Journal articles on the topic 'Nature – Aspect symbolique'

AbstractThe reign of Peter the Great is regarded as one of the most significant and contentious epochs in Russian history. It has been customary to view the reforms of the period as either a progressive transformation of an antiquated society or the destructive suppression of traditional Russian culture. This dichotomy rests on an accepted perception of Peter the Great and his reign as rational and secular.This paper attempts to revise this dichotomy by focussing on the Masonic and occult influence prevalent at the Petrine Court. These two complimentary aspects of Petrine society and culture have been censured or overlooked by successive generations of historians, yet they exerted a considerable hold on some of the most powerful statesmen of the period, including the Tsar himself. The importance of studying Masonic and occult influence in Petrine Russia lies in the fact that it can help to overcome the starkly secular image of Peter the Great, without denying the progressive nature of his reforms.The first section of the article examines the powerful symbolic representations of the Tsar as a "Mason King" and architect of a new Russia. It reveals a concerted campaign to portray Peter the Great as a new King David, leading his people—new Israelites—to their promised land and a New Jerusalem, crystallised by the foundation of St. Petersburg. This is then followed by examining how Peter the Great's worldview—encompassing religious tolerance, a scientific curiosity open to esotericism and a passion for chivalrous societies—was wholly compatible with the ideals of Freemasonry as it developed at the beginning of the eighteenth-century.The second part of the paper focuses on the Masonic links and strong occult interests of Jacob Bruce (1669-1735), Feofan Prokopovich (1681-1736) and Robert Erskine (1677-1718)—three of the most prominent statesmen in Petrine Russia. Bruce came from a Scottish Jacobite family and played an active role in practically all fields of Russian state life, ranging from the military to the promotion of science and education. Prokopovich was the most eminent ecclesiastic figure in Petrine Russia and a loyal stalwart of Peter the Great's state reforms. Erskine, like Bruce, also descended from a powerful Jacobite family in Scotland. He enjoyed a close relationship with Peter the Great and was his Chief Physician and Head of the Russian Medical Chancellery, as well as being Director of the St. Petersburg Kunstkamera and Library.This triumvirate played an active role in transforming the Russian State, but do not represent the archetypal embodiments of purely rational and secular enlighteners. They all displayed a strong religiosity and a marked interest in esoteric matters and Bruce and Erskine, in particular, had strong ties to Jacobite Freemasonry. Peter the Great displayed similar interests and acted as their enthusiastic patron. Thus, it is hoped that this paper will reveal the significant extent to which Masonic ideals and a fascination with the occult were rife at the Petrine Court and helped to shape the transformations enacted during this pivotal period in Russian history. Le règne de Pierre le Grand est considéré comme étant l'une des époques la plus marquante et contestée de l'histoire russe. Les réformes de cette période ont souvent été envisagées en tant que transformation ascendante d'une société désuète ou comme l'abrogation pernicieuse de la culture russe traditionnelle. Cette dichotomie réside dans une idée convenue du rationnel et du séculier de Pierre le Grand et de son règne.Cette communication tente de réévaluer la dichotomie par l'étude de l'influence occulte et maçonnique qui prévalait à la cour de Pierre le Grand. Ces deux aspects complémentaires de la société et la culture pétrine ont été censurés ou mis à l'écart par des générations successives d'historiens, pourtant ceux-ci ont exercé une influence considérable sur certains des hommes d'état les plus puissants de l'époque, y compris le Tsar lui-même. L'examen de l'influence maçonnique et occulte de la Russie pétrine peut aider à surpasser l'image séculière forte de Pierre le Grand, sans remettre en cause la nature progressiste de ses réformes.La première partie de l'article envisage les représentations symboliques solides du Tsar en tant que "Roi Maçon" et architecte d'une nouvelle Russie. Celle-ci dévoile une campagne convergente pour décrire Pierre le Grand comme le nouveau Roi David, conduisant son peuple (les nouveaux Israélites) vers les terres promises et la Nouvelle Jérusalem, concrétisée par la fondation de St. Pétersbourg. Nous examinerons ensuite comment la vision du monde de Pierre le grand (sa tolérance religieuse, sa curiosité scientifique tournée vers l'ésotérisme et sa passion pour les sociétés chevaleresques) était entièrement compatible avec les idéaux de la Franc-Maçonnerie, telle qu'elle se développait au XVIIIIème siècle.Dans la deuxième partie de l'article, nous nous concentrerons sur les liens maçonniques et les forts intérêts occultes de Jacob Bruce (1669-1735), Feofan Prokopovich (1681-1736) et Robert Erskine (1677-1718)—trois des plus grands hommes d'état de la Russie pétrine. Bruce, issu d'une famille jacobite écossaise, jouait un rôle actif dans presque tous les ressorts de la vie d'état russe, de l'armée à la promotion des sciences et de l'éducation. Prokopovich était la figure ecclésiastique la plus éminente de la Russie pétrine et un fidèle partisan des réformes de l'Etat de Pierre le Grand. Erskine, comme Bruce, descendait d'une famille Jacobite puissante d'Ecosse; il appréciait être proche de Pierre le Grand. Il était son Médecin en Chef, Directeur de la Chancellerie Médicale Russe et Directeur de la Kunstkamera de St. Pétersbourg et de la bibliothèque.Ce triumvirat a joué un rôle actif dans la transformation de l'état Russe, toutefois, ils ne symbolisent pas des incarnations archétypes des lumières purement rationnelles et séculières. Ils affichaient tous un grand sentiment religieux et un intérêt marqué pour l'ésotérisme. Bruce et Erskine, en particulier, avaient de fortes attaches avec la Franc-Maçonnerie Jacobite. Pierre le Grand exhibait des intérêts similaires et était leur fervent bienfaiteur. Ainsi, nous espérons que notre article mettra en avant la prédominance nette des idéaux Maçonniques et d'une fascination pour l'occulte dans la Cour pétrine et permettra de façonner les transformations édictées durant cette période pivot de l'histoire russe.

A partir des résultats de recherches menées au Rio Grande do Norte portant sur la mémoire etla tradition orale, nous traitons des aspects ethographiques de la création narrative à propos del'émergence d'une nouvelle histoire locale. Nous choisissons d'utiliser une perspective théorique etmethodologique pluridisciplinaire inspirée par le structuralisme qui, d'un côté, traite des récits, desidentités et des representations symboliques et, d'un autre, se propose d'analyser les aspects liés àl'historiographie, à la mémoire sociale et à la construction d'une réflexion autour du sens de l'histoirelocale. Les images relatives à un passé commun apparaissent régulièrement et d'une façon homogène et setrouvent inscrites dans des récits appartenant à un corpus important qui est rapidemment classé commefolklore. L'analyse comparée entre des textes oraux et des registres narratifs plus discrets, révèle descatégories natives qui organisent le monde social et naturel et permettent de comprendre comment lesacteurs réélaborent leur histoire et leur identité.

Preservar a natureza na cidade : uma coprodução inscrita na longa duraçãoO estudo do parque da Caffarella à Roma permite compreender as maneiras pelas quais as interações entre atores contribuem, à longo prazo, para a preservação dos espaços naturais na cidade e em sua transformação em um patrimônio natural coletivo. Esse parque de 200 hectares constitui o prolongamento, em meio urbano, de um grande parque natural regional de 3.400 hectares. A genealogia das representações desse espaço e das lutas em que ele foi objeto demonstra que as razões da preservação desse espaço da natureza na cidade são múltiplas: as ameaças que pesam sobre o sítio evoluem com o tempo, da mesma forma que os argumentos em favor de sua preservação, bem como a natureza das mobilizações. As escalas geográficas e institucionais em jogo evoluíram muito no tempo: o parque concentra hoje fortes valores simbólicos e em termos de quadro de vida, bem como importantes valores fundiários. Ele está, por outro lado, ao mesmo tempo, no coração das políticas de meio-ambiente à escala regional. RésuméL’étude du parc de la Caffarella, à Rome, permet d’étudier de quelles manières les interactions entre acteurs contribuent, sur la longue durée, à la préservation des espaces naturels en ville et à leur transformation en un patrimoine environnemental collectif. Ce parc d’une surface de 200 hectares constitue le prolongement, en milieu urbain, d’un plus grand parc naturel régional de 3400 ha. La généalogie des représentations de cet espace et des luttes dont il a été l’objet montre que les raisons de la préservation de cet espace de nature en ville sont multiples : les menaces pesant sur le site évoluent au fil du temps, de même que les arguments en faveur de sa préservation ainsi que la nature des mobilisations. Les échelles géographiques et institutionnelles en jeu ont beaucoup évolué dans la durée : le parc concentre aujourd’hui de fortes valeurs symboliques et en termes de cadre de vie, ainsi que de fortes valeurs foncières, tout en étant au cœur des politiques environnementales à l’échelle régionale. Preserving nature in the city: a coproduction enrolled in long-termAbstractThe Caffarella case highlights the broad continuity in approaches to this 200 hectares urban abutmentof a much larger 3,400 hectare regional natural park called Parco Regionale dell’Appia Antica(park of the Appian Way). Environmental arguments go back a long way in time and the built environmentand natural vegetation have always been seen as going hand in hand. But there have alsobeen notable changes. The culturalist approach to the countryside that has tended to predominatein Italy has gradually incorporated environmental aspects even though conflicts remain between aheritage-based or environmental management strategy and collective appropriation of the site. Consequently,the areas seen as deserving of protection are constantly increasing and now range fromgardens to the overall site and, more recently, a complex arrangement to incorporate the countryinto the city. This case shows that actions and interactions at the micro level and the landholdingstructures are just as important as the socio-economic and political context for the preservation ofspaces of nature intowns, and the two can sometimes interact in unexpected ways. Preservación de la naturaleza en la ciudad: una coproducción inscrita en el largo plazoResumenEl estudio del Parque Caffarella en Roma nos permite comprender las formas en que las interaccionesentre los actores contribuyen, a largo plazo, para la preservación de los espacios naturales de laciudad y su transformación en un patrimonio natural colectivo.Este parque de 200 hectáreas es unaextensión, en la zona urbana, de un gran parque regional natural de 3.400 hectáreas. La genealogíade las representaciones del espacio y las luchas que ha sido el tema muestra que las razones para lapreservación de ese espacio de la naturaleza en la ciudad son numerosos: las amenazas al sitio evolucionacon el tiempo, así como los argumentos a favor de su preservación, bien como la naturalezade las manifestaciones. Las escalas geográficas e institucionales en juego evolucionaron mucho con eltiempo: El parque concentra actualmente fuertes valores simbólicos y en términos de condiciones devida, así como los valores importantes fundiários. Él está, además, a la vez, en el corazón de la políticaambiental a escala regional.DOI: 10.7147/GEO10.2159

L’anthropologie médicale est un sous-champ de l’anthropologie socioculturelle qui s’intéresse à la pluralité des systèmes médicaux ainsi qu’à l’étude des facteurs économiques, politiques et socioculturels ayant un impact sur la santé des individus et des populations. Plus spécifiquement, elle s’intéresse aux relations sociales, aux expériences vécues, aux pratiques impliquées dans la gestion et le traitement des maladies par rapport aux normes culturelles et aux institutions sociales. Plusieurs généalogies de l’anthropologie médicale peuvent être retracées. Toutefois, les monographies de W.H.R. Rivers et d’Edward Evans-Pritchard (1937), dans lesquelles les représentations, les connaissances et les pratiques en lien avec la santé et la maladie étaient considérées comme faisant intégralement partie des systèmes socioculturels, sont généralement considérées comme des travaux fondateurs de l’anthropologie médicale. Les années 1950 ont marqué la professionnalisation de l’anthropologie médicale. Des financements publics ont été alloués à la discipline pour contribuer aux objectifs de santé publique et d’amélioration de la santé dans les communautés économiquement pauvres (Good 1994). Dans les décennies qui suivent, les bases de l’anthropologie médicale sont posées avec l’apparition de nombreuses revues professionnelles (Social Science & Medicine, Medical Anthropology, Medical Anthropology Quarterly), de manuels spécialisés (e.g. MacElroy et Townsend 1979) et la formation du sous-groupe de la Society for Medical Anthropology au sein de l’American Anthropological Association (AAA) en 1971, qui sont encore des points de références centraux pour le champ. À cette époque, sous l’influence des théories des normes et du pouvoir proposées par Michel Foucault et Pierre Bourdieu, la biomédecine est vue comme un système structurel de rapports de pouvoir et devient ainsi un objet d’étude devant être traité symétriquement aux autres systèmes médicaux (Gaines 1992). L’attention portée aux théories du biopouvoir et de la gouvernementalité a permis à l’anthropologie médicale de formuler une critique de l’hégémonie du regard médical qui réduit la santé à ses dimensions biologiques et physiologiques (Saillant et Genest 2007 : xxii). Ces considérations ont permis d’enrichir, de redonner une visibilité et de l’influence aux études des rationalités des systèmes médicaux entrepris par Evans-Pritchard, et ainsi permettre la prise en compte des possibilités qu’ont les individus de naviguer entre différents systèmes médicaux (Leslie 1980; Lock et Nguyen 2010 : 62). L’aspect réducteur du discours biomédical avait déjà été soulevé dans les modèles explicatifs de la maladie développés par Arthur Kleinman, Leon Eisenberg et Byron Good (1978) qui ont introduit une distinction importante entre « disease » (éléments médicalement observables de la maladie), « illness » (expériences vécues de la maladie) et « sickness » (aspects sociaux holistes entourant la maladie). Cette distinction entre disease, illness et sickness a joué un rôle clé dans le développement rapide des perspectives analytiques de l’anthropologie médicale de l’époque, mais certaines critiques ont également été formulées à son égard. En premier lieu, Allan Young (1981) formule une critique des modèles explicatifs de la maladie en réfutant l'idée que la rationalité soit un model auquel les individus adhèrent spontanément. Selon Young, ce modèle suggère qu’il y aurait un équivalant de structures cognitives qui guiderait le développement des modèles de causalité et des systèmes de classification adoptées par les personnes. Au contraire, il propose que les connaissances soient basées sur des actions, des relations sociales, des ressources matérielles, avec plusieurs sources influençant le raisonnement des individus qui peuvent, de plusieurs manières, diverger de ce qui est généralement entendu comme « rationnel ». Ces critiques, ainsi que les études centrées sur l’expérience des patients et des pluralismes médicaux, ont permis de constater que les stratégies adoptées pour obtenir des soins sont multiples, font appel à plusieurs types de pratiques, et que les raisons de ces choix doivent être compris à la lumière des contextes historiques, locaux et matériaux (Lock et Nguyen 2010 : 63). Deuxièmement, les approches de Kleinman, Eisenberger et Good ont été critiquées pour leur séparation artificielle du corps et de l’esprit qui représentait un postulat fondamental dans les études de la rationalité. Les anthropologues Nancy Scheper-Hughes et Margeret Lock (1987) ont proposé que le corps doit plutôt être abordé selon trois niveaux analytiques distincts, soit le corps politique, social et individuel. Le corps politique est présenté comme étant un lieu où s’exerce la régulation, la surveillance et le contrôle de la différence humaine (Scheper-Hughes et Lock 1987 : 78). Cela a permis aux approches féministes d’aborder le corps comme étant un espace de pouvoir, en examinant comment les discours sur le genre rendent possible l’exercice d’un contrôle sur le corps des femmes (Manderson, Cartwright et Hardon 2016). Les premiers travaux dans cette perspective ont proposé des analyses socioculturelles de différents contextes entourant la reproduction pour contrecarrer le modèle dominant de prise en charge médicale de la santé reproductive des femmes (Martin 1987). Pour sa part, le corps social renvoie à l’idée selon laquelle le corps ne peut pas être abordé simplement comme une entité naturelle, mais qu’il doit être compris en le contextualisant historiquement et socialement (Lupton 2000 : 50). Finalement, considérer le corps individuel a permis de privilégier l’étude de l’expérience subjective de la maladie à travers ses variations autant au niveau individuel que culturel. Les études de l’expérience de la santé et la maladie axées sur l’étude des « phénomènes tels qu’ils apparaissent à la conscience des individus et des groupes d’individus » (Desjarlais et Throop 2011 : 88) se sont avérées pertinentes pour mieux saisir la multitude des expériences vécues des états altérés du corps (Hofmann et Svenaeus 2018). En somme, les propositions de ces auteurs s’inscrivent dans une anthropologie médicale critique qui s’efforce d’étudier les inégalités socio-économiques (Scheper-Hughes 1992), l’accès aux institutions et aux savoirs qu’elles produisent, ainsi qu’à la répartition des ressources matérielles à une échelle mondiale (Manderson, Cartwright et Hardon 2016). Depuis ses débuts, l’anthropologie médicale a abordé la santé globale et épidémiologique dans le but de faciliter les interventions sur les populations désignées comme « à risque ». Certains anthropologues ont développé une perspective appliquée en épidémiologie sociale pour contribuer à l’identification de déterminants sociaux de la santé (Kawachi et Subramanian 2018). Plusieurs de ces travaux ont été critiqués pour la culturalisation des pathologies touchant certaines populations désignées comme étant à risque à partir de critères basés sur la stigmatisation et la marginalisation de ces populations (Trostle et Sommerfeld 1996 : 261). Au-delà des débats dans ce champ de recherche, ces études ont contribué à la compréhension des dynamiques de santé et de maladie autant à l’échelle globale, dans la gestion des pandémies par l’Organisation Mondiale de la Santé (OMS), qu’aux échelles locales avec la mise en place de campagnes de santé publique pour faciliter l’implantation de mesures sanitaires, telles que la vaccination (Dubé, Vivion et Macdonald 2015). L’anthropologie a contribué à ces discussions en se penchant sur les contextes locaux des zoonoses qui sont des maladies transmissibles des animaux vertébrés aux humains (Porter 2013), sur la résistance aux antibiotiques (Landecker 2016), comme dans le cas de la rage et de l’influenza (Wolf 2012), sur les dispositifs de prévention mis en place à une échelle mondiale pour éviter l’apparition et la prolifération d’épidémies (Lakoff 2010), mais aussi sur les styles de raisonnement qui sous-tendent la gestion des pandémies (Caduff 2014). Par ailleurs, certains auteur.e.s ont utilisé le concept de violence structurelle pour analyser les inégalités socio-économiques dans le contexte des pandémies de maladies infectieuses comme le sida, la tuberculose ou, plus récemment, l’Ébola (Fassin 2015). Au-delà de cet aspect socio-économique, Aditya Bharadwaj (2013) parle d’une inégalité épistémique pour caractériser des rapports inégaux dans la production et la circulation globale des savoirs et des individus dans le domaine de la santé. Il décrit certaines situations comme des « biologies subalternes », c’est à dire des états de santé qui ne sont pas reconnus par le système biomédical hégémonique et qui sont donc invisibles et vulnérables. Ces « biologies subalternes » sont le revers de citoyennetés biologiques, ces dernières étant des citoyennetés qui donnes accès à une forme de sécurité sociale basée sur des critères médicaux, scientifiques et légaux qui reconnaissent les dommages biologiques et cherche à les indemniser (Petryna 2002 : 6). La citoyenneté biologique étant une forme d’organisation qui gravite autour de conditions de santé et d’enjeux liés à des maladies génétiques rares ou orphelines (Heath, Rapp et Taussig 2008), ces revendications mobilisent des acteurs incluant les institutions médicales, l’État, les experts ou encore les pharmaceutiques. Ces études partagent une attention à la circulation globale des savoirs, des pratiques et des soins dans la translation — ou la résistance à la translation — d’un contexte à un autre, dans lesquels les patients sont souvent positionnés entre des facteurs sociaux, économiques et politiques complexes et parfois conflictuels. L’industrie pharmaceutique et le développement des technologies biomédicales se sont présentés comme terrain important et propice pour l’analyse anthropologique des dynamiques sociales et économiques entourant la production des appareils, des méthodes thérapeutiques et des produits biologiques de la biomédecine depuis les années 1980 (Greenhalgh 1987). La perspective biographique des pharmaceutiques (Whyte, Geest et Hardon 2002) a consolidé les intérêts et les approches dans les premières études sur les produits pharmaceutiques. Ces recherches ont proposé de suivre la trajectoire sociale des médicaments pour étudier les contextes d’échanges et les déplacements dans la nature symbolique qu’ont les médicaments pour les consommateurs : « En tant que choses, les médicaments peuvent être échangés entre les acteurs sociaux, ils objectivent les significations, ils se déplacent d’un cadre de signification à un autre. Ce sont des marchandises dotées d’une importance économique et de ressources recelant une valeur politique » (traduit de Whyte, Geest et Hardon 2002). D’autres ont davantage tourné leur regard vers les rapports institutionnels, les impacts et le fonctionnement de « Big Pharma ». Ils se sont intéressés aux processus de recherche et de distribution employés par les grandes pharmaceutiques à travers les études de marché et les pratiques de vente (Oldani 2014), l’accès aux médicaments (Ecks 2008), la consommation des produits pharmaceutiques (Dumit 2012) et la production de sujets d’essais cliniques globalisés (Petryna, Lakoff et Kleinman 2006), ainsi qu’aux enjeux entourant les réglementations des brevets et du respect des droits politiques et sociaux (Ecks 2008). L’accent est mis ici sur le pouvoir des produits pharmaceutiques de modifier et de changer les subjectivités contemporaines, les relations familiales (Collin 2016), de même que la compréhensions du genre et de la notion de bien-être (Sanabria 2014). Les nouvelles technologies biomédicales — entre autres génétiques — ont permis de repenser la notion de normes du corps en santé, d'en redéfinir les frontières et d’intervenir sur le corps de manière « incorporée » (embodied) (Haraway 1991). Les avancées technologiques en génomique qui se sont développées au cours des trois dernières décennies ont soulevé des enjeux tels que la généticisation, la désignation de populations/personnes « à risque », l’identification de biomarqueurs actionnables et de l’identité génétique (TallBear 2013 ; Lloyd et Raikhel 2018). Au départ, le modèle dominant en génétique cherchait à identifier les gènes spécifiques déterminant chacun des traits biologiques des organismes (Lock et Nguyen 2010 : 332). Cependant, face au constat que la plupart des gènes ne codaient par les protéines responsables de l’expression phénotypique, les modèles génétiques se sont depuis complexifiés. L’attention s’est tournée vers l’analyse de la régulation des gènes et de l’interaction entre gènes et maladies en termes de probabilités (Saukko 2017). Cela a permis l’émergence de la médecine personnalisée, dont les interventions se basent sur l’identification de biomarqueurs personnels (génétiques, sanguins, etc.) avec l’objectif de prévenir l’avènement de pathologies ou ralentir la progression de maladies chroniques (Billaud et Guchet 2015). Les anthropologues de la médecine ont investi ces enjeux en soulevant les conséquences de cette forme de médecine, comme la responsabilisation croissante des individus face à leur santé (Saukko 2017), l’utilisation de ces données dans l’accès aux assurances (Hoyweghen 2006), le déterminisme génétique (Landecker 2011) ou encore l’affaiblissement entre les frontières de la bonne santé et de la maladie (Timmermans et Buchbinder 2010). Ces enjeux ont été étudiés sous un angle féministe avec un intérêt particulier pour les effets du dépistage prénatal sur la responsabilité parentale (Rapp 1999), l’expérience de la grossesse (Rezende 2011) et les gestions de l’infertilité (Inhorn et Van Balen 2002). Les changements dans la compréhension du modèle génomique invitent à prendre en considération plusieurs variables en interaction, impliquant l’environnement proche ou lointain, qui interagissent avec l’expression du génome (Keller 2014). Dans ce contexte, l’anthropologie médicale a développé un intérêt envers de nouveaux champs d’études tels que l’épigénétique (Landecker 2011), la neuroscience (Choudhury et Slaby 2016), le microbiome (Benezra, DeStefano et Gordon 2012) et les données massives (Leonelli 2016). Dans le cas du champ de l’épigénétique, qui consiste à comprendre le rôle de l’environnement social, économique et politique comme un facteur pouvant modifier l’expression des gènes et mener au développement de certaines maladies, les anthropologues se sont intéressés aux manières dont les violences structurelles ancrées historiquement se matérialisent dans les corps et ont des impacts sur les disparités de santé entre les populations (Pickersgill, Niewöhner, Müller, Martin et Cunningham-Burley 2013). Ainsi, la notion du traumatisme historique (Kirmayer, Gone et Moses 2014) a permis d’examiner comment des événements historiques, tels que l’expérience des pensionnats autochtones, ont eu des effets psychosociaux collectifs, cumulatifs et intergénérationnels qui se sont maintenus jusqu’à aujourd’hui. L’étude de ces articulations entre conditions biologiques et sociales dans l’ère « post-génomique » prolonge les travaux sur le concept de biosocialité, qui est défini comme « [...] un réseau en circulation de termes d'identié et de points de restriction autour et à travers desquels un véritable nouveau type d'autoproduction va émerger » (Traduit de Rabinow 1996:186). La catégorie du « biologique » se voit alors problématisée à travers l’historicisation de la « nature », une nature non plus conçue comme une entité immuable, mais comme une entité en état de transformation perpétuelle imbriquée dans des processus humains et/ou non-humains (Ingold et Pálsson 2013). Ce raisonnement a également été appliqué à l’examen des catégories médicales, conçues comme étant abstraites, fixes et standardisées. Néanmoins, ces catégories permettent d'identifier différents états de la santé et de la maladie, qui doivent être compris à la lumière des contextes historiques et individuels (Lock et Nguyen 2010). Ainsi, la prise en compte simultanée du biologique et du social mène à une synthèse qui, selon Peter Guarnaccia, implique une « compréhension du corps comme étant à la fois un système biologique et le produit de processus sociaux et culturels, c’est-à-dire, en acceptant que le corps soit en même temps totalement biologique et totalement culturel » (traduit de Guarnaccia 2001 : 424). Le concept de « biologies locales » a d’abord été proposé par Margaret Lock, dans son analyse des variations de la ménopause au Japon (Lock 1993), pour rendre compte de ces articulations entre le matériel et le social dans des contextes particuliers. Plus récemment, Niewöhner et Lock (2018) ont proposé le concept de biologies situées pour davantage contextualiser les conditions d’interaction entre les biologies locales et la production de savoirs et de discours sur celles-ci. Tout au long de l’histoire de la discipline, les anthropologues s’intéressant à la médecine et aux approches de la santé ont profité des avantages de s’inscrire dans l’interdisciplinarité : « En anthropologie médical, nous trouvons qu'écrire pour des audiences interdisciplinaires sert un objectif important : élaborer une analyse minutieuse de la culture et de la santé (Dressler 2012; Singer, Dressler, George et Panel 2016), s'engager sérieusement avec la diversité globale (Manderson, Catwright et Hardon 2016), et mener les combats nécessaires contre le raccourcies des explications culturelles qui sont souvent déployées dans la littérature sur la santé (Viruell-Fuentes, Miranda et Abdulrahim 2012) » (traduit de Panter-Brick et Eggerman 2018 : 236). L’anthropologie médicale s’est constituée à la fois comme un sous champ de l’anthropologie socioculturelle et comme un champ interdisciplinaire dont les thèmes de recherche sont grandement variés, et excèdent les exemples qui ont été exposés dans cette courte présentation.

