phantasmal ties (people with whom someone has an imaginary relationship, like famous people, brands, animals, and the dead).Based on these studies of boundary regulation, throwaway accounts, separate Facebook pages for fans and friends, and imagined audiences on social media, I designed a short survey that would prompt respondents to reflect on their own practices of negotiating platform limitations through their alt account.Asking Twitter about AltsTo research alts, I asked my own Twitter followers to tell me about theirs. I’ve been tweeting from @emvdn since 2010, and I have roughly 5,500 followers, mostly Melbourne academics, writers, and professionals. This method of asking my own Twitter followers questions builds on a study by Alice Marwick and danah boyd, in which they investigated context collapse on social media by tweeting questions like “who do you tweet to?” and monitoring the replies.I sent out a tweet with a link to the survey on 31 January 2018, and left it open for responses until I submitted this draft article on 18 February 2018:I’m writing about alt (alternative/secondary) accounts on social media. If you have an alt account, on Twitter or elsewhere, could you tell me about it, in survey form? (van der Nagel)The tweet was retweeted 161 times, spreading the survey to other accounts and contexts, and I received a total of 326 responses to the survey. For a full list of survey questions, see Appendix. I asked people to choose one alt (if they had more than one), and answer questions about it, including what prompted them to start the account, how they named it, who the audience is for their main and their alt, and how similar they perceived their main and alt to be. I also asked whether they would like to remain anonymous or be quoted under a pseudonym, which I have followed in this article.Of course, by posting the Twitter survey to my own followers, I am necessarily asking a specific group of people whose alt practices might not be indicative of broader trends. Just like any research done on Twitter, this research attracted a particular group: the results of this survey give a snapshot of the followers of a 29 year old female Melbourne academic, and the wider networks it was retweeted into.Although I asked anyone with more than one account on the same platform to fill out the survey, I’ll be focusing on pseudonymous alts here. Not everyone is pseudonymous on their alt: 61 per cent of respondents said they use a pseudonym, and half (51 per cent) said theirs was locked, or unavailable to the public. Some people have an alt in order to distinguish themselves from their professional account, some are connecting with those who share a specific interest, and others deliberately created an alt to harass and troll others on Twitter. But I regard pseudonymous alts as especially important to this article, as they evidence particular understandings of social media.Asking how people named their alt gave me an insight into how they framed it: as another facet of their identity: “I chose something close, but not too close to my main twitter handle,” or directed towards one particular subject they use the alt for: “I wanted a personal account which would be about all sorts, and one just for women’s sport” (Danielle Warby). Some changed the name of their account often, to further hide the account away: “I have renamed it several times, usually referencing in jokes with friends.”Many alt usernames express that the account is an alternative to a main one: people often said their alt username was their main username with a prefix or suffix like “alt,” “locked,” “NSFW” (Not Safe For Work, adult content), “priv” (short for “private”), or “2”, so if their main account was @emvdn, their alt account might be @emvdn_alt. Some used a username or nickname from another part of their life, used a pop culture reference, or wanted a completely random username, so they used a username generator or simply mashed the keyboard to get a string of random characters. Others used their real name for their alt account: “It’s my name. The point wasn’t to hide, it was to separate/segment conversiations [sic]” (knitmeapony).When asked who their audience was for their main and their alt, most people spoke of a smaller, more intimate audience of close friends or trusted accounts. On Twitter, people with locked accounts must approve followers before they can see their tweets, so it’s likely they are thinking of a specific group. One person said their alt was “locked behind a trust-wall (like a paywall, but you need to pay with a life-long friendship).” A few people said their audience for their alt was just one person: themselves. While their main account was for friends, or just “anyone who wants to follow me” (Brisbane blogger), their alt would simply be for them alone, to privately post and reflect.Asking how similar the main and alt account was led people reflecting on how they used multiple accounts to manage their multifaceted identity. “My alt account is just me unfiltered,” said one anonymous respondent, and another called their accounts “two sides of the same coin. Both me, just public and private versions.” One respondent said, “I would communicate differently in the boardroom from the bedroom. And I guess my alt is more like a private bedroom party, so it doesn’t matter if my bra comes off.”Many people signalled their awareness or experience of harassment when asked about benefits or drawbacks of alt accounts: people started theirs to avoid being harassed, bullied, piled-on, or judged. While an alt account gave people a private, safe channel in which to reach close friends and share intimate parts of their life, they also spoke about difficulties with maintaining more than one account, and potential awkwardness if someone requested to follow them that they did not want to connect with.It seemed that asking about benefits and drawbacks of alts led to articulations of labour—keeping accounts separate, and deciding on who to allow into this private space—but fears about social media more generally also surfaced. Although creating an alt meant people were consciously taking steps to compartmentalise their identity, this did not make them feel completely impervious to harassment, context collapse, and overexposure. “Some dingus will screencap and create drama,” was one potential drawback of having an alt: just because confessions and intimate or sexual photos were shared privately doesn’t mean they will stay private. People were keen to acknowledge that alts involved ongoing labour and platform negotiations.Multiple