Les communs (commons en anglais) peuvent être définis comme un ensemble de ressources physiques, matérielles ou immatérielles que les êtres humains cherchent à exploiter, à gérer ou à protéger pour assurer leur survie biologique, économique, sociale ou encore culturelle. Très à la mode depuis une quarantaine d’années en anthropologie, sociologie, histoire, économie ou encore en philosophie, ce concept a vu son champ d’application s’élargir, ses propositions théoriques s’étoffer et ses analyses se complexifier, tout en perdant progressivement son sens historique. Sortis du champ académique et instrumentalisés par les mouvements de résistance au néolibéralisme, les communs sont désormais au cœur de débats de société. La façon dont cette notion interroge les interactions entre les êtres humains et leur environnement, son intérêt pour éclairer la fabrication du social et sa réutilisation dans le débat public en fait un objet de recherche riche pour l’anthropologie. La définition du concept de communs est une entreprise difficile tant il renvoie à des usages divers. Si certains chercheurs tendent à privilégier, en français, l’usage du pluriel afin de marquer la grande variété des ressources regroupées sous la terminologie de communs, que l’on parle de ressources naturelles, mais également sociales ou intellectuelles, d’autres auteurs insistent sur l’importance d’utiliser le terme au singulier afin de souligner son potentiel théorique et pratique (Hardt et Negri 2012 ; Dardot et Laval 2014). L’origine étymologique du terme commun, construit sur les locutions latines cum et munus, renvoie à une idée centrale, celle de la mise commun ou de la gestion commune de biens, mettant l’accent sur le fait que le commun « implique donc toujours une certaine obligation de réciprocité liée à l’exercice de responsabilités publiques » (Dardot et Laval 2014 : 23). Ces deux aspects, celui de réciprocité et de responsabilité publique, sont au cœur de la définition historique des communs. Les origines du concept renvoient à une pratique de gestion des terres qui était courante dans différentes régions d’Europe avant la fin du Moyen-Âge et qui consistait en la gestion commune de certaines terres par un groupe de personnes ou d’unités familiales pendant une période de temps limitée. Dans certaines circonstances, tout le monde pouvait avoir accès à ces terres, selon des règles d’usage particulières ; dans d’autres cas, leur usage était restreint et contrôlé. Ce fonctionnement communal a progressivement été mis en cause par les autorités publiques et les cercles politiques à partir du milieu du XVIIIe siècle. En l’espace d’un siècle, la plupart des communs en Europe de l’ouest devinrent ainsi des propriétés privées ou publiques (De Moor 2011 : 425). Ceci correspond au phénomène connu des enclosures qui s’est particulièrement développé en Angleterre dans la seconde moitié du XVIIIe siècle, à travers lequel de larges étendues de champs ouverts, connus sous le nom de terrains communaux ou commons, ont progressivement été parcellisés et enclos (Hemmungs Wirtén 2013 : 2), dans un contexte marqué par l’augmentation démographique et l’industrialisation. Ce retour dans l’histoire est important pour comprendre les confusions qui sont apparues lorsque les chercheurs des différentes disciplines ont commencé à s’intéresser plus largement à la question des communs à partir du milieu du XXe siècle. L’une des confusions les plus importantes a été introduite par le biais du travail de Garrett Hardin dans son célèbre article « The Tragedy of the Commons », publié en 1968, dans lequel il explique que les communs sont susceptibles de surexploitation et donc de disparition. Sa thèse principale repose sur l’idée biaisée que les communs historiques étaient accessibles à tous et en tout temps. À la suite de la parution de cet article, les chercheurs ont ainsi commencé à utiliser le terme de communs pour faire référence à toutes formes de ressources utilisées par tous et sans contrôle, ce qui ne correspond pourtant pas à sa définition historique (De Moor 2011 : 425). L’article de Hardin a ouvert de nombreuses recherches portant sur les solutions à mettre en œuvre pour contrer la dégradation des communs. Mais ces travaux sont souvent restés coincés entre deux options : la prise en charge des communs par l’État ou par le marché. C’est dans ce contexte que le travail de la politologue Elinor Ostrom (1990), en proposant une troisième voie, a eu un retentissement important dans le monde académique, et même au-delà. La publication de son livre Governing the Commons constitue une étape essentielle dans les recherches sur la gestion des communs. Non seulement, elle montre que l’exploitation des communs ne mène pas inéluctablement vers leur fin, mais elle explore la diversité des arrangements institutionnels permettant la gestion de ceux-ci, sans pour autant avoir recours à l’État ou à la privatisation. Sa contribution est consacrée en 2009 lorsqu’elle reçoit, en même temps qu’Oliver Williamson, le prix Nobel d’économie pour son analyse de la gouvernance économique et celle des communs. La création de l’International Association for the Study of the Commons en 1989 ou encore la création de l’International Journal of the Commons en 2007, révélateurs d’un engouement scientifique pour la question des communs, permettent la diffusion des théories et des méthodes dans les différentes disciplines et dans la société civile, à tel point que l’étude même des communs comporte aujourd’hui des enjeux politiques, sociaux et même éthiques (Peugeot et Piron 2015). Les travaux d’Elinor Ostrom s’inscrivent dans une démarche résolument interdisciplinaire puisqu’elle utilise des études de cas, des concepts, des modèles et des méthodes issus de différentes sciences sociales, et tout particulièrement de l’anthropologie. Loin de développer une perspective purement institutionnelle, Ostrom s’intéresse en effet avant tout aux stratégies développées par les acteurs sociaux pour gérer des ressources en commun. Elle s’appuie pour cela sur de nombreuses études de cas développées par des anthropologues pour comprendre par exemple les systèmes d’irrigation au Népal, dans les Philippines ou à Los Angeles, la gestion des forêts en Inde, en Asie, en Afrique et en Amérique latine ou encore la pêche côtière en Inde ou au Canada (Acheson 2011 : 320). Même si son usage de l’anthropologie est qualifié de fragmentaire, puisque sortant ces études de cas de leurs contextes politiques ou culturels, ses travaux sont néanmoins reconnus comme une contribution majeure à la discipline anthropologique (Rabinowitz 2010). Outre celle des interactions entre les hommes et leur environnement, les travaux d’Ostrom rejoignent bien d’autres questions intéressant les anthropologues. Ils interrogent directement la gestion des ressources collectives, la nature des liens de coopération et la fabrique des communautés (Rabinowitz 2010 : 104), la production des normes et des règles sociales, ainsi que de la propriété, privée ou publique (Acheson 2011 : 320). Enfin, en montrant le rôle important de la réciprocité dans la plupart des cas de gestion alternative des ressources, les anthropologues ont mis en évidence, à partir de leurs différents terrains, le fait que l’homme n’était pas uniquement animé par une logique économique, mais que le symbolisme était central dans les pratiques d’échange, renvoyant ainsi aux théories sur le don, concept dont les anthropologues ont étudié les multiples formes dans les sociétés humaines. Dans la foulée des propositions théoriques de Hardin et de Ostrom, un véritable engouement s’est manifesté autour de la question de ces communs naturels, en anthropologie et dans les autres disciplines des sciences sociales. Ces travaux ont fourni des modèles inspirant pour d’autres types d’objets de recherche et plus récemment les chercheurs ont commencé à identifier de nouveaux communs (new commons), comme des biens communs sociaux (social commons) qui constituent des ressources sociales ou des services destinés à des groupes sociaux spécifiques, des communs de nature intellectuelle ou encore culturelle incluant des ressources aussi variées que la musique, l’artisanat, les technologies numériques, etc. (Nonini 2006 : 166-167). Certains anthropologues ont même avancé l’idée que les communs peuvent englober des dimensions plus invisibles de la vie sociale relevant du domaine cognitif, corporel ou affectif, comme par exemple chez les Urarina, peuple indigène du Pérou, pour lesquels la notion même de tranquillité doit être l’objet d’un partage ou d’une réciprocité (Walker 2015). L’extension du concept de communs à des domaines aussi divers de la vie sociale explique aujourd’hui la difficulté à en donner une définition uniforme et certaines ambivalences quant à ses usages et ses analyses. De façon plus générale, la naturalisation du discours sur les biens communs a nécessité de s’engager dans une réflexion critique sur cet objet, ce que l’anthropologie a pu prendre en charge à travers sa capacité à mettre en perspective la production du social. Le succès du terme ne s’est en effet pas limité au milieu académique. Dans le contexte des dernières décennies, alors que des corporations, des gouvernements et d’autres types d’institutions politiques, privées ou non-gouvernementales, ont dépossédé certains groupes humains de leurs ressources dans la mouvance de la globalisation néolibérale, des stratégies de résistance et de lutte pour conserver ou retrouver le contrôle sur ces biens se sont développées (Nonini 2006 : 165). Dans le même temps, les propositions théoriques sur les communs ont mis en valeur des alternatives séduisantes face à la mainmise du marché ou de l’État sur ces ressources. Les anthropologues ont ainsi montré que ces luttes ne concernent pas seulement le contrôle des ressources matérielles mais également le contrôle des significations culturelles associées aux communs et aux processus qui les préservent ou les détruisent (Nonini 2006 : 165). Les stratégies et les perspectives antagonistes des différents groupes se disputant les communs sont ainsi devenues des objets de recherche riches pour l’anthropologie. Dans le contexte sud-américain où la surexploitation des ressources naturelles s’impose comme un nouveau paradigme économique, le constat que chacune des deux parties réutilise le concept de biens communs et de communs pour légitimer, d’un côté l’exploitation des ressources naturelles, et de l’autre la lutte contre cette exploitation, rappelle la nécessité de repenser les fondements ontologiques de chacune de ces deux façons de concevoir la relation entre les humains et le monde naturel. Dans ce cadre, les peuples autochtones nous invitent plutôt à penser ces confrontations ontologiques à travers le concept d’« incommuns » ; celui-ci révèlerait plutôt l’existence et la persistance d’une certaine incompatibilité entre différentes façons d’être au monde. En effet, alors que les entreprises extractrices font reposer leurs justifications sur la distinction entre nature et culture, et plus précisément sur le contrôle de la nature par les êtres humains, les peuples autochtones de leur côté se perçoivent en continuité avec le monde naturel, engagé dans une relation réciproque avec lui et dans l’obligation de le protéger (Blaser et De La Cadena 2017 : 186-187).

Le sport, envisagé sous l’angle des pratiques sportives, s’inscrit dans un ensemble plus vaste de comportements : celui des pratiques corporelles. Ces dernières peuvent constituer l’objet de travaux anthropologiques (Bromberger, Hayot, Mariottini 1995; Darbon 2002; Garnotel 2009 ; Sizorn 2007). Le sport, en tant que phénomène social complexe, se prête à l’analyse sociologique, car il semble attaché, à la fois comme résultante et comme cause d’autres phénomènes, au faisceau de déterminismes sociaux, économiques et institutionnels. Il est avant tout une institution, autant dans son mode de constitution -il n’y a de sport à proprement parler qu’inscrit dans et produit par des instances sportives internationales, nationales et locales- que dans son expression. Le sport renvoie à un système autonome, structuré, réglementé. La sociologie souligne l’importance de la création et du développement institutionnel du sport comme phénomène social, et des différents sports comme expressions propres de ce phénomène, à la fois sociologiquement définies et socialement distinctes (Darbon 2008). La perspective d’analyse institutionnelle du sport -développement et dynamique des structures institutionnelles et politiques- trouve son complément dans des recherches sociologiques plus centrées sur des aspects spécifiques du phénomène global. Les processus de distinction de communautés ou de groupes de pratiques focalisent le regard de certains pans de la recherche : la question centrale du genre y prend toute sa place (Menesson, Clément, 2009). L’intérêt porté aux trajectoires sociales et professionnelles des sportifs est une autre manière d’aborder le phénomène « sport » (Sobry 2010). Ce dernier n’est cependant pas envisageable sans le regard public qui s’y porte, car le sport est aussi un spectacle. La description des publics comme l’étude du supportérisme font partie intégrante de l’analyse du phénomène ainsi que l’examen de ses modalités de construction médiatique et économique : la vision devient sociétale (Ohl 2010). Cependant, les pratiques sportives, manifestations premières du phénomène, sont aussi l’objet d’investigations relevant de l’histoire sociale de leur évolution. L’histoire institutionnelle trouve une inspiration et un complément dans la description des rapports entre changement des pratiques sportives et évolution de la sphère technologique. Le sport est envisagé comme analyseur des mentalités, mais aussi comme hypostase des avancées de la connaissance du corps. L’évolution des préparations à la compétition, le recours à des moyens artificiels de maximisation des performances physiques sont la traduction des changements dans le rapport au corps, à la fois sociaux et culturels et instrumentaux. Mais les pratiques sportives peuvent également être l’objet d’une histoire des techniques, non seulement celle des artéfacts, mais aussi celle des formes de mouvement, marquées par des types sociaux et des structures opératoires (Vigarello 1988). Le retour vers une centration sur les pratiques proprement dites introduit à une perspective plus anthropologique que sociologique -sans que toutefois la frontière soit délimitée avec évidence. Une ethnologie des groupes et communautés de pratiquants peut dans ce cas être entreprise, l’accent étant porté sur la description et l’analyse des comportements qui font unité, cohérence et signification, autant pour les pratiquants que pour les spectateurs, les chercheurs étant alors en mesure de circonscrire des cultures sportives (Darbon 2002; Fournier, Raveneau 2010). Parallèlement, les pratiques sportives détiennent un sens pour leurs acteurs et traduisent simultanément le versant idiosyncrasique de la communauté ou du groupe. Elles sont un support d’identité et d’appartenance, mais aussi l’expression de connaissances particulières et d’une forme de morale incarnée. Elles appartiennent au domaine plus vaste des techniques du corps et une étude historique peut en être produite comme peut en être constituée une ethnologie, laquelle accorde aux usages du corps une place principale. Garnotel (2009) montre par exemple que devenir un cycliste professionnel suppose de construire progressivement les techniques corporelles du métier liées tant à l'entraînement qu'au soin du corps ou l’absorption de produits « dopants » et s’inscrit dans une morale incarnée liée à l’optimisation de la performance, même si celle-ci s’oppose à l’éthique absolue du sport. Les pratiques sportives, à l’instar de toutes les pratiques corporelles, supposent un apprentissage technique et une conformation du corps acquise par le sujet. Elles sont simultanément actes et connaissances, ces dernières présentes sur deux registres. Le premier est celui des théories locales ou indigènes de l’action des sujets, largement saturées de concepts pragmatiques (Rolland et Cizeron 2011) ; le second est celui des connaissances implicites et tacites modulées par des normes d’action et des valeurs d’actes. Sizorn (2007) dévoile par exemple, que l'expérience des trapézistes est marquée par la légèreté et l'aisance tout autant que par la douleur et la peur, registres qui construisent la corporéité et l'identité des pratiquants. Ainsi envisagées, les pratiques sportives redeviennent celles d’un groupe ou d’une communauté, caractérisées par une dialectique entre technique singulière et connaissances collectives, ces dernières relevant essentiellement de représentations et de convictions. Elles n’échappent pas aux modalités de sexuation présentes dans les groupes humains lesquelles participent à l’attribution, implicite ou explicite, de normes et de valeurs aux actions. La relation en quelque sorte organique entre comportements et connaissances permet d’inscrire les pratiques sportives, comme techniques du corps, dans le régime de la tèchné grecque : le savoir-faire est en rapport étroit avec un savoir portant sur le sens du monde. Ces pratiques appartiennent à une expérience constituée, à la fois collective et individuelle. Une telle optique cognitive peut trouver un complément dans une analyse symboliste. Les pratiques sportives expriment et supportent un sens constitutif de la communauté : le sport devient un espace projectif dont la signification est cachée ; il peut être dans ce cas la représentation d’une transcendance et/ou une pratique ritualisée. Les pratiques sportives sont alors envisagées de manière étendue, non limitée à la perspective technique, le versant psychologique qui les marque spécifiant le processus à l’œuvre. Il est ainsi plus difficile de développer l’idée d’une anthropologie du sport que l'idée d'une anthropologie des pratiques corporelles. En tant que phénomène général, le sport est principalement l’objet d’une sociologie, même s'il peut être celui d'une anthropologie qui reste alors philosophique, soutenant l'universalisme du phénomène et promouvant un idéal sportif. Le phénomène sportif y est envisagé de façon a-culturelle; l'anthropologue considère dans ce cas les pratiques de manière transcendante et reconstruit intellectuellement leur unité phénoménologique. En revanche, l’intérêt premier accordé aux sujets des pratiques sportives, à leurs actes et aux connaissances qu’ils formulent à propos de ceux-ci, doit mener à une anthropologie des pratiques corporelles. Si une ethnologie distingue des styles de pratiques sportives, une anthropologie suppose d'emprunter des propositions théoriques qui établissent la nature des connaissances incorporées qui sous-tendent les pratiques. Ainsi, l'arbitrage en rugby peut être étudié comme une pratique particulière au cours de laquelle l'arbitre montre et impose aux joueurs ce qui est possible relativement aux modalités cognitives selon lesquelles il appréhende spontanément l'activité des joueurs (Rix 2007). En ce sens, seule une anthropologie cognitive des pratiques sportives pourrait, à partir des travaux de terrain, mettre à jour les modes généraux -voire universels- de connaissance sous-jacents à l’inscription des activités corporelles humaines dans un cadre socialement normé.

The Issue of Gaming in Contemporary Culture "Are we still in the game?" This banal phrase gains a terrifying meaning in the last scene of Cronenberg's film eXistenZ, when a puzzled character, on the verge of being murdered, asks his potential killer if they are still inside a virtual reality game. The scene denotes the crucial place the issue of gaming is occupying in contemporary culture. If we take sci-fi movies less as an exercise of future divination and more as symptom of our current feelings projected into the future, we can easily see how games are becoming a frequent metaphor that sums up our fear of a world dominated by technology. Matrix, eXistenZ and quite a few other films draw on this haunting idea that technology can be evil and that reality may be just a high-tech game of which we are not aware. In fact, life has often been thought of as a kind of 'divine play', with God either playing dice to decide our destiny or acting almighty over millions of voodoo dolls. The key difference in contemporary imaginary is that it is no longer God, but human beings (or machines and creatures designed by them) in charge of the game. Moreover, it is interesting to notice that this attachment of nightmarish meanings to games is happening exactly at a time when computers are becoming more than an ubiquitous tool for any purpose, and are acquiring an astonishing ability to accurately describe our environments and convincingly reproduce our bodily senses. The prospect of having a full, working, machinic simulation of the now-called 'real world', no matter how unattainable it might be, is giving a new face to the old free will dilemma: to what extent is life predeterminate and what is our space for creativity inside God's plot? In this context, the otherwise ancient and apparently innocent cultural activity of playing games has turned into this biased metaphor, in which the blurring of the borderline between life and game becomes a sinister menace. The Nature of Games, Their Cultural Role and the Four Categories of Games The question that crops up is why games were chosen to re-enact this ever-present human fear before the mysteries of the given world of nature. We know for sure that there is a convergence between game and culture, and that game principles are at the foundation of social institutions, as Huizinga has shown (46). He does not propose that culture is derived from games, but maintains that play is a key element at the beginning of culture, and continues to be an important feature as culture develops. But it is the French sociologist Roger Caillois who has devised a framework in which to approach play and games that can help us, contemporary gamers, to shed light on this question. Caillois proposed four categories in which every known game can fit: games of chance, where the outcome results from fate rather than player's skills; games of vertigo, that aim to impose a disorder in the bodily senses; games of competition, in which adversaries are provided with an artificial equality at the outset and compete to show their superiority; and games of simulation, in which players create an imaginary universe and see themselves as someone else. However, games don't have to fit into one category only. Several games present a combination between the different types, though they always present one fundamental aspect that overshadows the others. These four categories can easily be extended to the field of computerised games: games of chance -- random devices are simulated in the computer (dice, roulette etc); games of vertigo -- games that draw on the use of metaphors such as the labyrinth and detective role-play, in which the player has to pursue a task through winding ways. Browsing and surfing are also frequent metaphors for this type of game; games of competition -- the usual fighting and 'shoot-and-kill' games; games of simulation -- use of development and management metaphor scenarios in which the player can nurture and manage the development of a system such as a town, a civilisation, or even a child as in some Japanese games. A psychoanalytic interpretation of these four categories helps to get an even clearer picture of the role of games in contemporary culture. According to this theory, playing is a response to unconscious motivations, and games could fulfil a function similar to that of dreams, slips of the tongue and actions alike. Abadi proposes a direct psychoanalytic correlation for Caillois's categories: games of chance symbolise the death drive since it is a bet against destiny; games of vertigo, by pushing the senses to a radical level of disarrangement and ecstasy, denote the symbolisation of sexual intercourse; games of competition are related to the Oedipus complex -- the rivalry between parents and children, or amongst siblings; and games of simulation refers to the construction of identity, an occasion when players work out a way to shape their own identity roles (Abadi 85-93). While Caillois's classification organises games in a more legible way, to read them through a psychoanalytic framework is to bring them into the realm of desire, or we could say, to the realm of language, or yet to be more precise, to the realm of language as the discourse of a desiring subject. But as an inhabitant of language "the subject is not; he makes and unmakes himself in a complex topology where the other and his discourse are included" (Kristeva 274). So as game and language converge, with this underlying presence of the Other, we can paraphrase Julia Kristeva and consider games as a signifying system in which, through demarcation, signification and communication, the player makes and unmakes him- or herself; in other words, a kind of radical rehearsal terrain where players can experiment with a playful reinvention of themselves. In this light it is no surprise that games in general, and more specifically games of simulation, have acquired such a paramount role in our 'electronic age'. Confronted with a strange new technology, which is hard to understand because it works mainly at a microscopic level, and which brings up uneasy concepts such as 'virtual reality' and 'cyberspace' (a quasi-mythical ethereal space -- Wertheim 18), we seem to be going through an identity crisis. In the wilderness of this technological 'newfoundland', an uncomfortable paradise of simulation and cloning, the very essence of human identity, our free will, seems to be mercilessly seized in uncontrolled games, since we are unable to differentiate between computers as the Other and computer as a means to the Other. Games as Scenarios for the Interplay of Determinism and Non-Determinism However, the same metaphor of game can shift this scenario and revert itself into a tool to rethink the identity problem within our technological daily life, for what is at stake in a game is always the question of free will. The game is essentially a framework for uncertainty, allowing the co-existence of determinism and non-determinism: games of chance by definition include the idea of indeterminacy; games of vertigo deal with indeterminacy by inducing an uncontrollable confusion of the senses; games of competition include indeterminacy in the form of the unpredictable abilities of the competitors; games of simulation present a particular type of interplay between rule and indeterminacy, where the gap between the scripts/rules and the interpretation/gaming provides the sense of uniqueness each time it is performed/played. Thus, if games and their probabilistic features are put to work in our favour, it would be an answer to a much searched metaphor, a theoretical ground to pervade contemporary culture allowing for creativity in a pre-determined technological environment. Then, the idea of life as gaming, instead of inspiring fear, can serve as a way to escape the false tyranny of a machine based on logic algorithms, without falling into the nihilism of a romantic refusal of a true information age. Precisely because computers are based in coherent and logical algorithms, coupled with game principles they can be a milieu for the delicate and complex interplay of determinism and non-determinism (Bijl). Computers would cease being this monstrous 'big Other', and simply would stand as an ethical tool, a technological mediated way for touching the Other (Cabral Filho and Szalapaj). We then may be compelled not simply to rebuild or re-shape our identity, but to experiment and question the very idea of such a concept. By exploring the ambiguous and intricate gap between life as gaming and gaming as life, identity can be something that deals with the unknown, based on the always challenging idea of Otherness. As we leave the duty of coherence anchored in non-desiring machines (as Baudrillard has called computers), we are liberated to wander in auspicious new territories. Then, personality, gender, race, colour, and other aspects that were formerly associated with an ideal and immutable image, can become rather playful zones of experimentation. As an open field, identity may be just a nuance in a multitude of flipping horizons. Yet, as freedom is never an easy place to dwell, a disturbing question arises: will it after all be less scary? References Abadi, Mauricio. "Psychoanalysis of Playing." Psychotherapy and Psychosomatics 15 (1967): 85-93. Baudrillard, Jean. The Transparency of Evil. London: Verso, 1993. Bijl, Aart. Ourselves and Computers. London: Macmillan, 1995. Cabral Filho, J. S., and P. Szalapaj. "Otherness and Computers: Uniform Cyberspaces and Individual Cyberplaces." The Journal of Design Sciences and Technology (Special Issue: Philosophy of Design and Information Technology) 4.1 (1995): 29-43. Caillois, Roger. Man, Play, and Games. New York: Free Press, 1961. Huizinga, J. Homo Ludens. New York: Roy Publishers, 1950. Kristeva, Julia. Language -- The Unknown: An Initiation into Linguistics. New York: Columbia UP, 1989. Wertheim, Margaret. The Pearly Gates of Cyberspace -- A History of Space from Dante to the Internet. London: Virago, 2000. Citation reference for this article MLA style: José dos Santos Cabral Filho. "Flip Horizontal: Gaming as Redemption." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3.5 (2000). [your date of access] <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0010/flip.php>. Chicago style: José dos Santos Cabral Filho, "Flip Horizontal: Gaming as Redemption," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3, no. 5 (2000), <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0010/flip.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: José dos Santos Cabral Filho. (2000) Flip horizontal: gaming as redemption. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3(5). <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0010/flip.php> ([your date of access]).


 
 
 During his speech in Plato’s The Symposium, Aristophanes explains that humans were originally round, composed of two people joined together in a perfect sphere with four arms, four legs, and two faces. Unfortunately, humans grew arrogant and ambitious; as a result, Zeus punished them by cleaving them in two. Now altered from their natural form, humans yearn for their former selves: “It is from this situation, then, that love for one another developed in human beings. Love collects the halves of our original nature, and tries to make a single thing out of the two parts so as to restore our natural condition. Thus, each of us is the matching half of a human being, since we have been severed like a flatfish, two coming from one, and each part is always seeking its other half” (191d). So it is that what we call “love” is but the “desire for wholeness” (193a). Love is not, for Aristophanes, a union but a re-union/reuniting. While Aristophanes’ account is simultaneously comedic and horrific, and consequently also absurdly ridiculous, there persists an undercurrent of some nebulous tickle, a recognition of something tangibly familiar in his myth, even now. Were space-time not linear and Plato could have Barbara Streisand speak next at that Athenian table (though of course he wouldn’t, as she’s a woman), he would undoubtedly have her sing “People”: “Lovers are very special people. They’re the luckiest people in the world. With one person, one very special person, a feeling deep in your soul, says you were half, now you’re whole.” “You complete me,” Jerry (played by Tom Cruise) says to Dorothy (played by Renée Zellweger) in the movie Jerry Maguire. How many lovers today claim their relationship with their beloved was meant to be? Even in a postmodern world, we seemingly have not strayed far from the Platonic ideal in which “lovers are incomplete halves of a single puzzle, searching for each other in order to become whole” (Ackerman 95). Implied by this model—described by Irving Singer as the “idealist tradition” (Modern 12)—is an uncomplicated conception of self. A self posited as fundamentally incomplete must be viewed as fixed and virtually invariable; otherwise, a multiplicity of ways in addition to a soul mate might be found to give the impoverished self what it needs. Viewed as yearning for his or her “other half,” the individual is positioned outside of/separated from the wider culture because only the “one true love” can make the person “whole.” Even biological impulses and psychological factors can be dismissed as irrelevant or possibly even dangerous distractions when all that truly matters is finding one’s “better half.” A self thus conceived also suggests a rather simplistic view of romantic love, which becomes merely the desire to achieve wholeness by connecting—or reconnecting, as Plato’s Aristophanes would have it—with a complementary lover. Unfortunately, the idealist model’s emphasis on deficiency codifies an ontology of lack that tends to foster omissions, oversimplifications, and misinterpretations. But, as numerous influential thinkers have convincingly argued, identity is neither uniform nor stable—nor even uncontested. Subjectivity is more accurately characterised by complexity and multiplicity than by simplicity and singularity. What, then, of romantic love? Is romantic love in contemporary Western cultures similarly complex, and if so, so what? How would (re)conceptualising romantic love as complex extend our knowledge and understanding of complex systems? I want to contribute to this themed issue of M/C Journal on complex by approaching romantic love as a point of departure, as an analytical methodology. I maintain that a critical study of romantic love—one that begins rather than concludes with romantic love’s complexity—helps illustrate the productive nature of complex and the utility of employing complex as a conceptual/theoretical point of origin and inquiry. Crucially, my formulation configures complex as a productive process that is itself a product. In other words, complex can be usefully defined as an effect that produces other effects—including potentially subversive ones. While other definitions are certainly valid, conceiving complex as an outcome that generates further outcomes not only emphasises the dynamic, multifaceted nature of systems but also helps to explain that multifaceted dynamism. Romantic love illustrates well this conception of complex (as productive product) because romantic love only has meaning, only works, because it is complex to begin with. In this manner, romantic love is a process of creating complexity from complexity. An examination that begins from a point of complexity gains much, I feel, by beginning with a historicisation of that complexity, for complex, as outcome/effect, is always already contextualised, situated, and diachronic. Historicising romantic love is particularly crucial because the idealist model tends to dismiss the past (what matters the past once one has finally met the love of one’s life?) and confuse history—especially its own—with nature (as with the supposedly natural passivity of the feminine). According to Singer, the idealist tradition, first codified by Plato, was taken up by medieval theologians who, drawn by the tradition’s ideal of merging, sought to produce a mystical oneness with the divine (Courtly 23). Emphasis eventually moved from merging to the experience of merging, a move that facilitated the rise of courtly love. Transmuting religious reverence into human devotion, courtly love introduced such revolutionary and potentially heretical notions as the belief that “love is an intense, passionate relationship that establishes a holy oneness between man and woman” (23). The desire for oneness appears even more prominently in the Romanticism of the 19th century (288). Importantly, erotic love becomes for the first time conjoined with romantic love in a causal rather than antithetical or consequential relation: “To the Romantic, sexual desire is usually more than just a vehicle or concomitant of love; it is a prerequisite” (Modern 10). Little wonder, given such a trajectory, that romantic love today has virtually no meaning independent of sexual love (though sexual desire may or may not be linked to romantic love). Little wonder as well that romantic love is so complex. But there’s more. As Stephanie Coontz explains, marriage in the West was until only about two centuries ago a political and economic institution having little or nothing to do with romantic love (33). Anthony Giddens also points out the relatively recent shift from an economic to a romantic basis for marriage (26). Giddens associates this shift with the emergence of what he terms “plastic sexuality”: “decentered sexuality, freed from the needs of reproduction” (2). Plastic sexuality resulted from a combination of factors, most notably societal trends toward limiting family size coupled with advances in contraceptive and reproductive technologies (27). Allowing for greater freedom and pleasure (especially for women), plastic sexuality is for Giddens linked not only to romantic love but also, intrinsically, to self-identity (2, 40). This connection—along with the plastic sexuality that undergirds it—creates narratives of self (and other) that can project “a course of future development” (45), lead to greater reflexivity for the body and the self (31), and transform intimacy in ways potentially subversive and emancipative (3, 194). In any case, our (inter)personal existence is currently undergoing active transfiguration, Giddens asserts, to the point that “personal life has become an open project, creating new demands and anxieties” (8). My reading of Giddens places this continuous, reflexive project of self (what one might alternatively term the ongoing production of selves-in-process) against the plastic sexuality and pure relationships that engendered the project. Only a view of romantic love as productive, evolving, and full—in other words, complex—can account for the complex transformations of intimacy and self described by Giddens. Viewed more broadly, romantic love corresponds—in both the analogous and communicative meanings of the term—to/with the very poststructural/postmodern subject it helps to enact. Tamsin Lorraine’s lucid articulation of embodied subjectivity is worth quoting at length in this context: I assume that the selves we experience as our own are the product of a historically conditioned process involving both corporeal and psychic aspects of existence, that this process needs to be instituted and continually reiterated in a social context in order to give birth to and maintain the subject at the corporeal level of embodiment as well as the psychic level of self, and that language and social positioning within a larger social field play a crucial role in this process. In taking up a position in the social field as a speaker of language, a human being takes up a perspective from which to develop a narrative of self. (ix-x) Others have theorised identity as a narrative construct (Holstein and Gubrium; Rosenwald and Ochberg). What is significant here in reading Lorraine’s embodied subjectivity through the interpretative lens provided by Giddens is the particular kind of narrative suggested by such a reading. After all, not just any narrative will do. The “perspective” taken up by the reflexive subject (as described by Giddens) in the process of constructing a storied self necessarily requires a productive integration of the many “aspects of existence.” Otherwise, no such “position” could be taken, no agency established; the particular self would not even be. As such, the perspective is a product of complexity even as it attempts to compose its own complex product (a narrative identity). Additionally, romantic love conceived as complex, as a productive force, opens up possibilities for new stories and new selves, even when, as in Lacanian theory, desire is correlated with lack. Lacan maintains that “desire is neither the appetite for satisfaction nor the demand for love, but the difference which results from the subtraction of the first from the second—the very phenomenon of their splitting” (287). Lack presented thusly is positive inasmuch as lack causes desire, which in turn produces the subject as a subjectivity. “Without lack,” Bruce Fink asserts, “the subject can never come into being, and the whole efflorescence of the dialectic of desire is squashed” (103). For clarification, Fink provides a simple illustration: “Why would a child even bother to learn to speak if all its needs were anticipated?” (103). Desire here is correlated with lack in a manner that suggests movement and change, bringing to mind Anne Carson’s famous quip, “Desire moves. Eros is a verb” (17). Keeping in mind that romantic love has become inextricably entwined with sexual desire in the West, designs that interrogate desire vis-à-vis lack (a strategy that also characterises the approaches taken by Hegel and Sartre) operate equally well in regards to self-identities formed via romantic love. Certainly, then, if desire constituted as lack can produce complexity by remaining unsatisfied and unfilled, what then of an approach that configures desire itself as production? Such a theoretical grounding is central to the work of Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari. For them, “everything is production” (Anti-Oedipus 4). In this view, life, the self, and even the body are not unified things but rather processes characterised by flow and multiplicity. Deleuze and Guattari emphasise the dynamic process of various sorts of “becoming” (Thousand 279). Becoming, in relation to romantic love and to other processes, involves not just individuals but assemblages. In this, Deleuze and Guattari present a collaborative conception of self involving the multiplicity of the two selves as well as the multiplicity “formed through the collaboration” (Lorraine 134). As Deleuze and Guattari explain, multiplicity “is continually transforming itself into a string of other multiplicities” (Thousand 249). To my mind, this “string” of multiplicities directly parallels the complex. Luce Irigaray’s project similarly views subjectivity as embodied, potentially collaborative, and creative. Specifically, however, Irigaray seeks to challenge the masculine specular subjectivity that fosters divisive dualisms and a sexual division of labour that privileges the masculine. She critiques the subject-object distinction that has always defined female sexuality “on the basis of masculine parameters” (This 204) and relegated the feminine to the role of other to the masculine subject. One of the more interesting aspects of Irigaray’s enterprise is her project of symbolic transformation, an attempt to symbolise an alternative feminine subjectivity: “Irigaray insists that we need to acknowledge two genders and work on providing the hitherto impoverished gender the symbolic support it needs to become more than the counterpart of masculinity. If the feminine were given the support of a gender in its own right, then feminine subjectivity could finally emerge” (Lorraine 91). What Irigaray advocates is a dialectical interaction between subjects that embraces both difference and corporeality, that is temporal, playful, reciprocal, and mutually nourishing (I Love 148). Elizabeth Grosz’s refiguring of desire somewhat echoes Irigaray’s stance. Drawing upon Deleuze and Guattarai, Grosz also conceptualises desire as productive and full. She insists that in order to understand this expanded conception of desire we must first “abandon our habitual understanding of entities as the integrated totality of parts, and instead focus on the elements, the parts, outside their integration or organisation; we must look beyond the organism to the organs comprising it” (78). Totalities remain and must be recognised, but an understanding of the dynamics of those totalities is better accomplished through an investigation of the parts rather the whole. In her privileging of parts I see reflections of Irigaray’s respect for difference and dialectical creation. Indeed, one can easily see themes of fluidity and multiplicity running through the work of the theorists we have examined. This thematic/analytical consistency, I would argue, is at least partially explained by their active engagement in the complexity of romantic love. How not to theorise subjectivities formed via narratives of romantic love in a manner that resists dualisms when romantic love itself overflows with multiplicities? This is not, of course, to downplay the role of other factors, contingencies, and motivations. Still, that some feminists are critical of certain aspects of Foucauldian theory (his failure to adequately account for unequal power relations; his seeming denial that one group or class may dominate another) strikes me as directly related to issues located (if not exclusively) within the contemporary concept of romantic love (see Hartsock; Ramazanoğlu; Sedgwick). That such is the case is, for me, no surprise. Ultimately, in spite of its long history of repression and inequity, romantic love’s ever-increasing complexity points to possible future transformations (as Giddens details). My optimism stems from the fact that romantic love’s productive force can potentially open up whole new ranges of (complex) possibilities. In the theories of Giddens, Deleuze, Irigaray, Grosz, and numerous others, we witness some of these emerging possibilities. Framing complex as an outcome that produces other complex outcomes allows me to envision the possibility of even more possibilities—something akin to Irigaray’s “expanding universe” (This 209). In the final (for now) analysis, let us follow Grosz’s lead and privilege parts over the whole. Viewed from this perspective, a given system cannot be considered as a complex thing, as though it were an isolated singularity. Focusing on the specific, the particular, and the concrete serves to highlight the contingencies, fragments, flows, shifts, multiplicities, instabilities, and relations that constitute and produce the complex. In saying this, I am not simply asserting a tautology: the complex is complex. Because the components of something complex interact in ways both provisional and productive, the complex must inevitably produce new components, parts that constitute and change the system, as well as other parts that eventually form and/or alter other complex systems. Put another way, the individual parts of a complex are themselves complex. Consequently, a deeper understanding can be gained by stepping back and re-visioning the parts-to-the-whole paradigm as complexoutcomes-ofcomplex-outcomes. Romantic love, I believe, is such an example, and an especially ubiquitous and influential one at that. Only by beginning with an understanding of love as complex can we adequately explain how it operates and produces the kinds of effects that it does. Nothing simple could produce such profoundly complex effects as identities, discourses, and material objects. Something simple may very well produce simple outcomes that eventually conjoin into something complex, a whole composed of many individual parts. But only something already complex (i.e., an existing outcome of outcomes) can produce complex outcomes instantly and automatically as a matter of course in an intricate unfolding of relationships that, like love, circulate, bond, motivate, and potentially transform. References Ackerman, Diane. A Natural History of Love. New York: Random House, 1994. Carson, Anne. Eros the Bittersweet: An Essay. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1986. Coontz, Stephanie. Marriage, a History: From Obedience to Intimacy, or How Love Conquered Marriage. New York: Viking, 2005. Deleuze, Gilles, and Félix Guattari. Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. 1972. Trans. Robert Hurley, Mark Seem, and Helen R. Lane. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1983. ———. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. 1980. Trans. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1987. Fink, Bruce. The Lacanian Subject: Between Language and Jouissance. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1995. Giddens, Anthony. The Transformation of Intimacy: Sexuality, Love and Eroticism in Modern Societies. Stanford, CA: Stanford UP, 1992. Grosz, Elizabeth. “Refiguring Lesbian Desire.” The Lesbian Postmodern. Ed. Laura Doan. New York: Columbia UP, 1994. 67-84. Hartsock, Nancy. “Foucault on Power: A Theory for Women?” Feminism/Postmodernism. Ed. Linda J. Nicholson. New York: Routledge, 1990. 157-175. Hegel, G. W. F. The Phenomenology of Mind. Trans. J. B. Baillie. New York: Harper, 1967. Holstein, James A., and Jaber F. Gubrium. The Self We Live By: Narrating Identity in a Postmodern World. New York: Oxford UP, 2000. Irigaray, Luce. I Love to You: Sketch of a Possible Felicity in History. Trans. Alison Martin. New York: Routledge, 1996. ———. “This Sex Which Is Not One.” 1985. A Reader in Feminist Knowledge. Ed. Sneja Gunew. New York: Routledge, 1991. 204-211. Jerry Maguire. Dir. Cameron Crowe. Columbia/Tristar, 1996. Lacan, Jacques. Écrits: A Selection. 1966. Trans. Alan Sheridan. New York: Norton, 1977. Lorraine, Tamsin. Irigaray and Deleuze: Experiments in Visceral Philosophy. Ithaca, New York: Cornell UP, 1999. Plato. The Symposium and The Phaedrus. Trans. William Cobb. New York: SUNY P, 1993. Ramazanoğlu, Caroline, ed. Up against Foucault: Explorations of Some Tensions between Foucault and Feminism. New York: Routledge, 1993. Rosenwald, George C., and Richard L. Ochberg, eds. Storied Lives: The Cultural Politics of Self-Understanding. New Haven, CT: Yale UP, 1992. Sartre, Jean-Paul. Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology. Trans. Hazel E. Barnes. New York: Washington Square Press, 1956. Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 2003. Singer, Irving. The Nature of Love: Courtly and Romantic. Vol. 2. Chicago: Chicago UP, 1984. ———. The Nature of Love: The Modern World. Vol. 3. Chicago: Chicago UP, 1987. Streisand, Barbra. “People.” By Bob Merrill and Jule Styne. People. Columbia, 1964. 
 
 
 
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 Introduction Our home is the most intimate space we inhabit. It is the centre of daily existence – where our most significant relationships are nurtured – where we can impart a sense of self in both physical and psychological ways. To lose this place is overwhelming, the physical implications far-reaching and the psychological impact momentous. And yet, there is little research on what happens when home is lost as a consequence of relationship breakdown. This paper provides an insight into how the meaning of home changes for those going through separation and divorce. Focusing on heterosexual couples, my research reveals that intense feelings of grief and loss are expressed as individuals in a relationship dispute reflect on different aspects of home which are destroyed as a consequence of their partnership collapse. Attitudes to the physical dwelling often reflect the changing nature of the relationship as it descends into crisis. There is a symbolic element as well, which is mirrored in the ways that the physical space is used to negotiate power imbalances, re-establish another life, maintain continuity for children, and as a bargaining tool to redress intense anger and frustration. A sense of empowerment eventually develops as the loss of the relationship is accepted and life adjustments made. Home: A Place of Profound Symbolic and Physical Meaning Home is the familiar, taken-for-granted world where most of us are nurtured, comforted and loved. Home is where we can dream and hope, relax and be ourselves, laugh and cry. For the majority, home is a safe and welcoming place, although positive associations are not universal as some experience home as a negative, threatening and unloving place. Home transcends the domestic physical structure, encompassing cultural, symbolic and psychological significance, as well as extending to the neighbourhood, city, region and nation. Home provides a sense of belonging in the world and is a refuge from the dangers and uncertainty of the environment at large. It is the centre of important human relationships and their accompanying domestic roles, rituals and routines. Home is where the bonds between partners, child and parent, brother and sister are reinforced, along with extended family members and close friends Home is a symbol of personal identity and worth, where the individual can exercise a degree of power and autonomy denied elsewhere. Significant life events, both sad and happy, learning experiences, and celebrations of varying type and magnitude, all occur at home. These are the bases for our memories of home and its importance to us, serving to imbue the notion with a sense of permanence and continuity over time. Home represents the interface between public and private worlds; a place where cultural and societal norms are symbolically juxtaposed with expressions of individuality. There has been a range of research from “humanistic-literary” to “empirical-behavioural” perspectives showing that home has “complex, multiple but inter-related meanings” (Porteous and Smith 61). And while this intellectual endeavour covers a wide range of disciplines and perspectives (for good overviews see Blunt and Dowling; Mallett; Chapman and Hockey) research on the loss of home is more limited. Nevertheless, there are some notable exceptions. Recent work by Robinson on youth homelessness in Sydney illustrates that the loss of home affects the way in which it is desired and valued, and how its absence impacts on self identity and the grief process. Fried’s seminal and much older study also tells of intense grieving, similar to that associated with the death of a loved one, when residents were forcibly removed from their homes – places perceived as slums by the city planners. Analogous issues of sorrow are detailed by Porteous and Smith in their discussion of situations where individuals and entire communities have lost their homes. The emphasis in this moving text is on the power and lack of understanding displayed by those in authority. Power resides in the ability to destroy the home of others; disrespect is shown to those who are forced to relocate. There is no appreciation of the profound meanings of home which individuals, communities and nations hold. Similarly, Read presents a range of situations involving major disruptions to meanings of home. The impact on individuals as they struggle to deal with losing a house or neighbourhood through fire, flood, financial ruin or demolition for redevelopment, demonstrates the centrality of notions of home and the devastation that results when it is no longer. So too do the many moving personal stories of migrants who have left one nation to settle in another (Herne et al), as well as more academic explorations of the diaspora (Rapport and Dawson) and resettlement and migrant women home-making (Thompson). Meanings of home are also disrupted, changed and lost when families and partnerships fall apart. Given the prevalence of relationship breakdown in our society, it is surprising that very little work has focussed on the changed meanings of home that follow. Cooper Marcus examined disruptions in bonding with the home for those who had to leave or were left following the end of a marriage or partnership. “The home may have been shared for many years; patterns of territory, privacy, and personalisation established; and memories of the past enshrined in objects, rooms, furniture, and plants” (222). Gram-Hanssen and Bech-Danielsen explore both the practical issues of dissolving a home, as well as the emotional responses of those involved. Anthony provides further illumination, recommending design solutions to help better manage housing for families affected by divorce. She concludes her paper by declaring that “…the housing experiences of women, men, and children of divorce deserve much further study” (15). The paucity of research on what happens to meanings of home when a relationship breaks down was a key motivation for the current work – a qualitative study involving self-reflection of the experience of relationship loss; in-depth interviews with nine people (three men and six women from English speaking middle class backgrounds) who had experienced a major partnership breakdown; and focus group sessions and one in-depth interview with nine professional mediators (six women and three men) who work with separating couples. The mediators provided an informed overview of the way in which separating partners negotiate the loss of a shared home across the range of its physical and psychological meanings. Their reflections confirmed that the identified themes in the individual stories were typical of a range of experiences, feelings and actions they had encountered with different clients. Relationship Breakdown and Meanings of Home: What the Research Revealed The Symbolism of Home The interview, focus group and reflective data all confirmed the centrality of home and its multi-dimensional meanings. Different physical and symbolic elements were uncovered, mirroring theoretical schemas in the literature. These meanings go far beyond a physical space and the objects therein. They represent different aspects of the individual’s sense of self, well-being and identity, as well as their roles and feelings of belonging in a family and the broader social and cultural setting. Home was described as a place to be one’s self; where one can relax away from the rest of the world. Participants talked about home creating a sense of belonging and familiarity. This was achieved in many ways including physical renovation of the structure, working in the garden, enjoying the dwelling space and nurturing family relationships. As Helen said, …the home and children go together… I created belonging by creating a space which was mine, which was always decorated in a very particular way which is mine, and which was my place of belonging for me and my kin… that’s my home – it’s just absolutely essential to me. Home was described as an important physical place. This incorporated the dwelling as a structure and the special things that adorn it. Objects such as the marital bed, family photos, artifacts and pets were important symbols of home as a shared place. As the mediators pointed out, in the splitting up process, these often take on huge significance as a couple try to decide who has what. The division is typically the final acknowledgement that the relationship is over. The interviewees told me that home extended beyond the dwelling into the wider neighbourhood. This encompassed networks of friendships, including relationships with local residents, business people and service providers, to the physical places frequented such as parks, shops and cafes. These neighbourhood connections were severed when the relationship broke down. The data revealed home as a shared space where couples undertook daily tasks such as preparing meals together and doing the housework. There was pleasure in these routines which further reinforced home as a central aspect of the partnership, as Laura explained: But for the most part it [my marriage relationship] was very amicable… easy going, and it really was a whole thing of self-expression. And the house was very much about self-expression. Even cooking. We both loved to cook, we’d have lots of dinner parties… things like that. With the loss of the relationship the rhythm and comfort of everyday activities were shattered. Sharing was also linked to the financial aspects of home, with the payment of a mortgage representing a combined effort in working towards ownership of the physical dwelling. While the end of a relationship usually spelt severe financial difficulty, if not disaster, it also meant the loss of that shared commitment to build a secure financial future together extending into old age. The Deteriorating Relationship A decline in the physical qualities of the dwelling often accompanied the demise of the inter-personal relationship. As the partnership descended into crisis, the centrality of home and its importance across both physical and symbolic elements were increasingly threatened. This shift in meaning impacted on the loss experienced and the subsequent translation into conflict and grief. It [the house] was quite run down, but I think it kind of reflected our situation at the time which was fairly strained in terms of finances and lack of certainty about what was happening… tiny little damp house and no [friendship] network and no money and no stability, that’s how it felt. (Jill) Not only did home begin to symbolise a battleground, it started to take on lost dreams and hopes. For Helen, it embodied a force that was greater than the relationship she had shared with her husband. And that home became the symbol of our fight… a symbol of how closely glued we were together… And I think that’s why we had such enormous difficulty breaking up because the house actually held us together in some way … it was as though the house was a sort of a binding force of the relationship. The home as the centre of family relationships and personal identity was threatened by the deteriorating relationship. For Jill this represented ending her dream that being a wife and mother were what she needed to define her identity and purpose in life. I was very unhappy. I’d got these two babies, I’d got what I thought was quite a catch husband, who was doing very well… but yet somehow I felt very unhappy and insecure, very insecure, and I realised that the whole role I had carved out for myself wasn’t going to do it. The End of the Relationship: Disruption, Explosion, Grief and Loss While the relationship can be in crisis for many months, eventually there is a point where any hope of reconciliation disappears. For some separating couples this phase was heralded by a defining, shattering and shocking moment when it was clear that their relationship was over. Both physical and emotional violence were reported by my interviewees, including these comments from Helen. And so my parting from the home was actually very explosive. In fact it was the first time he ever hit me, and it was in the hitting of me that I left home… And while the final stage was not always dramatic or violent, there was a realisation that this was the end of the dream – the end of home. A deep sadness resulted, as evident in Greg’s story: I was there in the house by myself and I can remember the house was empty, all the furniture had been shifted out…I actually shed a few tears as I left the house because…the strongest feeling I had was that this was a house that had such a potential for me. It had such a potential for a good loving relationship and I just felt that it did represent, leaving then, represented the kind of the dashing of the hope that I had in that relationship. In some cases the end of the relationship was accompanied by feelings of guilt for shattering the home. In other cases, the home became a battleground as the partners fought over who was going to move out. …if they’re separated under the one roof and nobody’s moved out, but certainly in one person’s mind the marriage is over, and sometimes in both… there’s a big tussle about who’s going to move out and nobody wants to go… (Mediator) The loss of home could also bring with it a fear of never having another, as well as a rude awakening that the lost home was taken for granted. Cathy spoke of this terror. I became so obsessed with the notion that I’d never have a home again, and I remember thinking how could I have taken so much for granted? The end of a relationship was accompanied by a growing realisation of impending loss – the loss of familiar and well-loved surroundings. This encompassed the local neighbourhood, the dwelling space and the daily routine of married life. I can remember feeling, [and] knowing the relationship was coming to an end, and knowing that we were going to be selling the house and we were going to be splitting…, feeling quite sad walking down the street the last few times… realising I wouldn’t be doing this much longer. I was very conscious of the fact that I was… going up and down those railway station escalators for the last few times, and going down the street for the last few times, and suddenly…[I felt]… an impending sense of loss because I liked the neighbourhood… There was also a loss in the sense of not having a physical space which I kind of wanted to live in… [I] don’t like living in small units or rented rooms… I just prefer what I see as a proper house… so downsizing [my accommodation] just kind of makes the whole emotional situation worse …there was [also] a lack of domesticity, and the kind of sharing of meals and so on that does…make you feel some sort of warmth… (Greg) Transitions: Developing New Meanings of Home Once there was an acknowledgment – whether a defining moment or a gradual process – that the relationship was over, a transitional phase dawned when new meanings of home began to emerge. Of the people I interviewed, some stayed on in the once shared dwelling, and others moved out to occupy a new space. Both actions required physical and psychological adjustments which took time and energy, as well as a determination to adapt. Organising parenting arrangements, dividing possessions and tentative steps towards the establishment of another life characterised this phase. While individual stories revealed a variety of transitional approaches, there were unifying themes across the data. The transition could start by moving into a new space, which as one mediator explained, might not feel like home at all. …[one partner has] left and often left with very little, maybe just a suitcase of clothes, and so their sense of home is still the marital home or the family home, but they’re camping at a unit somewhere, or mother’s spare room or a relative’s backyard or garage or something… They’re truly homeless. For others, while setting up a new space was initially very hard and alien, with effort and time, it could take on a home-like quality, as Helen found. I did take things from the house. I took all the things I’d hidden in cupboards that were not used or second-hand… things that weren’t used everyday or on display or anything… things I’d take like if you were going camping… I wasn’t at home… it was awful…[but gradually]… I put things around… to make it homely for me and I would spend hours doing it, Just hours… paintings on the wall are important, and a stereo system and music was important. My books were important…and photographs became very important. Changes in tenure could also bring about profound feelings of loss. This was Keith’s experience: Well I’m renting now which is a bit difficult after having your own home… you feel a bit stifled in the fact that you can’t decorate it, and you can’t do things, or you can’t fix things… now I’m in a place which is drab and the colours are horrible and I don’t particularly like it and it’s awful. The experience of remaining in the home once one’s partner leaves is different to being the one to leave the formerly shared space. However, similar adaptation strategies were required as can be seen from Barbara’s experience: …so, I rearranged the lounge room and I rearranged the bedroom…I probably did that fairly promptly actually, so that I wasn’t walking back into the same mental images all the time…I’m now beginning to have that sense of wanting to put my mark on it, so I’ve started some painting and doing things… Laura talked about how she initially felt scared living on her own, despite occupying familiar surroundings, but this gradually changed as she altered the once shared physical space. Sally spoke about reclaiming the physical space on her own and through these deliberative actions, empowering herself as a single person. Those with dependent children struggled in different ways during this transition period. Individual needs to either move or reclaim the existing space were often subjugated to the requirements of their off-spring – where it might be best for them to live and with whom they should principally reside. I think the biggest issue is where the children are going to be. So whoever wants the children also wants the family home. And that’s where the pull and tug starts… it’s a big desire not to disrupt the children and to keep a smooth life for them. (Mediator) Finally, there was a sense of moving along. Meanings of home changed as the strength of the emotional attachment weakened and those involved began to see that another life was possible. The old meanings of home had to be confronted and prized apart, just as the connections between the partners were painstakingly severed, one by one. Sally likened this time consuming and arduous process to laboriously unpicking the threads of a tightly woven cloth. Empowerment: Meanings of Home to Mirror a New Life …I’ve realized too that I’m the person I am today because of that experience. (Sally) The stories of participants in this research ended with hope for the future. Perhaps this reflects my interviewees’ determination to build a new life following the loss of their relationship, most having the personal resources to work through their loss, grief and conflict. This is not however, always the case. Divorce can lead to long lasting feelings of failure, disappointment and a sense that one has “an inability to love or care…” (Ambrose 87). However, “with acceptance of the separation many come to see the break-up as having been beneficial and report feeling they have an improved quality of life” (88). This positive stance is mirrored in my mediator focus group data and other literature (for example, Cooper Marcus 222-238). Out of the painful loss of home emerges a re-evaluation of one’s priorities and a revitalized sense of self, as illustrated by Barbara’s words below. That’s come out of the separation, suddenly going, ‘Oh, hang on, I can do what I want to do, when I want to do it’. It’s quite nice really… I’ve decided [to] start pursuing a few of the things I always wanted to do, so I’m using a bit of the space [in the house] to study… I’m doing a lot of stuff that nurtures me and my interest and my space… Feelings of liberation were entwined with meanings of home as spaces were decorated afresh, and in some cases, a true home founded for the first time. [since the end of the relationship]… I actually see my space differently, I want less around me, I’ve been really clearing out things, throwing things out, clearing cupboards… kind of feung shui-ing every corner and just really keeping it clear and clean… I’ve painted the whole house. It was like it needed a fresh coat of something over it… (Laura) Empowerment embodied lessons learnt and in some cases, a more cautious redefining of home. Barbara put it this way: I’m really scared of losing what I’ve now got [my home on my own] and that sense of independence… maybe I will not go into a relationship because I don’t want to put that at risk. Finally, meanings of home took on different dimensions that reflected the new life and hope it engendered. …it’s very interesting to me to be in a house now that is a very solid, square, double brick house… [I feel] that it’s much more representative of who I am now… the solidness is very much me… I feel as though I inhabit my home more now… I have much more sense of peace around my home now than I did then in the previous house… it’s the space where I feel extremely comfortable… a space to meditate on… I’m home – I can now be myself… (Helen) I don’t know whether… [my meaning of home] is actually a physical structure any more…Now it’s come more into … surrounding myself with things that I love, like you know bits and pieces that you can take, your photographs and your pet… it’s really much more about being happy I think, and being happy in a space with somebody that you love, rather than living in a box like a prison, with somebody that you really despise (Keith) Conclusion … the physical moving out from my own home was probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my entire life. (Jane) The trauma of divorce is a crisis that occurs in many of our lives, and one which often triggers a profound dislocation in person-dwelling relations. (Cooper Marcus 222) This paper has presented insights into the ways in which multi-dimensional meanings of home change when an intimate familial relationship breaks down. The nature and degree of the impacts vary from one individual to another, as do the ways in which the identifiable stages of relationship breakdown play out in different partnership situations. Nevertheless, this research revealed a transformative journey – from the devastation of the initial loss to an eventual redefining of home across its symbolic, psychological and physical constructs. References Ambrose, Peter J. Surviving Divorce: Men beyond Marriage. Sussex: Wheatsheaf Books, 1983. Anthony, Kathryn H. “Bitter Homes and Gardens: The Meanings of Home to Families of Divorce.” Journal of Architectural and Planning Research 14.1 (1997): 1-19. Blunt, Alison, and Robyn Dowling. Home. London: Routledge, 2006. Chapman, Tony, and Jenny Hockey. Ideal Homes? Social Change and Domestic Life. London: Routledge, 1999. Cooper Marcus, Clare. House as a Mirror of Self: Exploring the Deeper Meaning of Home. Berkeley: Conari Press, 1995. Fried, Marc. “Grieving for a Lost Home.” In L. Duhl, ed. The Urban Condition: People and Policy in the Metropolis. New York: Basic Books, 1963. 151-171. Gram-Hanssen, Kirsten, and Claus Bech-Danielsen. “Home Dissolution – What Happens after Separating?” Paper presented at the European Network for Housing Research, ENHR International Housing Conference, Ljubljana, Slovenia, 2006. Herne, Karen, Joanne Travaglia, and Elizabeth Weiss, eds. Who Do You Think You Are? Second Generation Immigrant Women in Australia. Sydney: Women’s Redress Press, 1992. Mallett, Shelley. “Understanding Home: A Critical Review of the Literature.” The Sociological Review 52.1 (2004): 62-89. Porteous, Douglas J., and Sandra E. Smith. Domicide: The Global Destruction of Home. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queens UP, 2001. Rapport, Nigel, and Andrew Dawson, eds. Migrants of Identity: Perceptions of Home in a World of Movement. New York: Oxford, 1998. Read, Peter. Returning to Nothing: The Meaning of Lost Places. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1996. Robinson, Catherine. “‘I Think Home Is More than a Building’: Young Home(less) People on the Cusp of Home, Self and Something Else.” Urban Policy and Research 20.1 (2002): 27–38. Robinson, Catherine. “Grieving Home.” Social and Cultural Geography 6.1 (2005): 47–60. Thompson, Susan. “Suburbs of Opportunity: The Power of Home for Migrant Women.” In K. Gibson and S. Watson, eds. Metropolis Now: Planning and the Urban in Contemporary Australia. Australia: Pluto Press, 1994. 33-45. 
 