Identity Facets; Multiple AccountsWhen I released the survey, I was expecting most people to discuss their alt, locked, private account, which existed in contrast to their main, unlocked, professional one. Some people did just that, like Sarah:I worked in the media and needed a place to put my thoughts ABOUT my job/the media that I didn’t want my boss reading – not necessarily negative, just private thoughts I wanted to write somewhere.Wanting to maintain a public presence while still having an intimate space for personal self-disclosure was a common theme, which showed an awareness of imagined audiences, and a desire to disconnect from certain audiences, particularly colleagues and family members. Some didn’t necessarily want an intimate alt, but a targeted one: there were accounts for dog photos, weight loss journeys, fandoms, pregnancies, fetishes, a positive academic advice account using a Barbie doll called @barbie_phd, and one for cataloguing laundromats around London. It also seemed alts were contagious: people regularly admitted they began theirs because a friend had one. “Friends were using alts and it looked like a cool world;” “my friends seemed to be having a good time with it, and I wanted to try something they were interested in;” “wanted to be part of the ‘little twitter’ community.”Fluidities I wasn’t expecting also emerged. One respondent considered both of their accounts to be primary:it’s not clear for me which of my accounts is the “alt”. i had my non-professional one first, but i don’t consider either of them secondary, though the professional one is much more active.Along with those that changed the name of their alt often, L said they “initially kept private to only me to rant, record very private thoughts etc., have since extended it to 3 followers.” Platforms encourage continuous, active, engaged participation with ever-expanding networks of followers and friends. As José van Dijck (12) argues, platforms privilege connections, even as they stress human connectedness and downplay the automated connectivity from which they profit. Twitter’s homepage urges people to “follow your interests. Hear what people are talking about. Join the conversation. See what’s happening in the world right now,” and encourages people to keep adding more connections by featuring a recommendation panel that displays suggestions next to the main feed for “who to follow”, and links to import contacts from Gmail and other address books. In this instance, L’s three followers is an act of resistance, a disconnective practice that only links L with the very specific people they want to be an audience for their private thoughts, not to the extended networks of people L knows.ConclusionThis article has provided further evidence that on social media platforms, people don’t just have one account with their real name that faithfully expresses their one true identity. Even among those with alts, practices vary immensely, with some people using their alt as a quieter, more private space, and others creating a public identity and stream of posts catering to a niche audience.When users understand social media’s visibility, persistence, editability, association, spreadability, searchability, shareability, and personalisation as limitations, they seek ways to compartmentalise their identity facets so they can have access to the conversations, contexts, and audiences they want.There is scope for future research in this area on how alts are created, perceived, and managed, and how they relate to the broader social media landscape and its emphasis on real names, expanding networks, and increasingly sophisticated connections between people, platforms, and data. A larger study encompassing multiple platforms and accounts would reveal wider patterns of use and give more insight into this common, yet understudied, disconnective practice of selective presencing.Referencesboyd, danah. It’s Complicated: The Social Lives of Networked Teens. New Haven: Yale UP, 2014.Cardell, Kylie, Kate Douglas, and Emma Maguire. “‘Stories’: Social Media and Ephemeral Narratives as Memoir.” Mediating Memory: Tracing the Limits of Memoir. Eds. Bunty Avieson, Fiona Giles, and Sue Joseph. New York: Routledge, 2018. 157–172.Couldry, Nick. Media, Society, World: Social Theory and Digital Media Practice. Cambridge: Polity P, 2012.Farnham, Shelly D., and Elizabeth F. Churchill. “Faceted Identity, Faceted Lives: Social and Technical Issues with Being Yourself Online.” CSCW ’11: Proceedings of the ACM 2011 Conference on Computer Supported Cooperative Work, Hangzhou, China, 19–23 March 2011. 359–68.Goffman, Erving. The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. 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Appendix: List of Survey QuestionsDemographic informationAll the questions in this survey are optional, so feel free to skip any if you’re not comfortable sharing.How old are you?What is your gender identity?What is your main occupation?What is your city and country of residence?Which social media platforms do you use? Facebook, Twitter, Reddit, Instagram, Snapchat, LinkedIn, Tumblr, YouTube, Tencent QQ, WeChat, KakaoTalk, Renren, other?Which social media platforms do you have an alt account on? Facebook, Twitter, Reddit, Instagram, Snapchat, Google+, Pinterest, LinkedIn, Tumblr, YouTube, Tencent QQ, WeChat, KakaoTalk, Renren, other?Your alt accountThis section asks you to pick one of your alt accounts - for example, your locked account on Twitter separate from your main account, a throwaway on Reddit, or a close-friends-only Facebook account - and tell me about it.Which platform is your alt account on?Is your alt locked (unavailable to the public)? Yes/NoWhat prompted you to start your alt account?Do you use a pseudonym on your alt? Yes/NoDo you use a photo of yourself as the profile image? Yes/NoDo you share photos of yourself on your alt? Yes/NoCan you tell me about how you named your alt?Which account do you use more often? My main/my alt/I use them about the sameWhich has a bigger audience? My main/my alt/They’re about the sameWho is the audience for your main account? Who is the audience for your alt account? What topics would you post about on your alt that you’d never post about on your main? How similar do you think your main and alt accounts are? What are the benefits of having an alt?What are the drawbacks of having an alt? Thank you!If I quote you in my research project, what name/pseudonym would you like me to use? My name/pseudonym is___________ OR I would like to remain anonymous and be assigned a participant number