 
 
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Graffiti remains a particularly resilient aspect of the contemporary urban landscape and as a pillar of Hip-Hop culture enjoys an enduring popularity as a subject of academic inquiry.1 As the practice of graffiti is so historically broad it is within the context of Hip-Hop culture that I will limit my observations. In this tradition, graffiti is often rationalised as either a rebellious attempt at territorial reclamation by an alienated subculture or reduced to a practice of elaborate attention seeking. This type of account is offered in titles such as Nelson George's Hip-Hop America (George 1998, 14-15) and David Toop's Rap Attack series (Toop 2000, 11-14). Whilst I am in accord with their respective analyses of graffiti's role as a territorial practice, these discussions concentrate on graffiti's social significance and neglect the immanent logistical processes that precede artistic practice. A Deleuze-Guattarian approach would emphasise the process over the final product, as they believe, '[w]riting has nothing to do with signifying. It has to do with surveying, mapping, even realms that are yet to come' (Deleuze and Guattari 1987, 4-5).2 This undermines the self-contained approach to graffiti as artistic signification and offers a more encompassing approach to investigating the graffiti writers' desire to physically connect with the architecture of the city. It was William Upski Wimsatt's 'underground bestseller' Bomb the Suburbs that inspired my Deleuze-Guattarian perspective on the processes behind graffiti. After reading the testimonies of the author and his peers about the niceties of underground graffiti writing, I was struck by the profound affective relations to technology they described. Many discussions of graffiti, academic or otherwise, relegate the artists' exploration of the urban environment and its technologies to be of secondary importance to the production of the artwork itself. Wimsatt's affectionate account of a city discovered via graffiti writing appeared to have resonance with the Deleuze-Guattarian concept of 'becoming'. For Deleuze (both alone and in conjunction with Felix Guattari), the concept of 'becoming' was a complex redefinition, or perhaps destruction, of the traditional dichotomy between 'subject' and 'object'. Baring in mind that this concept was developed across the breadth of his work, here I offer a concise, and perhaps more readily accessible definition of 'becoming' from Claire Colebrook's Gilles Deleuze: 'The human becomes more than itself - by becoming-hybrid with what is not itself. This creates 'lines of flight'; from life itself we imagine all the becomings of life, using the human power of imagination to overcome the human' (Colebrook 2001, 129). Using 'becoming' as a conceptual approach provides a rather more productive consideration of the graffiti writers' endeavours rather than simply reducing their status to simple archetypes such as 'criminal', 'rebel' or even 'visual artist'. In this way we could look at their ongoing and active engagement with the city's architecture as an ongoing 'becoming' with urban technologies. This is manifest in the graffiti writers' willingness to break the law and even risk physical danger in order to find new ways of moving about the city. Bomb the Suburbs outlines the trials and tribulations of Chicago based, 'old school' graffiti artist Wimsatt who writes about his first-hand observations on the decaying urban environment within major US cities. Bomb the Suburbs is both a handbook of Hip-Hop culture, as well as an astute piece of social analysis. Wimsatt's approach is self-consciously provocative, and shining through all the revolutionary rhetoric is essentially a love affair with the city and its technologies. 'As a writer, there is nothing I love better, nowhere in the city I love more, than the CTA (Chicago Transit Authority). Whether it's climbing on the tracks, playing in the tunnels, or just chillin' in between cars, I think of the CTA as my personal jungle gym. The fact is, we graffiti writers have a very close relationship with the train lines. Yet it is our goal to fuck them up' (Wimsatt 1994, 143). Such an extraordinary physical relationship with the city's technology obviously surpasses the general public's more mundane interactions. The amount of dedication required by the graffiti writers to scale buildings, trains and bridges, obviously goes beyond a mere desire of exposure for their art. Hence I regard the writers as having perhaps the strongest affective bond with the city of any resident, as their pioneering of unorthodox navigational feats requires a level of commitment that far exceeds the rest of the population. Thus the artistry justifies the means of the exploratory process and the graffiti merely serves as a premise to interact with the city's architecture. Wimsatt's enthusiastic account of the CTA infers the desire to realise new interactions that surpass the rather more average ambition of getting on and off at the right stops. An inordinate amount of attention to potential vehicles of exposure, such as the city's rail system becomes a requirement of any self-respecting graffiti writer. Hence they acquire an intricate knowledge of the logistical processes that keep the city's transportation system ticking over. Detailed knowledge of platforms, schedules, right up to employee shift changes are necessary and each of these aspects in turn open out into a variety of assemblages that offer insight into the inner workings of the city. Unfortunately for these urban explorers, their unorthodox interactions with the city architecture are invariably considered 'illegal', and reminiscent of the Foucauldian assertion, the transgression of law only adds to affective investment. This transgression of 'the law', also offers potential for new becomings, and the graffiti writers, in turn, acquire a 'virtual' nature as 'becoming-criminal' or 'becoming-hero', even perhaps perpetuating the struggle for an alternative 'becoming-law'. Hence the dour reflection at the end of Wimsatt's quote which highlights his exasperation over the underlying political tensions that conspire toward his beloved rail system's destruction. It is perhaps the barriers, both physical and legal that are placed between the writers and their beloved lines, which fosters the type of emotional displacement that incites such revenge. To prove that the law can't contain their desire, the writers ironically destroy the city's property so that the technology will forever bear the mark of their challenge. Wimsatt doesn't advocate this destruction, but rather he is trying to implore other writers to see the error of their ways, 'If we love trains, then bombing the CTA is biting the hand that feeds us' (Wimsatt 1994, 143). His idealistic alternative is to 'bomb the suburbs' (for the uninitiated the bombing they refer to is of the acrylic as opposed to the explosive kind) to symbolically deflect attention from the rail yards and into the homes of the indifferent. 'Bomb The Suburbs means let's celebrate the city. Let's celebrate the ghetto and the few people who aren't running away from it. Let's stop fucking up the city. Let's stop fucking up the ghetto. Let's start defending it and making it work for us' (11). Emphasising the division between the urban and suburban way of life, Wimsatt beckons graffiti writers to 'bomb the suburbs' in what I perceive, as an unorthodox means of inclusion. This call to violate suburban property is purely a scare tactic, an avenue that Wimsatt admits he is not keen to explore (143). This contempt for the suburbs is directed at what is perceived as its residents' collective escape from an inclusive dialogue. The graffiti artists are frustrated over the suburban residents' economic control of their inner city space and they have no accessible political vehicle to voice this complaint. In the minds of the graffiti writers, the suburban population is ungrateful, as the technology such as the CTA is taken for granted, or not even used at all. Wimsatt hates the insular culture of the car owning commuters that symbolise the suburban condition. They are deemed to pollute the city and will subsequently be the first to retreat from any adversity as their collective goal has been to acquire the means to take an out of sight, out of mind approach to urban life. Thus, Wimsatt blames the suburban population for the continuing malaise suffered by inner city residents. Their collective exodus to the suburbs has negatively impacted on city funding and continues to erode the quality of life of its inhabitants. Wimsatt's admonition of the suburban condition begins in the introduction on the front cover of the book stating, 'The suburbs is more than just an unfortunate geographical location, it is an unfortunate state-of-mind. It's the American state-of-mind, founded on fear, conformity, shallowness of character, and dullness of imagination.' Yet Wimsatt would have difficulty convincing his posse of writers to 'bomb the suburbs' for a solely political purpose as the attributes of the city that make it so accessible conversely makes the suburbs logistically difficult to conquer. By his own admission the pleasure of graffiti writing lies in the thrill of exploring the city's architecture as this process in its entirety forms an affective assemblage. For Deleuze and Guattari these 'affects are becomings' (Deleuze and Guattari 1987, 256), perhaps simply understood as the affective intensities that influence our movement through the world, and this is how the graffiti writers integrate themselves into the matrix of the city assemblage. Furthermore, Deleuze and Guattari offer that art consists of blocs of affects and percepts and that its role is to draw attention to these processes (Deleuze and Guattari 1994, 163-199), '[a]ffects are sensible experiences in their singularity, liberated from organising systems of representation' (Colebrook 2001, 22). Thus graffiti operates on a purely affective level and the works of its anonymous authors, whose collective texts are often indecipherable, appear to have little cultural relevance to the general public. This is demonstrative of a Deleuze-Guattarian reading where graffiti's significance as 'writing' is actually negligible. The pragmatic significance of graffiti in terms of territorial marking is its role as a refrain, providing infinite transference of signification. The refrains create relations of corresponding affective assemblages and in this way the graffiti is able to generate a range of audience positions. Whilst it may indicate signify a hostile environment for some, it similarly provides information to others or is perhaps merely treated with indifference. To this extent the recollections of Wimsatt and his peers recall Deleuzean empiricism and its 'commitment to experience,' as '[o]ne way of thinking empiricism is to see all life as a flow and connection of interacting bodies, or 'desiring machines'. These connections form regularities, which can then be organised through 'social machines' (Colebrook 2001, 89). Graffiti consciously draws attention to its procedure thus creating corresponding affective assemblages, and the ensuing relations inform audience opinions. Many would contend that graffiti is inherently destructive and would necessarily disagree with my claim that it derives from a love of the city. Dissenting opinion is invariably based on relative aesthetic merits and as a result will always be inconclusive. The only thing that can be tangibly measured is the ownership of capital and in this context graffiti will always remain the visual sign of a losing battle. Graffiti is the evidence of its writers' respective status as 'ghosts in the machine'. Presented in terms of information theory, we could view graffiti as feedback, either signal or noise depending on how you are positioned. As a permanent fixture of the urban environment it is indicative of a city that is all but running smoothly. The nature of this underlying antagonism is elaborated in Houston A Baker jr's Black Studies, Rap and the Academy where graffiti is 'perceived as the ethnic pollution of public space' by the 'other' (Baker 1993, 43). Baker then proceeds to the heart of the matter, questioning the values inherent in the regulation of public space, 'the contest was urbanely proprietorial: Who owns the public spaces? What constitutes information and what constitutes noise? Just what is visually and audibly pure and what precisely is noise pollution or graffiti?'. He contends that community opinion over such aesthetic maintenance of the public space will continue to be dominated by corporate capital. 'Urban public spaces of the late twentieth century are spaces of audiovisual contest. It's something like this: My billboards and neon and handbills and high-decibel-level television advertising are purely for the public good. Your boom boxes and graffiti are evil pollutants. Erase them, shut them down! (43)' Graffiti writers are fully aware that any attempt for consensus over aesthetics is futile as the urban subcultures have little political clout. Their ongoing battle is a vain attempt at seeking alternate ways to access this public space and will continue to sustain casualties both architectural and human. Thus the visibility of graffiti on a train line provides an affective assemblage that is as intrinsic to the network as the tracks themselves. As public property3 the railway is installed to serve the collective population and graffiti writers, it can be argued, just seek to use it in an unorthodox manner. Their work is undoubtedly just as creative and perhaps less objectionable than most billboard ads. Advertising on the other hand, represents the collusion of private property ownership that informs public opinion. This view perpetuates the 'reasonable' assumption that advertisements are an acceptable use of the public space based on the 'logic' that they are spatially contained and regulated by capital. Alienated from that sphere of capital ownership, graffiti impinges on this private stranglehold of public aesthetics. In this capacity graffiti artists invite a momentary existential awakening, drawing attention to our internalised self-regulation. It is such conditioning that in turn may provoke us to mouth an obligatory 'tut tut'. Yet, running into this visual 'other' requires self-reflection, caught up in our daily routine we are oblivious to our physical surroundings and only realise what we are missing when it has been tampered with. The writers' unorthodox interaction with city architecture questions our fetishizing of blank walls, and our instilled lack of practical interaction with our surrounds. Nevertheless, the reality is that graffiti signifies to a large percentage of the population a sense of danger, a side effect that Wimsatt is indeed aware and is trying to discourage. Bomb the Suburbs is concerned with mapping out relations within the city's delicate ecosystem and how the mere act of graffiti affects a feedback loop that ends up in the pockets of the corporates: 'Every time we fat cap an outside, or even scratch-bomb a window, we've got guys with last names like Ford, Toyota, and Isuzu with us all the way, cheering us on - we're helping them fuck up public transportation for free' (Wimsatt 1994, 142). So the more graffiti, the fewer people ride the subway and will instead continue to buy cars and perpetuate the urban/suburban divide. Wimsatt and his peers are embittered that those who actually own most of the city care so little about it that they leave for the suburbs every night, to retreat from the 'urban noise' epitomised by graffiti culture to one of secluded suburban silence. Hence Wimsatt's enthusiasm for a communal project of graffiti led urban renewal believing it will liven up neglected and plain forgotten parts of the city (104). He goes out of his way to visit the more ravaged and neglected cities in the US, dreaming of how graffiti could help promote reinvestment, both emotional and financial, back into the heart of the city. Wimsatt also realises this can only be achieved with the grass roots support of the graffiti writing community themselves. 'I'm not even going to talk about the train yards. Yes, they're easy, but you're not allowed to bomb them as a personal favor to me. Cleveland is struggling not to become another Detroit and scare all its capital off to the suburbs. If you're going to do graffiti in Cleveland, do it to help Cleveland back up, not to kick it while it's down' (43). Yet his vision of urban renewal is one that scorns permission for legal designs (113) as the impetus for this project must derive organically from the graffiti writers' collective process of observation via urban exploration. For them, legal design defeats the purpose of this empirical process, and for this reason the artists believe there is no challenge in doing 'pieces' in the easy spots as a necessary part of the process requires the 'becoming' with the urban environment. The graffiti writers' lifestyle is itself an experimental project intended as a direct challenge on the 'conventional' epitomised by suburban existence. The graffiti markings operate as Deleuze-Guattarian 'lines of flight' that indicate that there are alternate ways of moving about the city, replete with a set of refrains to indicate the existence of a suitably alternative culture. We are aware that the smooth running of the urban capitalist machine requires the striations that demarcate no-go areas and territories forbidden to pubic access. To paraphrase Deleuze and Guattari, that in order to run smoothly, you have to striate, and there is a lot of wasted space created in the process. The graffiti writers merely seek to claw back these neglected territories. Notes 1. The following list is provided as a guide, and is by no means considered exhaustive, of some of the key texts employed in my research: Castleman, Craig. Getting Up: Subway Graffiti in New York. New York: MIT Press, 1984; Chalfant, Henry, and James Prigoff. Spraycan Art. New York, N.Y.: Thames and Hudson, 1987; Baker, Houston A. Black Studies, Rap, and the Academy. Black Literature and Culture. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993; Wimsatt, William 'Upski'. Bomb the Suburbs. New York: Soft Skull Press, 1994; George, Nelson. Hip Hop America. London: Penguin, 1998; Poschardt, Ulf. DJ Culture. Trans. Shaun Whiteside. London: Quartet Books, 1998; Light, Alan. The Vibe History of Hip Hop. Three Rivers Press, New York, 1999; Ogg, Alex, and David Upshal. The Hip-Hop Years: A History of Rap. London: Channel 4 Books, 1999; Toop, David. Rap Attack # 3: African Rap to Global Hip Hop. London: Serpent's Tail, 2000; Gonzales, Michael A. 'Hip-Hop Nation: From Rockin' the House to Planet Rock' in Crossroads. Seattle, Marquand Books, 2000. 2. Note: The relation of this quote to the practice of graffiti writing was previously outlined in Richard Higgins article 'Machines, Big and Little' available at http://www.arts.monash.edu.au/gsandss/sl... My discovery of this essay occurred during my research and whilst my own analysis takes a different approach I am obviously compelled to acknowledge my familiarity with this excellent piece of work. 3. Although this situation is rapidly changing as railway's status as public property is being slowly compromised as its running is increasingly handled by the private sector. References Baker, Houston A. jr. (1993) Black Studies, Rap, and the Academy. Black Literature and Culture. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Castleman, Craig. (1984) Getting Up: Subway Graffiti in New York. New York: MIT Press. Chalfant, Henry, and James Prigoff. (1987) Spraycan Art. New York, N.Y.: Thames and Hudson. Colebrook, Claire. (2001) Gilles Deleuze. London: Routledge. Deleuze, Gilles, and Félix Guattari. (1987) A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Brian Massumi. London: Athlone Press. Deleuze, Gilles and Félix Guattari. (1994) What Is Philosophy? Trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Graham Burchill. New York: Columbia University Press. George, Nelson. (1998) Hip Hop America. London: Penguin. Gonzales, Michael A. (2000) 'Hip-Hop Nation: From Rockin' the House to Planet Rock.' Crossroads. Seattle: Marquand Books. Light, Alan. (1999) The Vibe History of Hip Hop. Three Rivers Press, New York. Ogg, Alex, and David Upshal. (1999) The Hip-Hop Years: A History of Rap. London: Channel 4 Books. Poschardt, Ulf. (1998) DJ Culture. Trans. Shaun Whiteside. London: Quartet Books. Toop, David. (2000) Rap Attack # 3: African Rap to Global Hip Hop. London: Serpent's Tail. Wimsatt, William. (1994) 'Upski'. Bomb the Suburbs. New York: Soft Skull Press. Links http://www.arts.monash.edu.au/gsandss/slavic/papers/rhizome.html. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Scannell, John. "Becoming-City" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.2 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/becoming.php>. Chicago Style Scannell, John, "Becoming-City" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 2 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/becoming.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Bennett, Simon A.. (2002) A City Divided. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(2). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/divided.php> ([your date of access]).

Introduction This article aims to explore some of the ideological discourses that reinforce marriage as a central social and cultural institution in US-American society. Andrew Cherlin argues that despite social secularisation, rising divorce rates and the emergence of other, alternative forms of love and living, marriage “remains the most highly valued form of family life in American culture, the most prestigious way to live your life” (9). Indeed, marriage in the US has become an ideological and political battlefield, with charged debates about who is entitled to this form of state-sanctioned relationship, with the government spending large sums of money to promote the value of marriage and the highest number of people projected to get married (nearly 90 per cent of all people) compared to other Western nations (Cherlin 4). I argue here that the idea of marriage as the ideal form for an intimate relationship permeates US-American culture to an extent that we can speak of a marital hegemony. This hegemony is fuelled by and reflected in the saturation of American popular culture with celebratory depictions of the white wedding as public performance and symbolic manifestation of the values associated with marriage. These depictions contribute to the discursive production of weddings as “one of the major events that signal readiness and prepare heterosexuals for membership in marriage as an organizing practice for the institution of marriage” (Ingraham 4). From the representation of weddings as cinematic climax in a huge number of films, to TV shows such as The Bachelor, Bridezillas and Race to the Altar, to the advertisement industry and the bridal magazines that construct the figure of the bride as an ideal that every girl and woman should aspire to, popular discourses promote the desirability of marriage in a wide range of media spheres. These representations, which I call bridal fictions, do not only shape and regulate the production of gendered, raced, classed and sexual identities in the media in fundamental ways. They also promote the idea that marriage is the only adequate framework for an intimate relationship and for the constitution of an acceptable gendered identity, meanwhile reproducing heterosexuality as norm and monogamy as societal duty. Thus I argue that we can understand contemporary bridal fictions as a symbolic legitimation of marital hegemony that perpetuates the idea that “lifelong marriage is a moral imperative” (Coontz 292). Marital Hegemony By drawing on Gramsci’s term and argument of cultural hegemony, I propose that public, political, religious and popular discourses work together in intersecting, overlapping, ideologically motivated and often even contradictory ways to produce what can be conceptualised as marital hegemony. Gramsci understands the relationship between state coercion and legitimation as crucial to an understanding of constituted consensus and co-operation. By legitimation Gramsci refers to processes through which social elites constitute their leadership through the universalizing of their own class-based self-interests. These self-interests are adopted by the greater majority of people, who apprehend them as natural or universal standards of value (common sense). This ‘hegemony’ neutralizes dissent, instilling the values, beliefs and cultural meanings into the generalized social structures. (Lewis 76-77)Marital hegemony also consists of those two mechanisms, coercion and legitimation. Coercion by the social elites, in this case by the state, is conducted through intervening in the private life of citizens in order to regulate and control their intimate relationships. Through the offering of financial benefits, medical insurance, tax cuts and various other privileges to married partners only (see Ingraham 175-76), the state withholds these benefits from all those that do not conform to this kind of state-sanctioned relationship. However, this must serve as the topic of another discussion, as this paper is more interested in the second aspect of hegemony, the symbolic legitimation. Symbolic legitimation works through the depiction of the white wedding as the occasion on which entering the institution of marriage is publicly celebrated and marital identity is socially validated. Bridal fictions work on a semiotic and symbolic level to display and perpetuate the idea of marriage as the most desirable and ultimately only legitimate form of intimate, heterosexual relationships. This is not to say that there is no resistance to this form of hegemony, as Foucault argues, eventually there is no “power without resistances” (142). However, as Engstrom contends, contemporary bridal fictions “reinforce and endorse the idea that romantic relationships should and must lead to marriage, which requires public display—the wedding” (3). Thus I argue that we can understand contemporary bridal fictions as one key symbolic factor in the production of marital hegemony. The ongoing centrality of marriage as an institution finds its reflection, as Otnes and Pleck argue, in the fact that the white wedding, in spite of all changes and processes of liberalisation in regard to gender, family and sexuality, “remains the most significant ritual in contemporary culture” (5). Accordingly, popular culture, reflective as well as constitutive of existing cultural paradigms, is saturated with what I have termed here bridal fictions. Bridal representations have been subject to rigorous academic investigation (c.f. Currie, Geller, Bambacas, Boden, Otnes and Pleck, Wallace and Howard). But, by using the term “bridal fictions”, I seek to underscore the fictional nature of these apparent “representations”, emphasising their role in producing pervasive utopias, rather than representing reality. This is not to say that bridal fictions are solely fictive. In fact, my argument here is that these bridal fictions do have discursive influence on contemporary wedding culture and practices. With my analysis of a bridal advertisement campaign later on in this paper, I aim to show exemplarily how bridal fictions work not only in perpetuating marriage, monogamy and heteronormativity as central organizing principles of intimate life. But moreover, how bridal fictions use this framework to promote certain kinds of white, heterosexual, upper-class identities that normatively inform our understanding of who is seen as entitled to this form of state-sanctioned relationship. Furthermore my aim is to highlight the role of postfeminist frames in sustaining marital hegemony. Second Wave feminism, seeing marriage as a form of “intimate colonization” (in Finlay and Clarke 416), has always been one of the few sources of critique in regard to this institution. In contrast, postfeminist accounts, now informing a significant amount of contemporary bridal fictions, evoke marriage as actively chosen, unproblematic and innately desired state of being for women. By constructing the liberated, self-determined figure of the postfeminist bride, contemporary bridal fictions naturalise and re-modernise marriage as framework for the constitution of modern feminine identity. An analysis of postfeminist bridal identities, as done in the following, is thus vital to my argument, because it highlights how postfeminist accounts deflect feminism’s critique of marriage as patriarchal, political and hegemonic institution and hence contribute to the perpetuation and production of marital hegemony. The Postfeminist Bride Postfeminism has emerged since the early 1990s as the dominant mode of constructing femininities in the media. Angela McRobbie understands postfeminism as “to refer to an active process by which feminist gains of the 1970s and 80s come to be undermined”, while simultaneously appearing to be “a well-informed and even well-intended response to feminism” (“Postfeminism” 255). Based on the assumption that women nowadays are no longer subjected to patriarchal power structures anymore, postfeminism actively takes feminism into account while, at the same time, “undoing” it (McRobbie “Postfeminism” 255). In contemporary postfeminist culture, feminism is “decisively aged and made to seem redundant”, which allows a conscious “dis-identification” and/or “forceful non-identity” with accounts of Second Wave feminism (McRobbie Aftermath 15). This demarcation from earlier forms of feminism is particularly evident with regard to marriage and wedding discourses. Second wave feminist critics such as Betty Friedan (1973) and Carole Pateman were critical of the influence of marriage on women’s psychological, financial and sexual freedom. This generation of feminists saw marriage as a manifestation of patriarchal power, which is based on women’s total emotional and erotic loyalty and subservience (Rich 1980), as well as on “men’s domination over women, and the right of men to enjoy equal sexual access to women” (Pateman 1988 2). In contrast, contemporary postfeminism enunciates now that “equality is achieved, in order to install a whole repertoire of new meanings which emphasise that it [feminism] is no longer needed, it is a spent force” (McRobbie “Postfeminism” 255). Instead of seeing marriage as institutionlised subjugation of women, the postfeminist generation of “educated women who have come of age in the 1990s feel that the women’s liberation movement has achieved its goals and that marriage is now an even playing field in which the two sexes operate as equal partners” (Geller 110). As McRobbie argues “feminism was anti-marriage and this can now to be shown to be great mistake” (Aftermath 20). Accordingly, postfeminist bridal fictions do not depict the bride as passive and waiting to be married, relying on conservative and patriarchal notions of hegemonic femininity, but as an active agent using the white wedding as occasion to act out choice, autonomy and power. Genz argues that a characteristic of postfemininities is that they re-negotiate femininity and feminism no longer as mutually exclusive and irreconcilable categories, but as constitutive of each other (Genz; Genz and Brabon). What I term the postfeminist bride embodies this shifted understanding of feminism and femininity. The postfeminist bride is a figure that is often celebrated in terms of individual freedom, professional success and self-determination, instead of resting on traditional notions of female domesticity and passivity. Rather than fulfilling clichés of the homemaker and traditional wife, the postfeminist bride is characterised by an emphasis on power, agency and pleasure. Characteristic of this figure, as with other postfemininities in popular culture, is a simultaneous appropriation and repudiation of feminist critique. Within postfeminist bridal culture, the performance of traditional femininity through the figure of the bride, or by identification with it, is framed in terms of individual choice, depicted as standing outside of the political and ideological struggles surrounding gender, equality, class, sexuality and race. In this way, as Engstrom argues, “bridal media’s popularity in the late 20th and early 21st centuries in the United States as indicative of a postfeminist cultural environment” (18). And although the contemporary white wedding still rests on patriarchal traditions that symbolise what the Second Wave called an “intimate colonization” (such as the bride’s vow of obedience; the giving away of the bride by one male chaperone, her father, to the next, the husband; her loss of name in marriage etc.), feminist awareness of the patriarchal dimensions of marriage and the ritual of the wedding is virtually absent from contemporary bridal culture. Instead, the patriarchal customs of the white wedding are now actively embraced by the women themselves in the name of tradition and choice. This reflects a prevailing characteristic of postfeminism, which is a trend towards the reclamation of conservative ideals of femininity, following the assumption that the goals of traditional feminist politics have been attained. This recuperation of traditional forms of femininity is one key characteristic of postfeminist bridal culture, as Engstrom argues: “bridal media collectively have become the epitomic example of women’s culture, a genre of popular culture that promotes, defends, and celebrates femininity” (21). Bridal fictions indeed produce traditional femininity by positioning the cultural, social and historical significance of the wedding as a necessary rite of passage for women and as the most important framework for the constitution of their (hetero)sexual, classed and gendered identities. Embodied in its ritual qualities, the white wedding symbolises the transition of women from single to belonging, from girlhood to womanhood and implicitly from childlessness to motherhood. However, instead of seeing this form of hegemonic femininity as a product of unequal, patriarchal power relations as Second Wave did, postfeminism celebrates traditional femininity in modernised versions. Embracing conservative feminine roles (e.g. that of the bride/wife) is now a matter of personal choice, individuality and freedom, characterised by awareness, knowingness and sometimes even irony (McRobbie “Postfeminism”). Nevertheless, the wedding is not only positioned as the pinnacle of a monogamous, heterosexual relationship, but also as the climax of a (female) life-story (“the happiest day of the life”). Combining feminist informed notions of power and choice, the postfeminist wedding is constructed as an event which supposedly enables women to act out those notions, while serving as a framework for gendered identity formation and self-realisation within the boundaries of an officialised and institutionalised relationship. “Modern” Brides I would like to exemplarily illustrate how postfeminism informs contemporary bridal fictions by analysing an advertising campaign of the US bridal magazine Modern Bride that paradigmatically and emblematically shows how postfeminist frames are used to construct the ‘modern’ bride. These advertisements feature American celebrities Guiliana Rancic (“host of E! News”), Daisy Fuentes (“host of Ultimate Style”) and Layla Ali, (“TV host and world champion”) stating why they qualify as a “modern bride”. Instead of drawing on notions of passive femininity, these advertisements have a distinct emphasis on power and agency. All advertisements include the women’s profession and other accomplishments. Rancic claims that she is a modern bride because: “I chased my career instead of guys.” These advertisements emphasise choice and empowerment, the key features of postfeminism, as Angela McRobbie (“Postfeminism”) and Rosalind Gill argue. Femininity, feminism and professionalism here are not framed as mutually exclusive, but are reconciled in the identity of the “modern” bride. Marriage and the white wedding are clearly bracketed in a liberal framework of individual choice, underpinned by a grammar of self-determination and individualism. Layla Ali states that she is a modern bride: “Because I refuse to let anything stand in the way of my happiness.” This not only communicates the message that happiness is intrinsically linked to marriage, but clearly resembles the figure that Sharon Boden terms the “super bride”, a role which allows women to be in control of every aspect of their wedding and “the heroic creator of her big day” while being part of a fairy-tale narrative in which they are the centre of attention (74). Agency and power are clearly visible in all of these ads. These brides are not passive victims of the male gaze, instead they are themselves gazing. In Rancic’s advertisement this is particularly evident, as she is looking directly at the viewer, where her husband, looking into another direction, remains rather face- and gazeless. This is in accord with bridal fictions in general, where husbands are often invisible, serving as bystanders or absent others, reinforcing the ideal that this is the special day of the bride and no one else. Furthermore, all of these advertisements remain within the limited visual repertoire that is common within bridal culture: young to middle-aged, heterosexual, able-bodied, conventionally attractive women. The featuring of the non-white bride Layla Ali is a rare occasion in contemporary bridal fictions. And although this can be seen as a welcomed exception, this advertisement remains eventually within the hegemonic and racial boundaries of contemporary bridal fictions. As Ingraham argues, ultimately “the white wedding in American culture is primarily a ritual by, for, and about the white middle to upper classes. Truly, the white wedding” (33). Furthermore, these advertisements illustrate another key feature of bridal culture, the “privileging of white middle- to upper-class heterosexual marriage over all other forms” (Ingraham 164). Semiotically, the discussed advertisements reflect the understanding of the white wedding as occasion to perform a certain classed identity: the luscious white dresses, the tuxedos, the jewellery and make up, etc. are all signifiers for a particular social standing. This is also emphasised by the mentioning of the prestigious jobs these brides hold, which presents a postfeminist twist on the otherwise common depictions of brides as practising hypergamy, meaning the marrying of a spouse of higher socio-economic status. But significantly, upward social mobility is usually presented as only acceptable for women, reinforcing the image of the husband as the provider. Another key feature of postfeminism, the centrality of heterosexual romance, becomes evident through Daisy Fuentes’ statement: “I’m a modern bride, because I believe that old-school values enhance a modern romance.” Having been liberated from the shackles of second wave feminism, which dismissed romance as “dope for dupes” (Greer in Pearce and Stacey 50), the postfeminist bride unapologetically embraces romance as central part of her life and relationship. Romance is here equated with traditionalism and “old school” values, thus reinforcing sexual exclusiveness, traditional gender roles and marriage as re-modernised, romantic norms. Angela McRobbie describes this “double entanglement” as a key feature of postfeminism that is comprised of “the co-existence of neo-conservative values in relation to gender, sexuality and family life […] with processes of liberalisation in regard to choice and diversity in domestic, sexual and kinship relations” (“Postfeminism” 255–56). These advertisements illustrate quite palpably that the postfeminist bride is a complex figure. It is simultaneously progressive and conservative, fulfilling ideals of conservative femininity while actively negotiating in the complex field of personal choice, individualism and social conventions; it oscillates between power and passivity, tradition and modern womanhood, between feminism and femininity. It is precisely this contradictory nature of the postfeminist bride that makes the figure so appealing, as it allows women to participate in the fantasy world of bridal utopias while still providing possibilities to construct themselves as active and powerful agents. Conclusion While we can generally welcome the reconfiguration of brides as powerful and self-determined, we have to remain critical of the postfeminist assumption of women as “autonomous agents no longer constrained by any inequalities or power imbalances whatsoever” (Gill 153). Where marriage is assumed to be an “even playing field” as Geller argues (110), feminism is no longer needed and traditional marital femininity can be, once again, performed without guilt. In these ways postfeminism deflects feminist criticism with regard to the political dimensions of marital femininity and thus contributes to the production of marital hegemony. But why is marital hegemony per se problematic? Firstly, by presenting marital identity as essential for the construction of gendered identity, bridal fictions leave little room for (female) self-definition outside of the single/married binary. As Ingraham argues, not only “are these categories presented as significant indices of social identity, they are offered as the only options, implying that the organization of identity in relation to marriage is universal and in no need of explanation” (17). Hence, by positioning marriage and singledom as opposite poles on the axis of proper femininity, bridal fictions stigmatise single women as selfish, narcissistic, hedonistic, immature and unable to attract a suitable husband (Taylor 20, 40). Secondly, within bridal fictions “weddings, marriage, romance, and heterosexuality become naturalized to the point where we consent to the belief that marriage is necessary to achieve a sense of well-being, belonging, passion, morality and love” (Ingraham 120). By presenting the white wedding as a publicly endorsed and visible entry to marriage, bridal fictions produce in fundamental ways normative notions about who is ‘fit’ for marriage and therefore capable of the associated cultural and social values of maturity, responsibility, ‘family values’ and so on. This is particularly critical, as postfeminist identities “are structured by, stark and continuing inequalities and exclusions that relate to ‘race’ and ethnicity, class, age, sexuality and disability as well as gender” (Gill 149). These postfeminist exclusions are very evident in contemporary bridal fictions that feature almost exclusively young to middle-aged, white, able-bodied couples with upper to middle class identities that conform to the heteronormative matrix, both physically and socially. By depicting weddings almost exclusively in this kind of raced, classed and gendered framework, bridal fictions associate the above mentioned values, that are seen as markers for responsible adulthood and citizenship, with those who comply with these norms. In these ways bridal fictions stigmatise those who are not able or do not want to get married, and, moreover, produce a visual regime that determines who is seen as entitled to this kind of socially validated identity. The fact that bridal fictions indeed play a major role in producing marital hegemony is further reflected in the increasing presence of same-sex white weddings in popular culture. These representations, despite their message of equality for everyone, usually replicate rather than re-negotiate the heteronormative terms of bridal culture. This can be regarded as evidence of bridal fiction’s scope and reach in naturalising marriage not only as the most ideal form of a heterosexual relationship, but increasingly as the ideal for any kind of intimate relationship. References Bambacas, Christyana. “Thinking about White Weddings.” Journal of Australian Studies 26.72 (2002): 191–200.The Bachelor, ABC, 2002–present. Boden, Sharon. Consumerism, Romance and the Wedding Experience. Houndsmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003. Bridezillas, We TV, 2004–present. Cherlin, Andrew. The-Marriage-Go-Round. The State of Marriage and the Family in America Today. New York: Vintage, 2010. Coontz, Stephanie. Marriage. A History. New York: Penguin, 2005. Currie, Dawn. “‘Here Comes the Bride’: The Making of a ‘Modern Traditional’ Wedding in Western Culture.” Journal of Comparative Family Studies 24.3 (1993): 403–21. Engstrom, Erika. The Bride Factory. Mass Portrayals of Women and Weddings. New York: Peter Lang, 2012. Fairchild Bridal Study (2005) 27 May 2012. ‹http://www.sellthebride.com/documents/americanweddingsurvey.pdf›. Finlay, Sara-Jane, and Victoria Clarke. “‘A Marriage of Inconvenience?’ Feminist Perspectives on Marriage.” Feminism & Psychology 13.4 (2003): 415–20. Foucault, M. (1980) “Body/Power and Truth/Power” in Gordon, C. (ed.) Michel Foucault: Power/Knowledge, Harvester, U.K. Friedan, Betty. The Feminine Mystique. Ringwood: Penguin Books, 1973. Geller, Jaqlyn. Here Comes the Bride. Women, Weddings, and the Marriage Mystique. New York: Four Walls Eight Windows, 2001. Genz, Stéphanie. Postfemininities in Popular Culture. New York: Palgrave, 2009. Genz, Stéphanie, and Benjamin Brabon. Postfeminsm. Cultural Texts and Theories. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2009. Gill, Rosalind. “Postfeminist Media Culture. Elements of a Sensibility.” European Journal of Cultural Studies 10.2 (2007): 147–66. Gramsci, Antonio. Selections from the Prison Notebooks. London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1971. Howard, Vicki. Brides, Inc. American Weddings and the Business of Tradition. Philadelphia: U of Pen Press, 2006. Ingraham, Chrys. White Weddings. Romancing Heterosexuality in Popular Discourse. New York: Routledge, 1999. Lewis, Jeff. Cultural Studies. London: Sage, 2008. McRobbie, Angela. “Post-Feminism and Popular Culture.” Feminist Media Studies 4.3 (2004): 255– 64. McRobbie, A. (2009). The Aftermath of Feminism. Gender, Culture and Social Change. London: Sage. Modern Bride, Condé Nast. Otnes, Cele, and Elizabeth Pleck. Cinderella Dreams. The Allure of the Lavish Wedding. Berkeley: U of California P, 2003. Pateman, Carole. The Sexual Contract. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1988. Pearce, Lynn, and Jackie Stacey. Romance Revisited. London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1995. Race to the Altar, NBC, 2003. Rich, Adrienne. “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence.” Signs Summer.5 (1980): 631–60. Taylor, Anthea. Single Women in Popular Culture. The Limits of Postfeminism. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012. Wallace, Carol. All Dressed in White. The Irresistible Rise of the American Wedding. London: Penguin Books, 2004. Advertisements Analysed Guiliana Rancic. 29 Sept. 2012 ‹http://slackerchic.blogspot.de/2008/06/im-modern-bride-because-my-witness-was.html›. Daisy Fuentes. 29 Sept. 2012 ‹http://slackerchic.blogspot.de/2008/06/im-modern-bride-because-my-witness-was.html›. Layla Ali. 29 Sept. 2012 ‹http://slackerchic.blogspot.de/2008/06/im-modern-bride-because-my-witness-was.html›.

A slash manip is a photo remix that montages visual signs from popular media with those from gay pornography, creating a new cultural artefact. Slash (see Russ) is a fannish practice that homoeroticises the bonds between male media characters and personalities—female pairings are categorised separately as ‘femslash’. Slash has been defined almost exclusively as a female practice. While fandom is indeed “women-centred” (Bury 2), such definitions have a tendency to exclude male contributions. Remix has been well acknowledged in discussions on slash, most notably video remix in relation to slash vids (Kreisinger). Non-written slash forms such as slash vids (see Russo) and slash fanart (see Dennis) have received increased attention in recent years. This article continues the tradition of moving beyond fiction by considering the non-written form of slash manips, yet to receive sustained scholarly attention. Speaking as a practitioner—my slash manips can be found here—I perform textual analysis from an aca–fan (academic and fan) position of two Merlin slash manips by male Tumblr artist wandsinhand. My textual analysis is influenced by Barthes’s use of image semiotics, which he applies to the advertising image. Barthes notes that “all images are polysemous”, that underlying their signifiers they imply “a ‘floating chain’ of signifieds, the reader able to choose some and ignore others” (274). That said, the advertising image, he argues, constructs an “undoubtedly intentional […] signification”, making it ideally suited for analysis (270). By supplementing my analysis with excerpts from two interviews I conducted with wandsinhand in February and April 2013 (quoted here with permission), I support my readings with respect to the artist’s stated ‘intentional reading’. I then contextualise these readings with respect to canon (Merlin) representations and gay pornography—via the chosen sexual acts/positions, bukkake and doggystyle, of the pornographic base models, as selected by the artist. This approach allows me to examine the photo remix qualities of slash manips with respect to the artist’s intentions as well as how artistic choices of inclusion function to anchor meaning in the works. I describe these choices as the ‘semiotic significance of selection’. Together the readings and interviews in this article help illustrate the value of this form and the new avenues it opens for slash scholars, such as consideration of photo remix and male production, and the importance of gay pornography to slash. My interviews also reveal, via the artist’s own assessment of the ‘value’ of his practice, a tendency to devalue or overlook the significance of this particular slash form, affirming a real need for further critical engagement with this under-examined practice. Slash Photo Remix: Famous Faces, Porny Bodies Lessig defines remix culture as based on an activity of “rip, mix and burn” (12–5); while Navas describes it as a “practice of cut/copy and paste” (159)—the latter being more applicable to photo remix. Whereas Lessig is concerned primarily with issues of copyright, Navas is interested in remix’s role in aesthetics and the political economy. Within fan studies, slash vids—a form of video remix—has been a topic of considerable academic interest in recent years. Slash manips—a form of photo or image remix—however, has not attracted the same degree of interest. Stasi’s description of slash as “a non-hierarchical, rich layering of genres” points to the usefulness of slash manips as an embodiment of the process of slash; whereby artists combine, blend and mutate graphic layers from popular media with those from gay pornography. Aesthetics and the slash manip process are central concerns of this article’s consideration of slash photo remix. Slash manips, or slash photo montage, use image manipulation software (Adobe Photoshop being the community standard, see wandsinhand’s tutorial) to layer the heads of male fictional characters from stills or promotional images with scenes—static or moving—from gay pornography. Once an artist has selected pornographic ‘base models’ anatomically suited to canon characters, these models are often then repositioned into the canon universe, which in the case of Merlin means a medieval setting. (Works not repositioned and without added details from canon are generally categorised as ‘male celebrity fakes’ rather than ‘slash manips’.) Stedman contends that while many fan studies scholars are interested in remix, “studies commonly focus on examples of remixed objects rather than the compositional strategies used by remix composers themselves” (107). He advocates moving beyond an exclusive consideration of “text-centred approaches” to also consider “practice-” and “composer-centred” approaches. Such approaches offer insight into “the detailed choices composers actually make when composing” (107). He refers to recognition of the skills required by a remix composer as “remix literacy” (108). This article’s consideration of the various choices and skills that go into the composition of slash manips—what I term the ‘semiotic significance of selection’—is explored with respect to wandsinhand’s practice, coupling my reading—informed by my experience as a practitioner—with the interpretations of the artist himself. Jenkins defines slash as “reaction against” constructions of male sexuality in both popular media and pornography (189). By their very nature, slash manips also make clear the oft-overlooked connections between slash and gay pornography, and in turn the contributions of gay male participants, who are well represented by the form. This contrasts with a tendency within scholarship to compare slash with heterosexual female forms, such as the romance genre (Salmon and Symons). Gay pornography plays a visible role in slash manips—and slash vids, which often remix scenes from popular media with gay cinema and pornography. Slash as Romance, Slash as Pornography Early scholarship on slash (see Russ; Lamb and Veith) defines it as a form of erotica or pornography, by and for women; a reductive definition that fails to take into account men’s contribution, yet one that many researchers continue to adopt today. As stated above, there has also been a tendency within scholarship to align the practice with heterosexual female forms such as the romance genre. Such a tendency is by and large due to theorisation of slash as heterosexual female fantasy—and concerned primarily with romance and intimacy rather than sex (see Woledge). Weinstein describes slash as more a “fascination with” than a “representation of” homosexual relationships (615); while MacDonald makes the point that homosexuality is not a major political motivator for slash (28–9). There is no refuting that slash—along with most fannish practice—is female dominated, ethnographic work and fandom surveys reveal that is the case. However there is great need for research into male production of slash, particularly how such practices might challenge reigning definitions and assumptions of the practice. In similar Japanese practices, for example, gay male opposition to girls’ comics (shōjo) depicting love between ‘pretty boys’ (bishōunen) has been well documented (see Hori)—Men’s Love (or bara) is a subgenre of Boys’ Love (or shōnen’ai) predominately created by gay men seeking a greater connection with the lived reality of gay life (Lunsing). Dennis finds male slash fanart producers more committed to muscular representations and depiction of graphic male/male sex when compared with female-identifying artists (14, 16). He also observes that male fanart artists have a tendency of “valuing same-sex desire without a heterosexual default and placing it within the context of realistic gay relationships” (11). I have observed similar differences between male and female-identifying slash manip artists. Female-identifying Nicci Mac, for example, will often add trousers to her donor bodies, recoding them for a more romantic context. By contrast, male-identifying mythagowood is known for digitally enlarging the penises and rectums of his base models, exaggerating his work’s connection to the pornographic and the macabre. Consider, for example, mythagowood’s rationale for digitally enlarging and importing ‘lips’ for Sam’s (Supernatural) rectum in his work Ass-milk: 2012, which marks the third anniversary of the original: Originally I wasn’t going to give Sammy’s cunt any treatment (before I determined the theme) but when assmilk became the theme I had to go find a good set of lips to slap on him and I figured, it’s been three years, his hole is going to be MUCH bigger. (personal correspondence, used with permission) While mythagowood himself cautions against gendered romance/pornography slash arguments—“I find it annoying that people attribute certain specific aspects of my work to something ‘only a man’ would make.” (ibid.)—gay pornography occupies an important place in the lives of gay men as a means for entertainment, community engagement and identity-construction (see McKee). As one of the only cultural representations available to gay men, Fejes argues that gay pornography plays a crucial role in defining gay male desire and identity. This is confirmed by an Internet survey conducted by Duggan and McCreary that finds 98% of gay participants reporting exposure to pornographic material in the 30-day period prior to the survey. Further, the underground nature of gay pornographic film (see Dyer) aligns it with slash as a subcultural practice. I now analyse two Merlin slash manips with respect to the sexual positions of the pornographic base models, illustrating how gay pornography genres and ideologies referenced through these works enforce their intended meaning, as defined by the artist. A sexual act such as bukkake, as wandsinhand astutely notes, acts as a universal sign and “automatically generates a narrative for the image without anything really needing to be detailed”. Barthes argues that such a “relation between thing signified and image signifying in analogical representation” is unlike language, which has a much more ‘arbitrary’ relationship between signifier and signified (272). Bukkake and the Assertion of Masculine Power in Merlin Merlin (2008–12) is a BBC reimagining of the Arthurian legend that focuses on the coming-of-age of Arthur and his close bond with his manservant Merlin, who keeps his magical identity secret until Arthur’s final stand in the iconic Battle of Camlann. The homosexual potential of Merlin and Arthur’s story—and of magic as a metaphor for homosexuality—is something slash fans were quick to recognise. During question time at the first Merlin cast appearance at the London MCM Expo in October 2008—just one month after the show’s pilot first aired—a fan asked Morgan and James, who portray Merlin and Arthur, is Merlin “meant to be a love story between Arthur and Merlin?” James nods in jest. Wandsinhand, who is most active in the Teen Wolf (2011–present) fandom, has produced two Merlin slash manips to date, a 2013 Merlin/Arthur and a 2012 Arthur/Percival, both untitled. The Merlin/Arthur manip (see Figure 1) depicts Merlin bound and on his knees, Arthur ejaculating across his face and on his chest. Merlin is naked while Arthur is partially clothed in chainmail and armour. They are both bruised and dirty, Arthur’s injuries suggesting battle given his overall appearance, while Merlin’s suggesting abuse, given his subordinate position. The setting appears to be the royal stables, where we know Merlin spends much of his time mucking out Arthur’s horses. I am left to wonder if perhaps Merlin did not carry out this duty to Arthur’s satisfaction, and is now being punished for it; or if Arthur has returned from battle in need of sexual gratification and the endorsement of power that comes from debasing his manservant. Figure 1: wandsinhand, Untitled (Merlin/Arthur), 2013, photo montage. Courtesy the artist. Both readings are supported by Arthur’s ‘spent’ expression of disinterest or mild curiosity, while Merlin’s face emotes pain: crying and squinting through the semen obscuring his vision. The artist confirms this reading in our interview: “Arthur is using his pet Merlin to relieve some stress; Merlin of course not being too pleased about the aftermath, but obedient all the same.” The noun ‘pet’ evokes the sexual connotations of Merlin’s role as Arthur’s personal manservant, while also demoting Merlin even further than usual. He is, in Arthur’s eyes, less than human, a sexual plaything to use and abuse at will. The artist’s statement also confirms that Arthur is acting against Merlin’s will. Violence is certainly represented here, the base models having been ‘marked up’ to depict sexualisation of an already physically and emotionally abusive relationship, their relative positioning and the importation of semen heightening the humiliation. Wandsinhand’s work engages characters in sadomasochistic play, with semen and urine frequently employed to degrade and arouse—“peen wolf”, a reference to watersports, is used within his Teen Wolf practice. The two wandsinhand works analysed in this present article come without words, thus lacking a “linguistic message” (Barthes 273–6). However even so, the artist’s statement and Arthur’s stance over “his pet Merlin” mean we are still able to “skim off” (270) the meanings the image contains. The base models, for example, invite comparison with the ‘gay bukkake’ genre of gay pornography—admittedly with a single dominant male rather than a group. Gay bukkake has become a popular niche in North American gay pornography—it originated in Japan as a male–female act in the 1980s. It describes a ritualistic sexual act where a group of dominant men—often identifying as heterosexual—fuck and debase a homosexual, submissive male, commonly bareback (Durkin et al. 600). The aggression on display in this act—much like the homosocial insistency of men who partake in a ‘circle jerk’ (Mosher 318)—enables the participating men to affirm their masculinity and dominance by degrading the gay male, who is there to service (often on his knees) and receive—in any orifice of the group’s choosing—the men’s semen, and often urine as well. The equivalencies I have made here are based on the ‘performance’ of the bukkake fantasy in gay niche hazing and gay-for-pay pornography genres. These genres are fuelled by antigay sentiment, aggression and debasement of effeminate males (see Kendall). I wish here to resist the temptation of labelling the acts described above as deviant. As is a common problem with anti-pornography arguments, to attempt to fix a practice such as bukkake as deviant and abject—by, for example, equating it to rape (Franklin 24)—is to negate a much more complex consideration of distinctions and ambiguities between force and consent; lived and fantasy; where pleasure is, where it is performed and where it is taken. I extend this desire not to label the manip in question, which by exploiting the masculine posturing of Arthur effectively sexualises canon debasement. This began with the pilot when Arthur says: “Tell me Merlin, do you know how to walk on your knees?” Of the imported imagery—semen, bruising, perspiration—the key signifier is Arthur’s armour which, while torn in places, still ensures the encoding of particular signifieds: masculinity, strength and power. Doggystyle and the Subversion of Arthur’s ‘Armoured Self’ Since the romanticism and chivalric tradition of the knight in shining armour (see Huizinga) men as armoured selves have become a stoic symbol of masculine power and the benchmark for aspirational masculinity. For the medieval knight, armour reflects in its shiny surface the mettle of the man enclosed, imparting a state of ‘bodilessness’ by containing any softness beneath its shielded exterior (Burns 140). Wandsinhand’s Arthur/Percival manip (see Figure 2) subverts Arthur and the symbolism of armour with the help of arguably the only man who can: Arthur’s largest knight Percival. While a minor character among the knights, Percival’s physical presence in the series looms large, and has endeared him to slash manip artists, particularly those with only a casual interest in the series, such as wandsinhand: Why Arthur and Percival were specifically chosen had really little to do with the show’s plot, and in point of fact, I don’t really follow Merlin that closely nor am I an avid fan. […] Choosing Arthur/Percival really was just a matter of taste rather than being contextually based on their characterisations in the television show. Figure 2: wandsinhand, Untitled (Arthur/Percival), 2012, photo montage. Courtesy the artist. Concerning motivation, the artist explains: “Sometimes one’s penis decides to pick the tv show Merlin, and specifically Arthur and Percival.” The popularity of Percival among manip artists illustrates the power of physicality as a visual sign, and the valorisation of size and muscle within the gay community (see Sánchez et al.). Having his armour modified to display his muscles, the implication is that Percival does not need armour, for his body is already hard, impenetrable. He is already suited up, simultaneously man and armoured. Wandsinhand uses the physicality of this character to strip Arthur of his symbolic, masculine power. The work depicts Arthur with a dishevelled expression, his armoured chest pressed against the ground, his chainmail hitched up at the back to expose his arse, Percival threading his unsheathed cock inside him, staring expressionless at the ‘viewer’. The artist explains he “was trying to show a shift of power”: I was also hinting at some sign of struggle, which is somewhat evident on Arthur’s face too. […] I think the expressions work in concert to suggest […] a power reversal that leaves Arthur on the bottom, a position he’s not entirely comfortable accepting. There is pleasure to be had in seeing the “cocky” Arthur forcefully penetrated, “cut down to size by a bigger man” (wandsinhand). The two assume the ‘doggystyle’ position, an impersonal sexual position, without eye contact and where the penetrator sets the rhythm and intensity of each thrust. Scholars have argued that the position is degrading to the passive party, who is dehumanised by the act, a ‘dog’ (Dworkin 27); and rapper Snoop ‘Doggy’ Dogg exploits the misogynistic connotations of the position on his record Doggystyle (see Armstrong). Wandsinhand is clear in his intent to depict forceful domination of Arthur. Struggle is signified through the addition of perspiration, a trademark device used by this artist to symbolise struggle. Domination in a sexual act involves the erasure of the wishes of the dominated partner (see Cowan and Dunn). To attune oneself to the pleasures of a sexual partner is to regard them as a subject. To ignore such pleasures is to degrade the other person. The artist’s choice of pairing embraces the physicality of the male/male bond and illustrates a tendency among manip producers to privilege conventional masculine identifiers—such as size and muscle—above symbolic, nonphysical identifiers, such as status and rank. It is worth noting that muscle is more readily available in the pornographic source material used in slash manips—muscularity being a recurrent component of gay pornography (see Duggan and McCreary). In my interview with manip artist simontheduck, he describes the difficulty he had sourcing a base image “that complimented the physicality of the [Merlin] characters. […] The actor that plays Merlin is fairly thin while Arthur is pretty built, it was difficult to find one. I even had to edit Merlin’s body down further in the end.” (personal correspondence, used with permission) As wandsinhand explains, “you’re basically limited by what’s available on the internet, and even then, only what you’re prepared to sift through or screencap yourself”. Wandsinhand’s Arthur/Percival pairing selection works in tandem with other artistic decisions and inclusions—sexual position, setting, expressions, effects (perspiration, lighting)—to ensure the intended reading of the work. Antithetical size and rank positions play out in the penetration/submission act of wandsinhand’s work, in which only the stronger of the two may come out ‘on top’. Percival subverts the symbolic power structures of prince/knight, asserting his physical, sexual dominance over the physically inferior Arthur. That such a construction of Percival is incongruent with the polite, impeded-by-my-size-and-muscle-density Percival of the series speaks to the circumstances of manip production, much of which is on a taste basis, as previously noted. There are of course exceptions to this, the Teen Wolf ‘Sterek’ (Stiles/Derek) pairing being wandsinhand’s, but even in this case, size tends to couple with penetration. Slash manips often privilege physicality of the characters in question—as well as the base models selected—above any particular canon-supported slash reading. (Of course, the ‘queering’ nature of slash practice means at times there is also a desire to see such identifiers subverted, however in this example, raw masculine power prevails.) This final point is in no way representative—my practice, for example, combines manips with ficlets to offer a clearer connection with canon, while LJ’s zdae69 integrates manips, fiction and comics. However, common across slash manip artists driven by taste—and requests—rather than connection with canon—the best known being LJ’s tw-31988, demon48180 and Tumblr’s lwoodsmalestarsfakes, all of whom work across many fandoms—is interest in the ‘aesthetics of canon’, the blue hues of Teen Wolf or the fluorescent greens of Arrow (2012–present), displayed in glossy magazine format using services such as ISSUU. In short, ‘the look’ of the work often takes precedent over canonical implications of any artistic decisions. “Nothing Too Serious”: Slash Manips as Objects Worth Studying It had long been believed that the popular was the transient, that of entertainment rather than enlightenment; that which is manufactured, “an appendage of the machinery”, consumed by the duped masses and a product not of culture but of a ‘culture industry’ (Adorno and Rabinbach 12). Scholars such as Radway, Ang pioneered a shift in scholarly practice, advancing the cultural studies project by challenging elitism and finding meaning in traditionally devalued cultural texts and practices. The most surprising outcome of my interviews with wandsinhand was hearing how he conceived of his practice, and the study of slash: If I knew I could get a PhD by writing a dissertation on Slash, I would probably drop out of my physics papers! […] I don’t really think too highly of faking/manip-making. I mean, it’s not like it’s high art, is it? … or is it? I guess if Duchamp’s toilet can be a masterpiece, then so can anything. But I mainly just do it to pass the time, materialise fantasies, and disperse my fantasies unto others. Nothing too serious. Wandsinhand erects various binaries—academic/fan, important/trivial, science/arts, high art/low art, profession/hobby, reality/fantasy, serious/frivolous—as justification to devalue his own artistic practice. Yet embracing the amateur, personal nature of his practice frees him to “materialise fantasies” that would perhaps not be possible without self-imposed, underground production. This is certainly supported by his body of work, which plays with taboos of the unseen, of bodily fluids and sadomasochism. My intention with this article is not to contravene views such as wandsinhand’s. Rather, it is to promote slash manips as a form of remix culture that encourages new perspectives on how slash has been defined, its connection with male producers and its symbiotic relationship with gay pornography. I have examined the ‘semiotic significance of selection’ that creates meaning in two contrary slash manips; how these works actualise and resist canon dominance, as it relates to the physical and the symbolic. This examination also offers insight into this form’s connection to and negotiation with certain ideologies of gay pornography, such as the valorisation of size and muscle. 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What we wear signals our membership within groups, be theyorganised by gender, class, ethnicity or religion. Simultaneously our clothing signifies hierarchies and power relations that sustain dominant power structures. How we dress is an expression of our identity. For Veblen, how we dress expresses wealth and social stratification. In imitating the fashion of the wealthy, claims Simmel, we seek social equality. For Barthes, clothing is embedded with systems of meaning. For Hebdige, clothing has modalities of meaning depending on the wearer, as do clothes for gender (Davis) and for the body (Entwistle). For Maynard, “dress is a significant material practice we use to signal our cultural boundaries, social separations, continuities and, for the present purposes, political dissidences” (103). Clothing has played a central role in historical and contemporary forms of political dissent. During the French Revolution dress signified political allegiance. The “mandated costumes, the gold-braided coat, white silk stockings, lace stock, plumed hat and sword of the nobility and the sober black suit and stockings” were rejected as part of the revolutionary struggle (Fairchilds 423). After the storming of the Bastille the government of Paris introduced the wearing of the tricolour cockade, a round emblem made of red, blue and white ribbons, which was a potent icon of the revolution, and a central motif in building France’s “revolutionary community”. But in the aftermath of the revolution divided loyalties sparked power struggles in the new Republic (Heuer 29). In 1793 for example anyone not wearing the cockade was arrested. Specific laws were introduced for women not wearing the cockade or for wearing it in a profane manner, resulting in six years in jail. This triggered a major struggle over women’s abilities to exercise their political rights (Heuer 31).Clothing was also central to women’s political struggles in America. In the mid-nineteenth century, women began wearing the “reform dress”—pants with shortened, lightweight skirts in place of burdensome and restrictive dresses (Mas 35). The wearing of pants, or bloomers, challenged gender norms and demonstrated women’s agency. Women’s clothes of the period were an "identity kit" (Ladd Nelson 22), which reinforced “society's distinctions between men and women by symbolizing their natures, roles, and responsibilities” (Ladd Nelson 22, Roberts 555). Men were positioned in society as “serious, active, strong and aggressive”. They wore dark clothing that “allowed movement, emphasized broad chests and shoulders and presented sharp, definite lines” (Ladd Nelson 22). Conversely, women, regarded as “frivolous, inactive, delicate and submissive, dressed in decorative, light pastel coloured clothing which inhibited movement, accentuated tiny waists and sloping shoulders and presented an indefinite silhouette” (Ladd Nelson 22, Roberts 555). Women who challenged these dress codes by wearing pants were “unnatural, and a perversion of the “true” woman” (Ladd Nelson 22). For Crane, the adoption of men’s clothing by women challenged dominant values and norms, changing how women were seen in public and how they saw themselves. The wearing of pants came to “symbolize the movement for women's rights” (Ladd Nelson 24) and as with women in France, Victorian society was forced to consider “women's rights, including their right to choose their own style of dress” (Ladd Nelson 23). As Yangzom (623) puts it, clothing allows groups to negotiate boundaries. How the “embodiment of dress itself alters political space and civic discourse is imperative to understanding how resistance is performed in creating social change” (Yangzom 623). Fig. 1: 1850s fashion bloomersIn a different turn is presented in Mahatma Gandhi’s Khadi movement. Khadi is a term used for fabrics made on a spinning wheel (or charkha) or hand-spun and handwoven, usually from cotton fibre. Khadi is considered the “fabric of Indian independence” (Jain). Gandhi recognised the potential of the fabric to a self-reliant, independent India. Gandhi made the struggle for independence synonymous with khadi. He promoted the materials “simplicity as a social equalizer and made it the nation’s fabric” (Sinha). As Jain notes, clothing and in this case fabric, is a “potent sign of resistance and change”. The material also reflects consciousness and agency. Khadi was Gandhi’s “own sartorial choices of transformation from that of an Englishman to that of one representing India” (Jain). For Jain the “key to Khadi becoming a successful tool for the freedom struggle” was that it was a “material embodiment of an ideal” that “represented freedom from colonialism on the one hand and a feeling of self-reliance and economic self-sufficiency on the other”. Fig. 2: Gandhi on charkha The reappropriating of Khadi as a fabric of political dissent echoes the wearing of blue denim by the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) at the 1963 National Mall Washington march where 250,000 people gather to hear Martin Luther King speak. The SNCC formed in 1960 and from then until the 1963 March on Washington they developed a “style aesthetic that celebrated the clothing of African American sharecroppers” (Ford 626). A critical aspect civil rights activism by African America women who were members of the SNCC was the “performance of respectability”. With the moral character of African American women under attack (as a way of delegitimising their political activities), the female activists “emphasized the outward display of their respectability in order to withstand attacks against their characters”. Their modest, neat “as if you were going to church” (Chappell 96) clothing choices helped them perform respectability and this “played an important performative role in the black freedom struggle” (Ford 626). By 1963 however African American female civil rights activists “abandoned their respectable clothes and processed hairstyles in order to adopt jeans, denim skirts, bib-and-brace overalls”. The adoption of bib-and-brace overalls reflected the sharecropper's blue denim overalls of America’s slave past.For Komar the blue denim overalls “dramatize[d] how little had been accomplished since Reconstruction” and the overalls were practical to fix from attack dog tears and high-pressure police hoses. The blue denim overalls, according to Komar, were also considered to be ‘Negro clothes’ purchased by “slave owners bought denim for their enslaved workers, partly because the material was sturdy, and partly because it helped contrast them against the linen suits and lace parasols of plantation families”. The clothing choice was both practical and symbolic. While the ‘sharecropper’ narrative is problematic as ‘traditional’ clothing (something not evident in the case of Ghandi’s Khandi Movement, there is an emotion associated with the clothing. As Barthes (6-7) has shown, what makes ‘traditional clothing,’ traditional is that it is part of a normative system where not only does clothing have its historical place, but it is governed by its rules and regimentation. Therefore, there is a dialectical exchange between the normative system and the act of dressing where as a link between the two, clothing becomes the conveyer of its meanings (7). Barthes calls this system, langue and the act of dressing parole (8). As Ford does, a reading of African American women wearing what she calls a “SNCC Skin” “the uniform [acts] consciously to transgress a black middle-class worldview that marginalised certain types of women and particular displays of blackness and black culture”. Hence, the SNCC women’s clothing represented an “ideological metamorphosis articulated through the embrace and projection of real and imagined southern, working-class, and African American cultures. Central to this was the wearing of the blue denim overalls. The clothing did more than protect, cover or adorn the body it was a conscious “cultural and political tool” deployed to maintain a movement and build solidarity with the aim of “inversing the hegemonic norms” via “collective representations of sartorial embodiment” (Yangzom 622).Fig. 3: Mississippi SNCC March Coordinator Joyce Ladner during the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom political rally in Washington, DC, on 28 Aug. 1963Clothing in each of these historical examples performs an ideological function that can bridge, that is bring diverse members of society together for a cause, or community cohesion or clothing can act as a fence to keep identities separate (Barnard). This use of clothing is evident in two indigenous examples. For Maynard (110) the clothes worn at the 1988 Aboriginal ‘Long March of Freedom, Justice and Hope’ held in Australia signalled a “visible strength denoted by coherence in dress” (Maynard 112). Most noted was the wearing of colours – black, red and yellow, first thought to be adopted during protest marches organised by the Black Protest Committee during the 1982 Commonwealth Games in Brisbane (Watson 40). Maynard (110) describes the colour and clothing as follows:the daytime protest march was dominated by the colours of the Aboriginal people—red, yellow and black on flags, huge banners and clothing. There were logo-inscribed T-shirts, red, yellow and black hatband around black Akubra’s, as well as red headbands. Some T-shirts were yellow, with images of the Australian continent in red, others had inscriptions like 'White Australia has a Black History' and 'Our Land Our Life'. Still others were inscribed 'Mourn 88'. Participants were also in customary dress with body paint. Older Indigenous people wore head bands inscribed with the words 'Our Land', and tribal elders from the Northern Territory, in loin cloths, carried spears and clapping sticks, their bodies marked with feathers, white clay and red ochres. Without question, at this most significant event for Aboriginal peoples, their dress was a highly visible and cohesive aspect.Similar is the Tibetan Freedom Movement, a nonviolent grassroots movement in Tibet and among Tibet diaspora that emerged in 2008 to protest colonisation of Tibet. It is also known as the ‘White Wednesday Movement’. Every Wednesday, Tibetans wear traditional clothes. They pledge: “I am Tibetan, from today I will wear only Tibetan traditional dress, chuba, every Wednesday”. A chuba is a colourful warm ankle-length robe that is bound around the waist by a long sash. For the Tibetan Freedom Movement clothing “symbolically functions as a nonverbal mechanism of communication” to “materialise consciousness of the movement” and functions to shape its political aims (Yangzom 622). Yet, in both cases – Aboriginal and Tibet protests – the dress may “not speak to single cultural audience”. This is because the clothing is “decoded by those of different political persuasions, and [is] certainly further reinterpreted or reframed by the media” (Maynard 103). Nevertheless, there is “cultural work in creating a coherent narrative” (Yangzom 623). The narratives and discourse embedded in the wearing of a red, blue and white cockade, dark reform dress pants, cotton coloured Khadi fabric or blue denim overalls is likely a key feature of significant periods of political upheaval and dissent with the clothing “indispensable” even if the meaning of the clothing is “implied rather than something to be explicated” (Yangzom 623). On 21 January 2017, 250,000 women marched in Washington and more than two million protesters around the world wearing pink knitted pussy hats in response to the remarks made by President Donald Trump who bragged of grabbing women ‘by the pussy’. The knitted pink hats became the “embodiment of solidarity” (Wrenn 1). For Wrenn (2), protests such as this one in 2017 complete with “protest visuals” which build solidarity while “masking or excluding difference in the process” indicates “a tactical sophistication in the social movement space with its strategic negotiation of politics of difference. In formulating a flexible solidarity, the movement has been able to accommodate a variety of races, classes, genders, sexualities, abilities, and cultural backgrounds” (Wrenn 4). In doing so they presented a “collective bodily presence made publicly visible” to protest racist, sexist, homophobic, Islamophobic, and xenophobic white masculine power (Gokariksel & Smith 631). The 2017 Washington Pussy Hat March was more than an “embodiment tactic” it was an “image event” with its “swarms of women donning adroit posters and pink pussy hats filling the public sphere and impacting visual culture”. It both constructs social issues and forms public opinion hence it is an “argumentative practice” (Wrenn 6). Drawing on wider cultural contexts, as other acts of dissent note here do, in this protest with its social media coverage, the “master frame” of the sea of pink hats and bodies posited to audiences the enormity of the anger felt in the community over attacks on the female body – real or verbal. This reflects Goffman’s theory of framing to describe the ways in which “protestors actively seek to shape meanings such that they spark the public’s support and encourage political openings” (Wrenn 6). The hats served as “visual tropes” (Goodnow 166) to raise social consciousness and demonstrate opposition. Protest “signage” – as the pussy hats can be considered – are a visual representation and validation of shared “invisible thoughts and emotions” (Buck-Coleman 66) affirming Georg Simmel’s ideas about conflict; “it helps individuals define their differences, establish to which group(s) they belong, and determine the degrees to which groups are different from each other” (Buck-Coleman 66). The pink pussy hat helped define and determine membership and solidarity. Further embedding this was the hand-made nature of the hat. The pattern for the hat was available free online at https://www.pussyhatproject.com/knit/. The idea began as one of practicality, as it did for the reform dress movement. This is from the Pussy Hat Project website:Krista was planning to attend the Women’s March in Washington DC that January of 2017 and needed a cap to keep her head warm in the chill winter air. Jayna, due to her injury, would not be able to attend any of the marches, but wanted to find a way to have her voice heard in absentia and somehow physically “be” there. Together, a marcher and a non-marcher, they conceived the idea of creating a sea of pink hats at Women’s Marches everywhere that would make both a bold and powerful visual statement of solidarity, and also allow people who could not participate themselves – whether for medical, financial, or scheduling reasons — a visible way to demonstrate their support for women’s rights. (Pussy Hat Project)In the tradition of “craftivism” – the use of traditional handcrafts such as knitting, assisted by technology (in this case a website with the pattern and how to knit instructions), as a means of community building, skill-sharing and action directed towards “political and social causes” (Buszek & Robertson 197) –, the hand-knitted pink pussy hats avoided the need to purchase clothing to show solidarity resisting the corporatisation of protest clothing as cautioned by Naomi Klein (428). More so by wearing something that could be re-used sustained solidarity. The pink pussy hats provided a counter to the “incoherent montage of mass-produced clothing” often seen at other protests (Maynard 107). Everyday clothing however does have a place in political dissent. In late 2018, French working class and middle-class protestors donned yellow jackets to protest against the government of French President Emmanuel Macron. It began with a Facebook appeal launched by two fed-up truck drivers calling for a “national blockade” of France’s road network in protest against rising fuel prices was followed two weeks later with a post urging motorist to display their hi-vis yellow vests behind their windscreens in solidarity. Four million viewed the post (Henley). Weekly protests continued into 2019. The yellow his-vis vests are compulsorily carried in all motor cars in France. They are “cheap, readily available, easily identifiable and above all representing an obligation imposed by the state”. The yellow high-vis vest has “proved an inspired choice of symbol and has plainly played a big part in the movement’s rapid spread” (Henley). More so, the wearers of the yellow vests in France, with the movement spreading globally, are winning in “the war of cultural representation. Working-class and lower middle-class people are visible again” (Henley). Subcultural clothing has always played a role as heroic resistance (Evans), but the coloured dissent dressing associated with the red, blue and white ribboned cockades, the dark bloomers of early American feminists, the cotton coloured natural fabrics of Ghandi’s embodiment of resistance and independence, the blue denim sharecropper overalls worn by African American women in their struggles for civil rights, the black, red and orange of Aboriginal protestors in Australia and the White Wednesday performances of resistance undertaken by Tibetans against Chinese colonisation, the Washington Pink Pussy Hat marches for gender respect and equality and the donning of every yellow hi-vis vests by French protestors all posit the important role of fabric and colour in protest meaning making and solidarity building. It is in our rage we consciously wear the colours and fabrics of dissent dress. ReferencesBarnard, Malcolm. Fashion as Communication. New York: Routledge, 1996. Barthes, Roland. “History and Sociology of Clothing: Some Methodological Observations.” The Language of Fashion. Eds. Michael Carter and Alan Stafford. UK: Berg, 2006. 3-19. Buck-Coleman, Audra. “Anger, Profanity, and Hatred.” Contexts 17.1 (2018): 66-73.Buszek, Maria Elena, and Kirsty Robertson. “Introduction.” Utopian Studies 22.1 (2011): 197-202. Chappell, Marisa, Jenny Hutchinson, and Brian Ward. “‘Dress Modestly, Neatly ... As If You Were Going to Church’: Respectability, Class and Gender in the Montgomery Bus Boycott and the Early Civil Rights Movement.” Gender and the Civil Rights Movement. Eds. Peter J. Ling and Sharon Monteith. New Brunswick, N.J., 2004. 69-100.Crane, Diana. Fashion and Its Social Agendas. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000. Davis, Fred. Fashion, Culture, and Identity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992.Entwistle, Joanne. The Fashioned Body: Fashion, Dress, and Modern Social Theory. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2000.Evans, Caroline. “Dreams That Only Money Can Buy ... Or the Shy Tribe in Flight from Discourse.” Fashion Theory 1.2 (1997): 169-88.Fairchilds, Cissie. “Fashion and Freedom in the French Revolution.” Continuity and Change 15.3 (2000): 419-33.Ford, Tanisha C. “SNCC Women, Denim, and the Politics of Dress.” The Journal of Southern History 79.3 (2013): 625-58.Gökarıksel, Banu, and Sara Smith. “Intersectional Feminism beyond U.S. Flag, Hijab and Pussy Hats in Trump’s America.” Gender, Place & Culture 24.5 (2017): 628-44.Goodnow, Trischa. “On Black Panthers, Blue Ribbons, & Peace Signs: The Function of Symbols in Social Campaigns.” Visual Communication Quarterly 13 (2006): 166-79.Hebdige, Dick. Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London: Routledge, 2002. Henley, Jon. “How Hi-Vis Yellow Vest Became Symbol of Protest beyond France: From Brussels to Basra, Gilets Jaunes Have Brought Visibility to People and Their Grievances.” The Guardian 21 Dec. 2018. <https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/dec/21/how-hi-vis-yellow-vest-became-symbol-of-protest-beyond-france-gilets-jaunes>.Heuer, Jennifer. “Hats On for the Nation! Women, Servants, Soldiers and the ‘Sign of the French’.” French History 16.1 (2002): 28-52.Jain, Ektaa. “Khadi: A Cloth and Beyond.” Bombay Sarvodaya Mandal & Gandhi Research Foundation. ND. 19 Dec. 2018 <https://www.mkgandhi.org/articles/khadi-a-cloth-and-beyond.html>. Klein, Naomi. No Logo. London: Flamingo, London, 2000. Komar, Marlen. “What the Civil Rights Movement Has to Do with Denim: The History of Blue Jeans Has Been Whitewashed.” 30 Oct. 2017. 19 Dec. 2018 <https://www.racked.com/2017/10/30/16496866/denim-civil-rights-movement-blue-jeans-history>.Ladd Nelson, Jennifer. “Dress Reform and the Bloomer.” Journal of American and Comparative Cultures 23.1 (2002): 21-25.Maynard, Margaret. “Dress for Dissent: Reading the Almost Unreadable.” Journal of Australian Studies 30.89 (2006): 103-12. Pussy Hat Project. “Design Interventions for Social Change.” 20 Dec. 2018. <https://www.pussyhatproject.com/knit/>.Roberts, Helene E. “The Exquisite Slave: The Role of Clothes in the Making of the Victorian Woman.” Signs (1977): 554-69.Simmel, Georg. “Fashion.” American Journal of Sociology 62 (1957): 541–58.Sinha, Sangita. “The Story of Khadi, India's Signature Fabric.” Culture Trip 2018. 18 Jan. 2019 <https://theculturetrip.com/asia/india/articles/the-story-of-khadi-indias-fabric/>.Yangzom, Dicky. “Clothing and Social Movements: Tibet and the Politics of Dress.” Social Movement Studies 15.6 (2016): 622-33. Veblen, Thorstein. The Theory of the Leisure Class: An Economic Study of Institutions. New York: Dover Thrift, 1899. Watson, Lilla. “The Commonwealth Games in Brisbane 1982: Analysis of Aboriginal Protests.” Social Alternatives 7.1 (1988): 1-19.Wrenn, Corey. “Pussy Grabs Back: Bestialized Sexual Politics and Intersectional Failure in Protest Posters for the 2017 Women’s March.” Feminist Media Studies (2018): 1-19.

There is a moment in Al Gore’s 2006 documentary An Inconvenient Truth devised to expose the sheer audacity of fossil fuel lobby groups in the United States. In their attempts to address significant scientific consensus and growing public concern over climate change, these groups are resorting to what Gore’s film suggests are grotesque distortions of fact. A particular example highlighted in the film is the Competitive Enterprise Institute’s (CPE—a lobby group funded by ExxonMobil) “pro” energy industry advertisement: “Carbon dioxide”, the ad states. “They call it pollution, we call it life.” While on the one hand employing rhetoric against the “inconvenient truth” that carbon dioxide emissions are ratcheting up the Earth’s temperature, these advertisements also pose a question – though perhaps unintended – that is worth addressing. Where does life reside? This is not an issue of essentialism, but relates to the claims, materials and technologies through which life as a political object emerges. The danger of entertaining the vested interests of polluting industry in a discussion of climate change and its biopolitics is countered by an imperative to acknowledge the ways in which multiple positions in the climate change debate invoke and appeal to ‘life’ as the bottom line, or inviolable interest, of their political, social or economic work. In doing so, other questions come to the fore that a politics of climate change framed in terms of moral positions or competing values will tend to overlook. These questions concern the manifold practices of life that constitute the contemporary terrain of the political, and the actors and instruments put in this employ. Who speaks for life? And who or what produces it? Climate change as a matter of concern (Latour) has gathered and generated a host of experts, communities, narratives and technical devices all invested in the administration of life. It is, as Malcom Bull argues, “the paradigmatic issue of the new politics,” a politics which “draws people towards the public realm and makes life itself subject to the caprices of state and market” (2). This paper seeks to highlight the politics of life that have emerged around climate change as a public issue. It will argue that these politics appear in incremental and multiple ways that situate an array of actors and interests as active in both contesting and generating the terms of life: what life is and how we come to know it. This way of thinking about climate change debates opposes a prevalent moralistic framework that reads the practices and discourses of debate in terms of oppositional positions alone. While sympathies may flow in varying directions, especially when it comes to such a highly charged and massively consequential issue as climate change, there is little insight to be had from charging the CPE (for example) with manipulating consumers, or misrepresenting well-known facts. Where new and more productive understandings open up is in relation to the fields through which these gathering actors play out their claims to the project of life. These fields, from the state, to the corporation, to the domestic sphere, reveal a complex network of strategies and devices that seek to secure life in constantly renovated terms. Life Politics Biopolitical scholarship in the wake of Foucault has challenged life as a pre-given uncritical category, and sought to highlight the means through which it is put under question and constituted through varying and composing assemblages of practitioners and practices. Such work regards the project of human well-being as highly complex and technical, and has undertaken to document this empirically through close attention to the everyday ecologies in which humans are enmeshed. This is a political and theoretical project in itself, situating political processes in micro, as well as macro, registers, including daily life as a site of (self) management and governance. Rabinow and Rose refer to biopolitical circuits that draw together and inter-relate the multiple sites and scales operative in the administration of life. These involve not just technologies, rationalities and regimes of authority and control, but also politics “from below” in the form of rights claims and community formation and agitation (198). Active in these circuits, too, are corporate and non-state interests for whom the pursuit of maximising life’s qualities and capabilities has become a concern through which “market relations and shareholder value” are negotiated (Rabinow and Rose 211). As many biopolitical scholars argue, biopower—the strategies through which biopolitics are enacted—is characteristic of the “disciplinary neo-liberalism” that has come to define the modern state, and through which the conduct of conduct is practiced (Di Muzio 305). Foucault’s concept of governmentality describes the devolution of state-based disciplinarity and sovereignty to a host of non-state actors, rationalities and strategies of governing, including the self-managing subject, not in opposition to the state, but contributing to its form. According to Bratich, Packer and McCarthy, everyday life is thus “saturated with governmental techniques” (18) in which we are all enrolled. Unlike regimes of biopolitics identified with what Agamben terms “thanopolitics”—the exercise of biopower “which ultimately rests on the power of some to threaten the death of others” (Rabinow and Rose 198), such as the Nazi’s National Socialism and other eugenic campaigns—governmental arts in the service of “vitalist” biopolitics (Rose 1) are increasingly diffused amongst all those with an “interest” in sustaining life, from organisations to individuals. The integration of techniques of self-governance which ask the individual to work on themselves and their own dispositions with State functions has broadened the base by which life is governed, and foregrounded an unsettled terrain of life claims. Rose argues that medical science is at the forefront of these contemporary biopolitics, and to this effect “has […] been fully engaged in the ethical questions of how we should live—of what kinds of creatures we are, of the kinds of obligations that we have to ourselves and to others, of the kinds of techniques we can and should use to improve ourselves” (20). Asking individuals to self-identify through their medical histories and bodily specificities, medical cultures are also shaping new political arrangements, as communities connected by shared genetics or physical conditions, for instance, emerge, evolve and agitate according to the latest medical knowledge. Yet it is not just medicine that provokes ethical work and new political forms. The environment is a key site for life politics that entails a multi-faceted discourse of obligations and entitlements, across fields and scales of engagement. Calculating Environments In line with neo-liberal logic, environmental discourse concerned with ameliorating climate change has increasingly focused upon the individual as an agent of self-monitoring, to both facilitate government agendas at a distance, and to “self-fashion” in the mode of the autonomous subject, securing against external risks (Ong 501). Climate change is commonly represented as such a risk, to both human and non-human life. A recent letter published by the Royal Australasian College of Physicians in two leading British medical journals, named climate change as the “biggest global health threat of the twenty-first century” (Morton). As I have argued elsewhere (Potter), security is central to dominant cultures of environmental governance in the West; these cultures tie sustainability goals to various and interrelated regimes of monitoring which attach to concepts of what Clark and Stevenson call “the good ecological citizen” (238). Citizenship is thus practiced through strategies of governmentality which call on individuals to invest not just in their own well-being, but in the broader project of life. Calculation is a primary technique through which modern environmental governance is enacted; calculative strategies are seen to mediate risk, according to Foucault, and consequently to “assure living” (Elden 575). Rationalised schemes for self-monitoring are proliferating under climate change and the project of environmentalism more broadly, something which critics of neo-liberalism have identified as symptomatic of the privatisation of politics that liberal governmentality has fostered. As we have seen in Australia, an evolving policy emphasis on individual practices and the domestic sphere as crucial sites of environmental action – for instance, the introduction of domestic water restrictions, and the phasing out of energy-inefficient light bulbs in the home—provides a leading discourse of ethico-political responsibility. The rise of carbon dioxide counting is symptomatic of this culture, and indicates the distributed fields of life management in contemporary governmentality. Carbon dioxide, as the CPE is keen to point out, is crucial to life, but it is also—in too large an amount—a force of destruction. Its management, in vitalist terms, is thus established as an effort to protect life in the face of death. The concept of “carbon footprinting” has been promoted by governments, NGOs, industry and individuals as a way of securing this goal, and a host of calculative techniques and strategies are employed to this end, across a spectrum of activities and contexts all framed in the interests of life. The footprinting measure seeks to secure living via self-policed limits, which also—in classic biopolitical form—shift previously private practices into a public realm of count-ability and accountability. The carbon footprint, like its associates the ecological footprint and the water footprint, has developed as a multi-faceted tool of citizenship beyond the traditional boundaries of the state. Suggesting an ecological conception of territory and of our relationships and responsibilities to this, the footprint, as a measure of resource use and emissions relative to the Earth’s capacities to absorb these, calculates and visualises the “specific qualities” (Elden 575) that, in a spatialised understanding of security, constitute and define this territory. The carbon footprint’s relatively simple remit of measuring carbon emissions per unit of assessment—be that the individual, the corporation, or the nation—belies the ways in which life is formatted and produced through its calculations. A tangled set of devices, practices and discourses is employed to make carbon and thus life calculable and manageable. Treading Lightly The old environmental adage to “tread lightly upon the Earth” has been literalised in the metaphor of the footprint, which attempts both to symbolise environmental practice and to directly translate data in order to meaningfully communicate necessary boundaries for our living. The World Wildlife Fund’s Living Planet Report 2008 exemplifies the growing popularity of the footprint as a political and poetic hook: speaking in terms of our “ecological overshoot,” and the move from “ecological credit to ecological deficit”, the report urges an attendance to our “global footprint” which “now exceeds the world’s capacity to regenerate by about 30 per cent” (1). Angela Crombie’s A Lighter Footprint, an instruction manual for sustainable living, is one of a host of media through which individuals are educated in modes of footprint calculation and management. She presents a range of techniques, including carbon offsetting, shifting to sustainable modes of transport, eating and buying differently, recycling and conserving water, to mediate our carbon dioxide output, and to “show […] politicians how easy it is” (13). Governments however, need no persuading from citizens that carbon calculation is an exercise to be harnessed. As governments around the world move (slowly) to address climate change, policies that instrumentalise carbon dioxide emission and reduction via an auditing of credits and deficits have come to the fore—for example, the European Union Emissions Trading Scheme and the Chicago Climate Exchange. In Australia, we have the currently-under-debate Carbon Pollution Reduction Scheme, a part of which is the Australian Emissions Trading Scheme (AETS) that will introduce a system of “carbon credits” and trading in a market-based model of supply and demand. This initiative will put a price on carbon dioxide emissions, and cap the amount of emissions any one polluter can produce without purchasing further credits. In readiness for the scheme, business initiatives are forming to take advantage of this new carbon market. Industries in carbon auditing and off-setting services are consolidating; hectares of trees, already active in the carbon sequestration market, are being cultivated as “carbon sinks” and key sites of compliance for polluters under the AETS. Governments are also planning to turn their tracts of forested public land into carbon credits worth billions of dollars (Arup 7). The attachment of emission measures to goods and services requires a range of calculative experts, and the implementation of new marketing and branding strategies, aimed at conveying the carbon “health” of a product. The introduction of “food mile” labelling (the amount of carbon dioxide emitted in the transportation of the food from source to consumer) in certain supermarkets in the United Kingdom is an example of this. Carbon risk analysis and management programs are being introduced across businesses in readiness for the forthcoming “carbon economy”. As one flyer selling “a suite of carbon related services” explains, “early action will give you the edge in understanding and mitigating the risks, and puts you in a prime position to capitalise on the rewards” (MGI Business Solutions Worldwide). In addition, lobby groups are working to ensure exclusions from or the free allocation of permits within the proposed AETS, with degrees of compulsion applied to different industries – the Federal Government, for instance, will provide a $3.9 billion compensation package for the electric power sector when the AETS commences, to enable their “adjustment” to this carbon regime. Performing Life Noortje Mares provides a further means of thinking through the politics of life in the context of climate change by complicating the distinction between public and private interest. Her study of “green living experiments” describes the rise of carbon calculation in the home in recent years, and the implementation of technologies such as the smart electricity meter that provides a constantly updating display of data relating to amounts and cost of energy consumed and the carbon dioxide emitted in the routines of domestic life. Her research tracks the entry of these personal calculative regimes into public life via internet forums such as blogs, where individuals notate or discuss their experiences of pursing low-carbon lifestyles. On the one hand, these calculative practices of living and their public representation can be read as evidencing the pervasive neo-liberal governmentality at work in contemporary environmental practice, where individuals are encouraged to scrupulously monitor their domestic cultures. The rise of auditing as a technology of self, and more broadly as a technique of public accountability, has come under fire for its “immunity-granting role” (Charkiewicz 79), where internal audits become substituted for external compliance and regulation. Mares challenges this reading, however, by demonstrating the ways in which green living experiments “transform everyday material practices into practices of public involvement” that (118) don’t resolve or pin down relations between the individual, the non-human environment, and the social, or reveal a mappable flow of actions and effects between the public realm and the home. The empirical modes of publicity that these individuals employ, “the careful recording of measurements and the reliable descriptions of sensory observation, so as to enable ‘virtual witnessing’ by wider audiences”, open up to much more complex understandings than one of calculative self-discipline at work. As “instrument[s] of public involvement” (120), the experiments that Mares describe locate the politics of life in the embodied socio-material entanglements of the domestic sphere, in arrangements of humans and non-human technologies. Such arrangements, she suggests, are ontologically productive in that they introduce “not only new knowledge, but also new entities […] to society” (119), and as such these experiments and the modes of calculation they employ become active in the composition of reality. Recent work in economic sociology and cultural studies has similarly contended that calculation, far from either a naturalised or thoroughly abstract process, relies upon a host of devices, relations, and techniques: that is, as Gay Hawkins explains, calculative processes “have to be enacted” (108). Environmental governmentality in the service of securing life is a networked practice that draws in a host of actors, not a top-down imposition. The institution of carbon economies and carbon emissions as a new register of public accountability, brings alternative ways to calculate the world into being, and consequently re-calibrates life as it emerges from these heterogeneous arrangements. All That Gathers Latour writes that we come to know a matter of concern by all the things that gather around it (Latour). This includes the human, as well as the non-human actors, policies, practices and technologies that are put to work in the making of our realities. Climate change is routinely represented as a threat to life, with predicted (and occurring) species extinction, growing numbers of climate change refugees, dispossessed from uninhabitable lands, and the rise of diseases and extreme weather scenarios that put human life in peril. There is no doubt, of course, that climate change does mean death for some: indeed, there are thanopolitical overtones in inequitable relations between the fall-out of impacts from major polluting nations on poorer countries, or those much more susceptible to rising sea levels. Biosocial equity, as Bull points out, is a “matter of being equally alive and equally dead” (2). Yet in the biopolitical project of assuring living, life is burgeoning around the problem of climate change. The critique of neo-liberalism as a blanketing system that subjects all aspects of life to market logic, and in which the cynical techniques of industry seek to appropriate ethico-political stances for their own material ends, are insufficient responses to what is actually unfolding in the messy terrain of climate change and its biopolitics. What this paper has attempted to show is that there is no particular purchase on life that can be had by any one actor who gathers around this concern. Varying interests, ambitions, and intentions, without moral hierarchy, stake their claim in life as a constantly constituting site in which they participate, and from this perspective, the ways in which we understand life to be both produced and managed expand. This is to refuse either an opposition or a conflation between the market and nature, or the market and life. It is also to argue that we cannot essentialise human-ness in the climate change debate. For while human relations with animals, plants and weathers may make us what we are, so too do our relations with (in a much less romantic view) non-human things, technologies, schemes, and even markets—from carbon auditing services, to the label on a tin on the supermarket shelf. As these intersect and entangle, the project of life, in the new politics of climate change, is far from straightforward. References An Inconvenient Truth. Dir. Davis Guggenheim. Village Roadshow, 2006. Arup, Tom. “Victoria Makes Enormous Carbon Stocktake in Bid for Offset Billions.” The Age 24 Sep. 2009: 7. Bratich, Jack Z., Jeremy Packer, and Cameron McCarthy. “Governing the Present.” Foucault, Cultural Studies and Governmentality. Ed. Bratich, Packer and McCarthy. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2003. 3-21. Bull, Malcolm. “Globalization and Biopolitics.” New Left Review 45 (2007): 12 May 2009 . < http://newleftreview.org/?page=article&view=2675 >. Charkiewicz, Ewa. “Corporations, the UN and Neo-liberal Bio-politics.” Development 48.1 (2005): 75-83. Clark, Nigel, and Nick Stevenson. “Care in a Time of Catastrophe: Citizenship, Community and the Ecological Imagination.” Journal of Human Rights 2.2 (2003): 235-246. Crombie, Angela. A Lighter Footprint: A Practical Guide to Minimising Your Impact on the Planet. Carlton North, Vic.: Scribe, 2007. Di Muzio, Tim. “Governing Global Slums: The Biopolitics of Target 11.” Global Governance. 14.3 (2008): 305-326. Elden, Stuart. “Governmentality, Calculation and Territory.” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 25 (2007): 562-580. Hawkins, Gay. The Ethics of Waste: How We Relate to Rubbish. Sydney: University of New South Wales Press, 2006. Latour, Bruno. “Why Has Critique Run Out of Steam?: From Matters of Fact to Matters of Concern.” Critical Inquiry 30.2 (2004): 225-248. Mares, Noortje. “Testing Powers of Engagement: Green Living Experiments, the Ontological Turn and the Undoability and Involvement.” European Journal of Social Theory 12.1 (2009): 117-133. MGI Business Solutions Worldwide. “Carbon News.” Adelaide. 2 Aug. 2009. Ong, Aihwa. “Mutations in Citizenship.” Theory, Culture and Society 23.2-3 (2006): 499-505. Potter, Emily. “Footprints in the Mallee: Climate Change, Sustaining Communities, and the Nature of Place.” Landscapes and Learning: Place Studies in a Global World. Ed. Margaret Somerville, Kerith Power and Phoenix de Carteret. Sense Publishers. Forthcoming. Rabinow, Paul, and Nikolas Rose. “Biopower Today.” Biosocieties 1 (2006): 195-217. Rose, Nikolas. “The Politics of Life Itself.” Theory, Culture and Society 18.6 (2001): 1-30. World Wildlife Fund. Living Planet Report 2008. Switzerland, 2008.

This article investigates the prosthesis of identity through the process of branding. It examines cross-cultural manifestations of this phenomena from sixth millennium BCE Syria to twelfth century Japan and Britain. From the Neolithic Era, humanity has sort to extend their identities using pictorial signs that were characteristically simple. Designed to be distinctive and instantly recognisable, the totemic symbols served to signal the origin of the bearer. Subsequently, the development of branding coincided with periods of increased in mobility both in respect to geography and social strata. This includes fifth millennium Mesopotamia, nineteenth century Britain, and America during the 1920s.There are fewer articles of greater influence on contemporary culture than A Theory of Human Motivation written by Abraham Maslow in 1943. Nearly seventy-five years later, his theories about the societal need for “belongingness” and “esteem” remain a mainstay of advertising campaigns (Maslow). Although the principles are used to sell a broad range of products from shampoo to breakfast cereal they are epitomised by apparel. This is with refence to garments and accessories bearing corporation logos. Whereas other purchased items, imbued with abstract products, are intended for personal consumption the public display of these symbols may be interpreted as a form of signalling. The intention of the wearers is to literally seek the fulfilment of the aforementioned social needs. This article investigates the use of brands as prosthesis.Coats and Crests: Identity Garnered on Garments in the Middle Ages and the Muromachi PeriodA logo, at its most basic, is a pictorial sign. In his essay, The Visual Language, Ernest Gombrich described the principle as reducing images to “distinctive features” (Gombrich 46). They represent a “simplification of code,” the meaning of which we are conditioned to recognise (Gombrich 46). Logos may also be interpreted as a manifestation of totemism. According to anthropologist Claude Levi-Strauss, the principle exists in all civilisations and reflects an effort to evoke the power of nature (71-127). Totemism is also a method of population distribution (Levi-Strauss 166).This principle, in a form garnered on garments, is manifested in Mon Kiri. The practice of cutting out family crests evolved into a form of corporate branding in Japan during the Meiji Period (1868-1912) (Christensen 14). During the Muromachi period (1336-1573) the crests provided an integral means of identification on the battlefield (Christensen 13). The adorning of crests on armour was also exercised in Europe during the twelfth century, when the faces of knights were similarly obscured by helmets (Family Crests of Japan 8). Both Mon Kiri and “Coat[s] of Arms” utilised totemic symbols (Family Crests of Japan 8; Elven 14; Christensen 13). The mon for the imperial family (figs. 1 & 2) during the Muromachi Period featured chrysanthemum and paulownia flowers (Goin’ Japaneque). “Coat[s] of Arms” in Britain featured a menagerie of animals including lions (fig. 3), horses and eagles (Elven).The prothesis of identity through garnering symbols on the battlefield provided “safety” through demonstrating “belongingness”. This constituted a conflation of two separate “needs” in the “hierarchy of prepotency” propositioned by Maslow. Fig. 1. The mon symbolising the Imperial Family during the Muromachi Period featured chrysanthemum and paulownia. "Kamon (Japanese Family Crests): Ancient Key to Samurai Culture." Goin' Japaneque! 15 Nov. 2015. 27 July 2019 <http://goinjapanesque.com/05983/>.Fig. 2. An example of the crest being utilised on a garment can be found in this portrait of samurai Oda Nobunaga. "Japan's 12 Most Famous Samurai." All About Japan. 27 Aug. 2018. 27 July 2019 <https://allabout-japan.com/en/article/5818/>.Fig. 3. A detail from the “Index of Subjects of Crests.” Elven, John Peter. The Book of Family Crests: Comprising Nearly Every Family Bearing, Properly Blazoned and Explained, Accompanied by Upwards of Four Thousand Engravings. Henry Washbourne, 1847.The Pursuit of Prestige: Prosthetic Pedigree from the Late Georgian to the Victorian Eras In 1817, the seal engraver to Prince Regent, Alexander Deuchar, described the function of family crests in British Crests: Containing The Crest and Mottos of The Families of Great Britain and Ireland; Together with Those of The Principal Cities and Heraldic Terms as follows: The first approach to civilization is the distinction of ranks. So necessary is this to the welfare and existence of society, that, without it, anarchy and confusion must prevail… In an early stage, heraldic emblems were characteristic of the bearer… Certain ordinances were made, regulating the mode of bearing arms, and who were entitled to bear them. (i-v)The partitioning of social classes in Britain had deteriorated by the time this compendium was published, with displays of “conspicuous consumption” displacing “heraldic emblems” as a primary method of status signalling (Deuchar 2; Han et al. 18). A consumerism born of newfound affluence, and the desire to signify this wealth through luxury goods, was as integral to the Industrial Revolution as technological development. In Rebels against the Future, published in 1996, Kirkpatrick Sale described the phenomenon:A substantial part of the new population, though still a distinct minority, was made modestly affluent, in some places quite wealthy, by privatization of of the countryside and the industrialization of the cities, and by the sorts of commercial and other services that this called forth. The new money stimulated the consumer demand… that allowed a market economy of a scope not known before. (40)This also reflected improvements in the provision of “health, food [and] education” (Maslow; Snow 25-28). With their “physiological needs” accommodated, this ”substantial part” of the population were able to prioritised their “esteem needs” including the pursuit for prestige (Sale 40; Maslow).In Britain during the Middle Ages laws “specified in minute detail” what each class was permitted to wear (Han et al. 15). A groom, for example, was not able to wear clothing that exceeded two marks in value (Han et al. 15). In a distinct departure during the Industrial Era, it was common for the “middling and lower classes” to “ape” the “fashionable vices of their superiors” (Sale 41). Although mon-like labels that were “simplified so as to be conspicuous and instantly recognisable” emerged in Europe during the nineteenth century their application on garments remained discrete up until the early twentieth century (Christensen 13-14; Moore and Reid 24). During the 1920s, the French companies Hermes and Coco Chanel were amongst the clothing manufacturers to pioneer this principle (Chaney; Icon).During the 1860s, Lincolnshire-born Charles Frederick Worth affixed gold stamped labels to the insides of his garments (Polan et al. 9; Press). Operating from Paris, the innovation was consistent with the introduction of trademark laws in France in 1857 (Lopes et al.). He would become known as the “Father of Haute Couture”, creating dresses for royalty and celebrities including Empress Eugene from Constantinople, French actress Sarah Bernhardt and Australian Opera Singer Nellie Melba (Lopes et al.; Krick). The clothing labels proved and ineffective deterrent to counterfeit, and by the 1890s the House of Worth implemented other measures to authenticate their products (Press). The legitimisation of the origin of a product is, arguably, the primary function of branding. This principle is also applicable to subjects. The prothesis of brands, as totemic symbols, assisted consumers to relocate themselves within a new system of population distribution (Levi-Strauss 166). It was one born of commerce as opposed to heraldry.Selling of Self: Conferring Identity from the Neolithic to Modern ErasIn his 1817 compendium on family crests, Deuchar elaborated on heraldry by writing:Ignoble birth was considered as a stain almost indelible… Illustrious parentage, on the other hand, constituted the very basis of honour: it communicated peculiar rights and privileges, to which the meaner born man might not aspire. (v-vi)The Twinings Logo (fig. 4) has remained unchanged since the design was commissioned by the grandson of the company founder Richard Twining in 1787 (Twining). In addition to reflecting the heritage of the family-owned company, the brand indicated the origin of the tea. This became pertinent during the nineteenth century. Plantations began to operate from Assam to Ceylon (Jones 267-269). Amidst the rampant diversification of tea sources in the Victorian era, concerns about the “unhygienic practices” of Chinese producers were proliferated (Wengrow 11). Subsequently, the brand also offered consumers assurance in quality. Fig. 4. The Twinings Logo reproduced from "History of Twinings." Twinings. 24 July 2019 <https://www.twinings.co.uk/about-twinings/history-of-twinings>.The term ‘brand’, adapted from the Norse “brandr”, was introduced into the English language during the sixteenth century (Starcevic 179). At its most literal, it translates as to “burn down” (Starcevic 179). Using hot elements to singe markings onto animals been recorded as early as 2700 BCE in Egypt (Starcevic 182). However, archaeologists concur that the modern principle of branding predates this practice. The implementation of carved seals or stamps to make indelible impressions of handcrafted objects dates back to Prehistoric Mesopotamia (Starcevic 183; Wengrow 13). Similar traditions developed during the Bronze Age in both China and the Indus Valley (Starcevic 185). In all three civilisations branding facilitated both commerce and aspects of Totemism. In the sixth millennium BCE in “Prehistoric” Mesopotamia, referred to as the Halaf period, stone seals were carved to emulate organic form such as animal teeth (Wengrow 13-14). They were used to safeguard objects by “confer[ring] part of the bearer’s personality” (Wengrow 14). They were concurrently applied to secure the contents of vessels containing “exotic goods” used in transactions (Wengrow 15). Worn as amulets (figs. 5 & 6) the seals, and the symbols they produced, were a physical extension of their owners (Wengrow 14).Fig. 5. Recreation of stamp seal amulets from Neolithic Mesopotamia during the sixth millennium BCE. Wengrow, David. "Prehistories of Commodity Branding." Current Anthropology 49.1 (2008): 14.Fig. 6. “Lot 25Y: Rare Syrian Steatite Amulet – Fertility God 5000 BCE.” The Salesroom. 27 July 2019 <https://www.the-saleroom.com/en-gb/auction-catalogues/artemis-gallery-ancient-art/catalogue-id-srartem10006/lot-a850d229-a303-4bae-b68c-a6130005c48a>. Fig. 7. Recreation of stamp seal designs from Mesopotamia from the late fifth to fourth millennium BCE. Wengrow, David. "Prehistories of Commodity Branding." Current Anthropology 49. 1 (2008): 16.In the following millennia, the seals would increase exponentially in application and aesthetic complexity (fig. 7) to support the development of household cum cottage industries (Wengrow 15). In addition to handcrafts, sealed vessels would transport consumables such as wine, aromatic oils and animal fats (Wengrow 18). The illustrations on the seals included depictions of rituals undertaken by human figures and/or allegories using animals. It can be ascertained that the transition in the Victorian Era from heraldry to commerce, from family to corporation, had precedence. By extension, consumers were able to participate in this process of value attribution using brands as signifiers. The principle remained prevalent during the modern and post-modern eras and can be respectively interpreted using structuralist and post-structuralist theory.Totemism to Simulacrum: The Evolution of Advertising from the Modern to Post-Modern Eras In 2011, Lisa Chaney wrote of the inception of the Coco Chanel logo (fig. 8) in her biography Chanel: An Intimate Life: A crucial element in the signature design of the Chanel No.5 bottle is the small black ‘C’ within a black circle set as the seal at the neck. On the top of the lid are two more ‘C’s, intertwined back to back… from at least 1924, the No5 bottles sported the unmistakable logo… these two ‘C’s referred to Gabrielle, – in other words Coco Chanel herself, and would become the logo for the House of Chanel. Chaney continued by describing Chanel’s fascination of totemic symbols as expressed through her use of tarot cards. She also “surrounded herself with objects ripe with meaning” such as representations of wheat and lions in reference prosperity and to her zodiac symbol ‘Leo’ respectively. Fig. 8. No5 Chanel Perfume, released in 1924, featured a seal-like logo attached to the bottle neck. “No5.” Chanel. 25 July 2019 <https://www.chanel.com/us/fragrance/p/120450/n5-parfum-grand-extrait/>.Fig. 9. This illustration of the bottle by Georges Goursat was published in a women’s magazine circa 1920s. “1921 Chanel No5.” Inside Chanel. 26 July 2019 <http://inside.chanel.com/en/timeline/1921_no5>; “La 4éme Fête de l’Histoire Samedi 16 et dimache 17 juin.” Ville de Perigueux. Musée d’art et d’archéologie du Périgord. 28 Mar. 2018. 26 July 2019 <https://www.perigueux-maap.fr/category/archives/page/5/>. This product was considered the “financial basis” of the Chanel “empire” which emerged during the second and third decades of the twentieth century (Tikkanen). Chanel is credited for revolutionising Haute Couture by introducing chic modern designs that emphasised “simplicity and comfort.” This was as opposed to the corseted highly embellished fashion that characterised the Victorian Era (Tikkanen). The lavish designs released by the House of Worth were, in and of themselves, “conspicuous” displays of “consumption” (Veblen 17). In contrast, the prestige and status associated with the “poor girl” look introduced by Chanel was invested in the story of the designer (Tikkanen). A primary example is her marinière or sailor’s blouse with a Breton stripe that epitomised her ascension from café singer to couturier (Tikkanen; Burstein 8). This signifier might have gone unobserved by less discerning consumers of fashion if it were not for branding. Not unlike the Prehistoric Mesopotamians, this iteration of branding is a process which “confer[s]” the “personality” of the designer into the garment (Wengrow 13 -14). The wearer of the garment is, in turn, is imbued by extension. Advertisers in the post-structuralist era embraced Levi-Strauss’s structuralist anthropological theories (Williamson 50). This is with particular reference to “bricolage” or the “preconditioning” of totemic symbols (Williamson 173; Pool 50). Subsequently, advertising creatives cum “bricoleur” employed his principles to imbue the brands with symbolic power. This symbolic capital was, arguably, transferable to the product and, ultimately, to its consumer (Williamson 173).Post-structuralist and semiotician Jean Baudrillard “exhaustively” critiqued brands and the advertising, or simulacrum, that embellished them between the late 1960s and early 1980s (Wengrow 10-11). In Simulacra and Simulation he wrote,it is the reflection of a profound reality; it masks and denatures a profound reality; it masks the absence of a profound reality; it has no relation to any reality whatsoever: it is its own pure simulacrum. (6)The symbolic power of the Chanel brand resonates in the ‘profound reality’ of her story. It is efficiently ‘denatured’ through becoming simplified, conspicuous and instantly recognisable. It is, as a logo, physically juxtaposed as simulacra onto apparel. This simulacrum, in turn, effects the ‘profound reality’ of the consumer. In 1899, economist Thorstein Veblen wrote in The Theory of the Leisure Class:Conspicuous consumption of valuable goods it the means of reputability to the gentleman of leisure… costly entertainments, such as potlatch or the ball, are peculiarly adapted to serve this end… he consumes vicariously for his host at the same time that he is witness to the consumption… he is also made to witness his host’s facility in etiquette. (47)Therefore, according to Veblen, it was the witnessing of “wasteful” consumption that “confers status” as opposed the primary conspicuous act (Han et al. 18). Despite television being in its experimental infancy advertising was at “the height of its powers” during the 1920s (Clark et al. 18; Hill 30). Post-World War I consumers, in America, experienced an unaccustomed level of prosperity and were unsuspecting of the motives of the newly formed advertising agencies (Clark et al. 18). Subsequently, the ‘witnessing’ of consumption could be constructed across a plethora of media from the newly emerged commercial radio to billboards (Hill viii–25). The resulting ‘status’ was ‘conferred’ onto brand logos. Women’s magazines, with a legacy dating back to 1828, were a primary locus (Hill 10).Belonging in a Post-Structuralist WorldIt is significant to note that, in a post-structuralist world, consumers do not exclusively seek upward mobility in their selection of brands. The establishment of counter-culture icon Levi-Strauss and Co. was concurrent to the emergence of both The House of Worth and Coco Chanel. The Bavarian-born Levi Strauss commenced selling apparel in San Francisco in 1853 (Levi’s). Two decades later, in partnership with Nevada born tailor Jacob Davis, he patented the “riveted-for-strength” workwear using blue denim (Levi’s). Although the ontology of ‘jeans’ is contested, references to “Jene Fustyan” date back the sixteenth century (Snyder 139). It involved the combining cotton, wool and linen to create “vestments” for Geonese sailors (Snyder 138). The Two Horse Logo (fig. 10), depicting them unable to pull apart a pair of jeans to symbolise strength, has been in continuous use by Levi Strauss & Co. company since its design in 1886 (Levi’s). Fig. 10. The Two Horse Logo by Levi Strauss & Co. has been in continuous use since 1886. Staff Unzipped. "Two Horses. One Message." Heritage. Levi Strauss & Co. 1 July 2011. 25 July 2019 <https://www.levistrauss.com/2011/07/01/two-horses-many-versions-one-message/>.The “rugged wear” would become the favoured apparel amongst miners at American Gold Rush (Muthu 6). Subsequently, between the 1930s – 1960s Hollywood films cultivated jeans as a symbol of “defiance” from Stage Coach staring John Wayne in 1939 to Rebel without A Cause staring James Dean in 1955 (Muthu 6; Edgar). Consequently, during the 1960s college students protesting in America (fig. 11) against the draft chose the attire to symbolise their solidarity with the working class (Hedarty). Notwithstanding a 1990s fashion revision of denim into a diversity of garments ranging from jackets to skirts, jeans have remained a wardrobe mainstay for the past half century (Hedarty; Muthu 10). Fig. 11. Although the brand label is not visible, jeans as initially introduced to the American Goldfields in the nineteenth century by Levi Strauss & Co. were cultivated as a symbol of defiance from the 1930s – 1960s. It documents an anti-war protest that occurred at the Pentagon in 1967. Cox, Savannah. "The Anti-Vietnam War Movement." ATI. 14 Dec. 2016. 16 July 2019 <https://allthatsinteresting.com/vietnam-war-protests#7>.In 2003, the journal Science published an article “Does Rejection Hurt? An Fmri Study of Social Exclusion” (Eisenberger et al.). The cross-institutional study demonstrated that the neurological reaction to rejection is indistinguishable to physical pain. Whereas during the 1940s Maslow classified the desire for “belonging” as secondary to “physiological needs,” early twenty-first century psychologists would suggest “[social] acceptance is a mechanism for survival” (Weir 50). In Simulacra and Simulation, Jean Baudrillard wrote: Today abstraction is no longer that of the map, the double, the mirror or the concept. Simulation is no longer that of a territory, a referential being or a substance. It is the generation by models of a real without origin or reality: a hyperreal… (1)In the intervening thirty-eight years since this document was published the artifice of our interactions has increased exponentially. In order to locate ‘belongness’ in this hyperreality, the identities of the seekers require a level of encoding. Brands, as signifiers, provide a vehicle.Whereas in Prehistoric Mesopotamia carved seals, worn as amulets, were used to extend the identity of a person, in post-digital China WeChat QR codes (fig. 12), stored in mobile phones, are used to facilitate transactions from exchanging contact details to commerce. Like other totems, they provide access to information such as locations, preferences, beliefs, marital status and financial circumstances. These individualised brands are the most recent incarnation of a technology that has developed over the past eight thousand years. The intermediary iteration, emblems affixed to garments, has remained prevalent since the twelfth century. Their continued salience is due to their visibility and, subsequent, accessibility as signifiers. Fig. 12. It may be posited that Wechat QR codes are a form individualised branding. Like other totems, they store information pertaining to the owner’s location, beliefs, preferences, marital status and financial circumstances. “Join Wechat groups using QR code on 2019.” Techwebsites. 26 July 2019 <https://techwebsites.net/join-wechat-group-qr-code/>.Fig. 13. Brands function effectively as signifiers is due to the international distribution of multinational corporations. This is the shopfront of Chanel in Dubai, which offers customers apparel bearing consistent insignia as the Parisian outlet at on Rue Cambon. Customers of Chanel can signify to each other with the confidence that their products will be recognised. “Chanel.” The Dubai Mall. 26 July 2019 <https://thedubaimall.com/en/shop/chanel>.Navigating a post-structuralist world of increasing mobility necessitates a rudimental understanding of these symbols. Whereas in the nineteenth century status was conveyed through consumption and witnessing consumption, from the twentieth century onwards the garnering of brands made this transaction immediate (Veblen 47; Han et al. 18). The bricolage of the brands is constructed by bricoleurs working in any number of contemporary creative fields such as advertising, filmmaking or song writing. They provide a system by which individuals can convey and recognise identities at prima facie. They enable the prosthesis of identity.ReferencesBaudrillard, Jean. Simulacra and Simulation. Trans. Sheila Faria Glaser. United States: University of Michigan Press, 1994.Burstein, Jessica. Cold Modernism: Literature, Fashion, Art. United States: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2012.Chaney, Lisa. Chanel: An Intimate Life. United Kingdom: Penguin Books Limited, 2011.Christensen, J.A. Cut-Art: An Introduction to Chung-Hua and Kiri-E. New York: Watson-Guptill Publications, 1989. Clark, Eddie M., Timothy C. Brock, David E. Stewart, David W. Stewart. Attention, Attitude, and Affect in Response to Advertising. United Kingdom: Taylor & Francis Group, 1994.Deuchar, Alexander. British Crests: Containing the Crests and Mottos of the Families of Great Britain and Ireland Together with Those of the Principal Cities – Primary So. London: Kirkwood & Sons, 1817.Ebert, Robert. “Great Movie: Stage Coach.” Robert Ebert.com. 1 Aug. 2011. 10 Mar. 2019 <https://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/great-movie-stagecoach-1939>.Elven, John Peter. The Book of Family Crests: Comprising Nearly Every Family Bearing, Properly Blazoned and Explained, Accompanied by Upwards of Four Thousand Engravings. London: Henry Washbourne, 1847.Eisenberger, Naomi I., Matthew D. Lieberman, and Kipling D. Williams. "Does Rejection Hurt? An Fmri Study of Social Exclusion." Science 302.5643 (2003): 290-92.Family Crests of Japan. California: Stone Bridge Press, 2007.Gombrich, Ernst. "The Visual Image: Its Place in Communication." Scientific American 272 (1972): 82-96.Hedarty, Stephanie. "How Jeans Conquered the World." BBC World Service. 28 Feb. 2012. 26 July 2019 <https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-17101768>. Han, Young Jee, Joseph C. Nunes, and Xavier Drèze. "Signaling Status with Luxury Goods: The Role of Brand Prominence." Journal of Marketing 74.4 (2010): 15-30.Hill, Daniel Delis. Advertising to the American Woman, 1900-1999. United States of Ame: Ohio State University Press, 2002."History of Twinings." Twinings. 24 July 2019 <https://www.twinings.co.uk/about-twinings/history-of-twinings>. icon-icon: Telling You More about Icons. 18 Dec. 2016. 26 July 2019 <http://www.icon-icon.com/en/hermes-logo-the-horse-drawn-carriage/>. Jones, Geoffrey. Merchants to Multinationals: British Trading Companies in the 19th and 20th Centuries. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2002.Kamon (Japanese Family Crests): Ancient Key to Samurai Culture." Goin' Japaneque! 15 Nov. 2015. 27 July 2019 <http://goinjapanesque.com/05983/>. Krick, Jessa. "Charles Frederick Worth (1825-1895) and the House of Worth." Heilburnn Timeline of Art History. The Met. Oct. 2004. 23 July 2019 <https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/wrth/hd_wrth.htm>. Levi’s. "About Levis Strauss & Co." 25 July 2019 <https://www.levis.com.au/about-us.html>. Lévi-Strauss, Claude. Totemism. London: Penguin, 1969.Lopes, Teresa de Silva, and Paul Duguid. Trademarks, Brands, and Competitiveness. Abingdon: Routledge, 2010.Maslow, Abraham. "A Theory of Human Motivation." British Journal of Psychiatry 208.4 (1942): 313-13.Moore, Karl, and Susan Reid. "The Birth of Brand: 4000 Years of Branding History." Business History 4.4 (2008).Muthu, Subramanian Senthikannan. Sustainability in Denim. Cambridge Woodhead Publishing, 2017.Polan, Brenda, and Roger Tredre. The Great Fashion Designers. Oxford: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2009.Pool, Roger C. Introduction. Totemism. New ed. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1969.Press, Claire. Wardrobe Crisis: How We Went from Sunday Best to Fast Fashion. 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Decoding Advertisements: Ideology and Meaning in Advertising. Ideas in Progress. London: Boyars, 1978.

In its preamble, The Western Australian Charter of Multiculturalism (WA) commits the state to becoming: “A society in which respect for mutual difference is accompanied by equality of opportunity within a framework of democratic citizenship”. One of the principles of multiculturalism, as enunciated in the Charter, is “equality of opportunity for all members of society to achieve their full potential in a free and democratic society where every individual is equal before and under the law”. An important element of this principle is the “equality of opportunity … to achieve … full potential”. The implication here is that those who start from a position of disadvantage when it comes to achieving that potential deserve more than ‘equal’ treatment. Implicitly, equality can be achieved only through the recognition of and response to differential needs and according to the likelihood of achieving full potential. This is encapsulated in Kymlicka’s argument that neutrality is “hopelessly inadequate once we look at the diversity of cultural membership which exists in contemporary liberal democracies” (903). Yet such a potential commitment to differential support might seem unequal to some, where equality is constructed as the same or equal treatment regardless of differing circumstances. Until the past half-century or more, this problematic has been a hotly-contested element of the struggle for Civil Rights for African-Americans in the United States, especially as these rights related to educational opportunity during the years of racial segregation. For some, providing resources to achieve equal outcomes (rather than be committed to equal inputs) may appear to undermine the very ethos of liberal democracy. In Australia, this perspective has been the central argument of Pauline Hanson and her supporters who denounce programs designed as measures to achieve equality for specific disadvantaged groups; including Indigenous Australians and humanitarian refugees. Nevertheless, equality for all on all grounds of legally-accepted difference: gender, race, age, family status, sexual orientation, political conviction, to name a few; is often held as the hallmark of progressive liberal societies such as Australia. In the matter of religious freedoms the situation seems much less complex. All that is required for religious equality, it seems, is to define religion as a private matter – carried out, as it were, between consenting parties away from the public sphere. This necessitates, effectively, the separation of state and religion. This separation of religious belief from the apparatus of the state is referred to as ‘secularism’ and it tends to be regarded as a cornerstone of a liberal democracy, given the general assumption that secularism is a necessary precursor to equal treatment of and respect for different religious beliefs, and the association of secularism with the Western project of the Enlightenment when liberty, equality and science replaced religion and superstition. By this token, western nations committed to equality are also committed to being liberal, democratic and secular in nature; and it is a matter of state indifference as to which religious faith a citizen embraces – Wiccan, Christian, Judaism, etc – if any. Historically, and arguably more so in the past decade, the terms ‘democratic’, ‘secular’, ‘liberal’ and ‘equal’ have all been used to inscribe characteristics of the collective ‘West’. Individuals and states whom the West ascribe as ‘other’ are therefore either or all of: not democratic; not liberal; or not secular – and failing any one of these characteristics (for any country other than Britain, with its parliamentary-established Church of England, headed by the Queen as Supreme Governor) means that that country certainly does not espouse equality. The West and the ‘Other’ in Popular Discourse The constructed polarisation between the free, secular and democratic West that values equality; and the oppressive ‘other’ that perpetuates theocracies, religious discrimination and – at the ultimate – human rights abuses, is a common theme in much of the West’s media and popular discourse on Islam. The same themes are also applied in some measure to Muslims in Australia, in particular to constructions of the rights of Muslim women in Australia. Typically, Muslim women’s dress is deemed by some secular Australians to be a symbol of religious subjugation, rather than of free choice. Arguably, this polemic has come to the fore since the terrorist attacks on the United States in September 2001. However, as Aly and Walker note, the comparisons between the West and the ‘other’ are historically constructed and inherited (Said) and have tended latterly to focus western attention on the role and status of Muslim women as evidence of the West’s progression comparative to its antithesis, Eastern oppression. An examination of studies of the United States media coverage of the September 11 attacks, and the ensuing ‘war on terror’, reveals some common media constructions around good versus evil. There is no equal status between these. Good must necessarily triumph. In the media coverage, the evil ‘other’ is Islamic terrorism, personified by Osama bin Laden. Part of the justification for the war on terror is a perception that the West, as a force for good in this world, must battle evil and protect freedom and democracy (Erjavec and Volcic): to do otherwise is to allow the terror of the ‘other’ to seep into western lives. The war on terror becomes the defence of the west, and hence the defence of equality and freedom. A commitment to equality entails a defeat of all things constructed as denying the rights of people to be equal. Hutcheson, Domke, Billeaudeaux and Garland analysed the range of discourses evident in Time and Newsweek magazines in the five weeks following September 11 and found that journalists replicated themes of national identity present in the communication strategies of US leaders and elites. The political and media response to the threat of the evil ‘other’ is to create a monolithic appeal to liberal values which are constructed as being a monopoly of the ‘free’ West. A brief look at just a few instances of public communication by US political leaders confirms Hutcheson et al.’s contention that the official construction of the 2001 attacks invoked discourses of good and evil reminiscent of the Cold War. In reference to the actions of the four teams of plane hijackers, US president George W Bush opened his Address to the Nation on the evening of September 11: “Today, our fellow citizens, our way of life, our very freedom came under attack in a series of deliberate and deadly terrorist acts” (“Statement by the President in His Address to the Nation”). After enjoining Americans to recite Psalm 23 in prayer for the victims and their families, President Bush ended his address with a clear message of national unity and a further reference to the battle between good and evil: “This is a day when all Americans from every walk of life unite in our resolve for justice and peace. America has stood down enemies before, and we will do so this time. None of us will ever forget this day. Yet, we go forward to defend freedom and all that is good and just in our world” (“Statement by the President in His Address to the Nation”). In his address to the joint houses of Congress shortly after September 11, President Bush implicated not just the United States in this fight against evil, but the entire international community stating: “This is the world’s fight. This is civilisation’s fight” (cited by Brown 295). Addressing the California Business Association a month later, in October 2001, Bush reiterated the notion of the United States as the leading nation in the moral fight against evil, and identified this as a possible reason for the attack: “This great state is known for its diversity – people of all races, all religions, and all nationalities. They’ve come here to live a better life, to find freedom, to live in peace and security, with tolerance and with justice. When the terrorists attacked America, this is what they attacked”. While the US media framed the events of September 11 as an attack on the values of democracy and liberalism as these are embodied in US democratic traditions, work by scholars analysing the Australian media’s representation of the attacks suggested that this perspective was echoed and internationalised for an Australian audience. Green asserts that global media coverage of the attacks positioned the global audience, including Australians, as ‘American’. The localisation of the discourses of patriotism and national identity for Australian audiences has mainly been attributed to the media’s use of the good versus evil frame that constructed the West as good, virtuous and moral and invited Australian audiences to subscribe to this argument as members of a shared Western democratic identity (Osuri and Banerjee). Further, where the ‘we’ are defenders of justice, equality and the rule of law; the opposing ‘others’ are necessarily barbaric. Secularism and the Muslim Diaspora Secularism is a historically laden term that has been harnessed to symbolise the emancipation of social life from the forced imposition of religious doctrine. The struggle between the essentially voluntary and private demands of religion, and the enjoyment of a public social life distinct from religious obligations, is historically entrenched in the cultural identities of many modern Western societies (Dallmayr). The concept of religious freedom in the West has evolved into a principle based on the bifurcation of life into the objective public sphere and the subjective private sphere within which individuals are free to practice their religion of choice (Yousif), or no religion at all. Secularism, then, is contingent on the maintenance of a separation between the public (religion-free) and the private or non- public (which may include religion). The debate regarding the feasibility or lack thereof of maintaining this separation has been a matter of concern for democratic theorists for some time, and has been made somewhat more complicated with the growing presence of religious diasporas in liberal democratic states (Charney). In fact, secularism is often cited as a precondition for the existence of religious pluralism. By removing religion from the public domain of the state, religious freedom, in so far as it constitutes the ability of an individual to freely choose which religion, if any, to practice, is deemed to be ensured. However, as Yousif notes, the Western conception of religious freedom is based on a narrow notion of religion as a personal matter, possibly a private emotional response to the idea of God, separate from the rational aspects of life which reside in the public domain. Arguably, religion is conceived of as recognising (or creating) a supernatural dimension to life that involves faith and belief, and the suspension of rational thought. This Western notion of religion as separate from the state, dividing the private from the public sphere, is constructed as a necessary basis for the liberal democratic commitment to secularism, and the notional equality of all religions, or none. Rawls questioned how people with conflicting political views and ideologies can freely endorse a common political regime in secular nations. The answer, he posits, lies in the conception of justice as a mechanism to regulate society independently of plural (and often opposing) religious or political conceptions. Thus, secularism can be constructed as an indicator of pluralism and justice; and political reason becomes the “common currency of debate in a pluralist society” (Charney 7). A corollary of this is that religious minorities must learn to use the language of political reason to represent and articulate their views and opinions in the public context, especially when talking with non-religious others. This imposes a need for religious minorities to support their views and opinions with political reason that appeals to the community at large as citizens, and not just to members of the minority religion concerned. The common ground becomes one of secularism, in which all speakers are deemed to be indifferent as to the (private) claims of religion upon believers. Minority religious groups, such as fundamentalist Mormons, invoke secular language of moral tolerance and civil rights to be acknowledged by the state, and to carry out their door-to-door ‘information’ evangelisation/campaigns. Right wing fundamentalist Christian groups and Catholics opposed to abortion couch their views in terms of an extension of the secular right to life, and in terms of the human rights and civil liberties of the yet-to-be-born. In doing this, these religious groups express an acceptance of the plurality of the liberal state and engage in debates in the public sphere through the language of political values and political principles of the liberal democratic state. The same principles do not apply within their own associations and communities where the language of the private religious realm prevails, and indeed is expected. This embracing of a political rhetoric for discussions of religion in the public sphere presents a dilemma for the Muslim diaspora in liberal democratic states. For many Muslims, religion is a complete way of life, incapable of compartmentalisation. The narrow Western concept of religious expression as a private matter is somewhat alien to Muslims who are either unable or unwilling to separate their religious needs from their needs as citizens of the nation state. Problems become apparent when religious needs challenge what seems to be publicly acceptable, and conflicts occur between what the state perceives to be matters of rational state interest and what Muslims perceive to be matters of religious identity. Muslim women’s groups in Western Australia for example have for some years discussed the desirability of a Sharia divorce court which would enable Muslims to obtain divorces according to Islamic law. It should be noted here that not all Muslims agree with the need for such a court and many – probably a majority – are satisfied with the existing processes that allow Muslim men and women to obtain a divorce through the Australian family court. For some Muslims however, this secular process does not satisfy their religious needs and it is perceived as having an adverse impact on their ability to adhere to their faith. A similar situation pertains to divorced Catholics who, according to a strict interpretation of their doctrine, are unable to take the Eucharist if they form a subsequent relationship (even if married according to the state), unless their prior marriage has been annulled by the Catholic Church or their previous partner has died. Whereas divorce is considered by the state as a public and legal concern, for some Muslims and others it is undeniably a religious matter. The suggestion by the Anglican Communion’s Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Rowan Williams, that the adoption of certain aspects of Sharia law regarding marital disputes or financial matters is ultimately unavoidable, sparked controversy in Britain and in Australia. Attempts by some Australian Muslim scholars to elaborate on Dr Williams’s suggestions, such as an article by Anisa Buckley in The Herald Sun (Buckley), drew responses that, typically, called for Muslims to ‘go home’. A common theme in these responses is that proponents of Sharia law (and Islam in general) do not share a commitment to the Australian values of freedom and equality. The following excerpts from the online pages of Herald Sun Readers’ Comments (Herald Sun) demonstrate this perception: “These people come to Australia for freedoms they have never experienced before and to escape repression which is generally brought about by such ‘laws’ as Sharia! How very dare they even think that this would be an option. Go home if you want such a regime. Such an insult to want to come over to this country on our very goodwill and our humanity and want to change our systems and ways. Simply, No!” Posted 1:58am February 12, 2008 “Under our English derived common law statutes, the law is supposed to protect an individual’s rights to life, liberty and property. That is the basis of democracy in Australia and most other western nations. Sharia law does not adequately share these philosophies and principles, thus it is incompatible with our system of law.” Posted 12:55am February 11, 2008 “Incorporating religious laws in the secular legal system is just plain wrong. No fundamentalist religion (Islam in particular) is compatible with a liberal-democracy.” Posted 2:23pm February 10, 2008 “It should not be allowed in Australia the Muslims come her for a better life and we give them that opportunity but they still believe in covering them selfs why do they even come to Australia for when they don’t follow owe [our] rules but if we went to there [their] country we have to cover owe selfs [sic]” Posted 11:28am February 10, 2008 Conflicts similar to this one – over any overt or non-private religious practice in Australia – may also be observed in public debates concerning the wearing of traditional Islamic dress; the slaughter of animals for consumption; Islamic burial rites, and other religious practices which cannot be confined to the private realm. Such conflicts highlight the inability of the rational liberal approach to solve all controversies arising from religious traditions that enjoin a broader world view than merely private spirituality. In order to adhere to the liberal reduction of religion to the private sphere, Muslims in the West must negotiate some religious practices that are constructed as being at odds with the rational state and practice a form of Islam that is consistent with secularism. At the extreme, this Western-acceptable form is what the Australian government has termed ‘moderate Islam’. The implication here is that, for the state, ‘non-moderate Islam’ – Islam that pervades the public realm – is just a descriptor away from ‘extreme’. The divide between Christianity and Islam has been historically played out in European Christendom as a refusal to recognise Islam as a world religion, preferring instead to classify it according to race or ethnicity: a Moorish tendency, perhaps. The secular state prefers to engage with Muslims as an ethnic, linguistic or cultural group or groups (Yousif). Thus, in order to engage with the state as political citizens, Muslims must find ways to present their needs that meet the expectations of the state – ways that do not use their religious identity as a frame of reference. They can do this by utilizing the language of political reason in the public domain or by framing their needs, views and opinions exclusively in terms of their ethnic or cultural identity with no reference to their shared faith. Neither option is ideal, or indeed even viable. This is partly because many Muslims find it difficult if not impossible to separate their religious needs from their needs as political citizens; and also because the prevailing perception of Muslims in the media and public arena is constructed on the basis of an understanding of Islam as a religion that conflicts with the values of liberal democracy. In the media and public arena, little consideration is given to the vast differences that exist among Muslims in Australia, not only in terms of ethnicity and culture, but also in terms of practice and doctrine (Shia or Sunni). The dominant construction of Muslims in the Australian popular media is of religious purists committed to annihilating liberal, secular governments and replacing them with anti-modernist theocratic regimes (Brasted). It becomes a talking point for some, for example, to realise that there are international campaigns to recognise Gay Muslims’ rights within their faith (ABC) (in the same way that there are campaigns to recognise Gay Christians as full members of their churches and denominations and equally able to hold high office, as followers of the Anglican Communion will appreciate). Secularism, Preference and Equality Modood asserts that the extent to which a minority religious community can fully participate in the public and political life of the secular nation state is contingent on the extent to which religion is the primary marker of identity. “It may well be the case therefore that if a faith is the primary identity of any community then that community cannot fully identify with and participate in a polity to the extent that it privileges a rival faith. Or privileges secularism” (60). Modood is not saying here that Islam has to be privileged in order for Muslims to participate fully in the polity; but that no other religion, nor secularism, should be so privileged. None should be first, or last, among equals. For such a situation to occur, Islam would have to be equally acceptable both with other religions and with secularism. Following a 2006 address by the former treasurer (and self-avowed Christian) Peter Costello to the Sydney Institute, in which Costello suggested that people who feel a dual claim from both Islamic law and Australian law should be stripped of their citizenship (Costello), the former Prime Minister, John Howard, affirmed what he considers to be Australia’s primary identity when he stated that ‘Australia’s core set of values flowed from its Anglo Saxon identity’ and that any one who did not embrace those values should not be allowed into the country (Humphries). The (then) Prime Minister’s statement is an unequivocal assertion of the privileged position of the Anglo Saxon tradition in Australia, a tradition with which many Muslims and others in Australia find it difficult to identify. Conclusion Religious identity is increasingly becoming the identity of choice for Muslims in Australia, partly because it is perceived that their faith is under attack and that it needs defending (Aly). They construct the defence of their faith as a choice and an obligation; but also as a right that they have under Australian law as equal citizens in a secular state (Aly and Green). Australian Muslims who have no difficulty in reconciling their core Australianness with their deep faith take it as a responsibility to live their lives in ways that model the reconciliation of each identity – civil and religious – with the other. In this respect, the political call to Australian Muslims to embrace a ‘moderate Islam’, where this is seen as an Islam without a public or political dimension, is constructed as treating their faith as less than equal. Religious identity is generally deemed to have no place in the liberal democratic model, particularly where that religion is constructed to be at odds with the principles and values of liberal democracy, namely tolerance and adherence to the rule of law. Indeed, it is as if the national commitment to secularism rules as out-of-bounds any identity that is grounded in religion, giving precedence instead to accepting and negotiating cultural and ethnic differences. Religion becomes a taboo topic in these terms, an affront against secularism and the values of the Enlightenment that include liberty and equality. In these circumstances, it is not the case that all religions are equally ignored in a secular framework. What is the case is that the secular framework has been constructed as a way of ‘privatising’ one religion, Christianity; leaving others – including Islam – as having nowhere to go. Islam thus becomes constructed as less than equal since it appears that, unlike Christians, Muslims are not willing to play the secular game. In fact, Muslims are puzzling over how they can play the secular game, and why they should play the secular game, given that – as is the case with Christians – they see no contradiction in performing ‘good Muslim’ and ‘good Australian’, if given an equal chance to embrace both. Acknowledgements This paper is based on the findings of an Australian Research Council Discovery Project, 2005-7, involving 10 focus groups and 60 in-depth interviews. The authors wish to acknowledge the participation and contributions of WA community members. 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