Academic literature on the topic 'Paul Railway Company'

The general who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple ere the battle is fought. — Sun TzuWorld War II saw a proliferation of maps. From command posts to the pages of National Geographic to the pages of daily newspapers, they were everywhere (Schulten). The era also saw substantive developments in cartography, especially with respect to the topographical maps that feature in our selected films. This essay offers a preliminary examination of the battle-map as depicted in two films about the Second World War: Franklin J. Shaffner’s biopic Patton (1970) and Jack Smight’s epic Midway (1976). In these films, maps, charts, or tableaux (the three-dimensional models upon which are plotted the movements of battalions, fleets, and so on) emerge as an expression of both martial and cinematic strategy. As a rear-view representation of the relative movements of personnel and materiel in particular battle arenas, the map and its accessories (pins, tape, markers, and so forth) trace the broad military dispositions of Patton’s 2nd Corp (Africa), Seventh Army (Italy) and Third Army (Western Europe) and the relative position of American and Japanese fleets in the Pacific. In both Patton and Midway, the map also emerges as a simple mode of narrative plotting: as the various encounters in the two texts play out, the battle-map more or less contemporaneously traces the progress of forces. It also serves as a foreshadowing device, not just narratively, but cinematically: that which is plotted in advance comes to pass (even if as preliminary movements before catastrophe), but the audience is also cued for the cinematic chaos and disjuncture that almost inevitably ensues in the battle scenes proper.On one hand, then, this essay proposes that at the fundamental level of fabula (seen through either the lens of historical hindsight or through the eyes of the novice who knows nothing of World War II), the annotated map is engaged both strategically and cinematically: as a stage upon which commanders attempt to act out (either in anticipation, or retrospectively) the intricate, but grotesque, ballet of warfare — and as a reflection of the broad, sequential, sweeps of conflict. While, in War and Cinema, Paul Virilio offers the phrase ‘the logistics of perception’ (1), in this this essay we, on the other hand, consider that, for those in command, the battle-map is a representation of the perception of logistics: the big picture of war finds rough indexical representation on a map, but (as Clausewitz tells us) chance, the creative agency of individual commanders, and the fog of battle make it far less probable (than is the case in more specific mappings, such as, say, the wedding rehearsal) that what is planned will play out with any degree of close correspondence (On War 19, 21, 77-81). Such mapping is, of course, further problematised by the processes of abstraction themselves: indexicality is necessarily a reduction; a de-realisation or déterritorialisation. ‘For the military commander,’ writes Virilio, ‘every dimension is unstable and presents itself in isolation from its original context’ (War and Cinema 32). Yet rehearsal (on maps, charts, or tableaux) is a keying activity that seeks to presage particular real world patterns (Goffman 45). As suggested above, far from being a rhizomatic activity, the heavily plotted (as opposed to thematic) business of mapping is always out of joint: either a practice of imperfect anticipation or an equally imperfect (pared back and behind-the-times) rendition of activity in the field. As is argued by Tolstoj in War and Peace, the map then presents to the responder a series of tensions and ironies often lost on the masters of conflict themselves. War, as Tostoj proposes, is a stochastic phenomenon while the map is a relatively static, and naive, attempt to impose order upon it. Tolstoj, then, pillories Phull (in the novel, Pfuhl), the aptly-named Prussian general whose lock-stepped obedience to the science of war (of which the map is part) results in the abject humiliation of 1806:Pfuhl was one of those theoreticians who are so fond of their theory that they lose sight of the object of that theory - its application in practice. (Vol. 2, Part 1, Ch. 10, 53)In both Patton and Midway, then, the map unfolds not only as an epistemological tool (read, ‘battle plan’) or reflection (read, the near contemporaneous plotting of real world affray) of the war narrative, but as a device of foreshadowing and as an allegory of command and its profound limitations. So, in Deleuzian terms, while emerging as an image of both time and perception, for commanders and filmgoers alike, the map is also something of a seduction: a ‘crystal-image’ situated in the interstices between the virtual and the actual (Deleuze 95). To put it another way, in our films the map emerges as an isomorphism: a studied plotting in which inheres a counter-text (Goffman 26). As a simple device of narrative, and in the conventional terms of latitude and longitude, in both Patton and Midway, the map, chart, or tableau facilitate the plotting of the resources of war in relation to relief (including island land masses), roads, railways, settlements, rivers, and seas. On this syntagmatic plane, in Greimasian terms, the map is likewise received as a canonical sign of command: where there are maps, there are, after all, commanders (Culler 13). On the other hand, as suggested above, the battle-map (hereafter, we use the term to signify the conventional paper map, the maritime chart, or tableau) materialises as a sanitised image of the unknown and the grotesque: as apodictic object that reduces complexity and that incidentally banishes horror and affect. Thus, the map evolves, in the viewer’s perception, as an ironic sign of all that may not be commanded. This is because, as an emblem of the rational order, in Patton and Midway the map belies the ubiquity of battle’s friction: that defined by Clausewitz as ‘the only concept which...distinguishes real war from war on paper’ (73). ‘Friction’ writes Clausewitz, ‘makes that which appears easy in War difficult in reality’ (81).Our work here cannot ignore or side-step the work of others in identifying the core cycles, characteristics of the war film genre. Jeanine Basinger, for instance, offers nothing less than an annotated checklist of sixteen key characteristics for the World War II combat film. Beyond this taxonomy, though, Basinger identifies the crucial role this sub-type of film plays in the corpus of war cinema more broadly. The World War II combat film’s ‘position in the evolutionary process is established, as well as its overall relationship to history and reality. It demonstrates how a primary set of concepts solidifies into a story – and how they can be interpreted for a changing ideology’ (78). Stuart Bender builds on Basinger’s taxonomy and discussion of narrative tropes with a substantial quantitative analysis of the very building blocks of battle sequences. This is due to Bender’s contention that ‘when a critic’s focus [is] on the narrative or ideological components of a combat film [this may] lead them to make assumptions about the style which are untenable’ (8). We seek with this research to add to a rich and detailed body of knowledge by redressing a surprising omission therein: a conscious and focussed analysis of the use of battle-maps in war cinema. In Patton and in Midway — as in War and Peace — the map emerges as an emblem of an intergeneric dialogue: as a simple storytelling device and as a paradigmatic engine of understanding. To put it another way, as viewer-responders with a synoptic perspective we perceive what might be considered a ‘double exposure’: in the map we see what is obviously before us (the collision of represented forces), but an Archimedean positioning facilitates the production of far more revelatory textual isotopies along what Roman Jakobson calls the ‘axis of combination’ (Linguistics and Poetics 358). Here, otherwise unconnected signs (in our case various manifestations and configurations of the battle-map) are brought together in relation to particular settings, situations, and figures. Through this palimpsest of perspective, a crucial binary emerges: via the battle-map we see ‘command’ and the sequence of engagement — and, through Greimasian processes of axiological combination (belonging more to syuzhet than fabula), elucidated for us are the wrenching ironies of warfare (Culler 228). Thus, through the profound and bound motif of the map (Tomashevsky 69), are we empowered to pass judgement on the map bearers who, in both films, present as the larger-than-life heroes of old. Figure 1.While we have scope only to deal with the African theatre, Patton opens with a dramatic wide-shot of the American flag: a ‘map’, if you will, of a national history forged in war (Fig. 1). Against this potent sign of American hegemony, as he slowly climbs up to the stage before it, the general appears a diminutive figure -- until, via a series of matched cuts that culminate in extreme close-ups, he manifests as a giant about to play his part in a great American story (Fig. 2).Figure 2.Some nineteen minutes into a film, having surveyed the carnage of Kasserine Pass (in which, in February 1943, the Germans inflicted a humiliating defeat on the Americans) General Omar Bradley is reunited with his old friend and newly-nominated three-star general, George S. Patton Jr.. Against a backdrop of an indistinct topographical map (that nonetheless appears to show the front line) and the American flag that together denote the men’s authority, the two discuss the Kasserine catastrophe. Bradley’s response to Patton’s question ‘What happened at Kasserine?’ clearly illustrates the tension between strategy and real-world engagement. While the battle-plan was solid, the Americans were outgunned, their tanks were outclassed, and (most importantly) their troops were out-disciplined. Patton’s concludes that Rommel can only be beaten if the American soldiers are fearless and fight as a cohesive unit. Now that he is in command of the American 2nd Corp, the tide of American martial fortune is about to turn.The next time Patton appears in relation to the map is around half an hour into the two-and-three-quarter-hour feature. Here, in the American HQ, the map once more appears as a simple, canonical sign of command. Somewhat carelessly, the map of Europe seems to show post-1945 national divisions and so is ostensibly offered as a straightforward prop. In terms of martial specifics, screenplay writer Francis Ford Coppola apparently did not envisage much close scrutiny of the film’s maps. Highlighted, instead, are the tensions between strategy as a general principle and action on the ground. As British General Sir Arthur Coningham waxes lyrical about allied air supremacy, a German bomber drops its payload on the HQ, causing the map of Europe to (emblematically) collapse forward into the room. Following a few passes by the attacking aircraft, the film then cuts to a one second medium shot as a hail of bullets from a Heinkel He 111 strike a North African battle map (Fig. 3). Still prone, Patton remarks: ‘You were discussing air supremacy, Sir Arthur.’ Dramatising a scene that did take place (although Coningham was not present), Schaffner’s intention is to allow Patton to shoot holes in the British strategy (of which he is contemptuous) but a broader objective is the director’s exposé of the more general disjuncture between strategy and action. As the film progresses, and the battle-map’s allegorical significance is increasingly foregrounded, this critique becomes definitively sharper.Figure 3.Immediately following a scene in which an introspective Patton walks through a cemetery in which are interred the remains of those killed at Kasserine, to further the critique of Allied strategy the camera cuts to Berlin’s high command and a high-tech ensemble of tableaux, projected maps, and walls featuring lights, counters, and clocks. Tasked to research the newly appointed Patton, Captain Steiger walks through the bunker HQ with Hitler’s Chief of Staff, General Jodl, to meet with Rommel — who, suffering nasal diphtheria, is away from the African theatre. In a memorable exchange, Steiger reveals that Patton permanently attacks and never retreats. Rommel, who, following his easy victory at Kasserine, is on the verge of total tactical victory, in turn declares that he will ‘attack and annihilate’ Patton — before the poet-warrior does the same to him. As Clausewitz has argued, and as Schaffner is at pains to point out, it seems that, in part, the outcome of warfare has more to do with the individual consciousness of competing warriors than it does with even the most exquisite of battle-plans.Figure 4.So, even this early in the film’s runtime, as viewer-responders we start to reassess various manifestations of the battle-map. To put it as Michelle Langford does in her assessment of Schroeter’s cinema, ‘fragments of the familiar world [in our case, battle-maps] … become radically unfamiliar’ (Allegorical Images 57). Among the revelations is that from the flag (in the context of close battle, all sense of ‘the national’ dissolves), to the wall map, to the most detailed of tableau, the battle-plan is enveloped in the fog of war: thus, the extended deeply-focussed scenes of the Battle of El Guettar take us from strategic overview (Patton’s field glass perspectives over what will soon become a Valley of Death) to what Boris Eichenbaum has called ‘Stendhalian’ scale (The Young Tolstoi 105) in which, (in Patton) through more closely situated perspectives, we almost palpably experience the Germans’ disarray under heavy fire. As the camera pivots between the general and the particular (and between the omniscient and the nescient) the cinematographer highlights the tension between the strategic and the actual. Inasmuch as it works out (and, as Schaffner shows us, it never works out completely as planned) this is the outcome of modern martial strategy: chaos and unimaginable carnage on the ground that no cartographic representation might capture. As Patton observes the destruction unfold in the valley below and before him, he declares: ‘Hell of a waste of fine infantry.’ Figure 5.An important inclusion, then, is that following the protracted El Guettar battle scenes, Schaffner has the (symbolically flag-draped) casket of Patton’s aide, Captain Richard N. “Dick” Jenson, wheeled away on a horse-drawn cart — with the lonely figure of the mourning general marching behind, his ironic interior monologue audible to the audience: ‘I can't see the reason such fine young men get killed. There are so many battles yet to fight.’ Finally, in terms of this brief and partial assessment of the battle-map in Patton, less than an hour in, we may observe that the map is emerging as something far more than a casual prop; as something more than a plotting of battlelines; as something more than an emblem of command. Along a new and unexpected axis of semantic combination, it is now manifesting as a sign of that which cannot be represented nor commanded.Midway presents the lead-up to the eponymous naval battle of 1942. Smight’s work is of interest primarily because the battle itself plays a relatively small role in the film; what is most important is the prolonged strategising that comprises most of the film’s run time. In Midway, battle-tables and fleet markers become key players in the cinematic action, second almost to the commanders themselves. Two key sequences are discussed here: the moment in which Yamamoto outlines his strategy for the attack on Midway (by way of a decoy attack on the Aleutian Islands), and the scene some moments later where Admiral Nimitz and his assembled fleet commanders (Spruance, Blake, and company) survey their own plan to defend the atoll. In Midway, as is represented by the notion of a fleet-in-being, the oceanic battlefield is presented as a speculative plane on which commanders can test ideas. Here, a fleet in a certain position projects a radius of influence that will deter an enemy fleet from attacking: i.e. ‘a fleet which is able and willing to attack an enemy proposing a descent upon territory which that force has it in charge to protect’ (Colomb viii). The fleet-in-being, it is worth noting, is one that never leaves port and, while it is certainly true that the latter half of Midway is concerned with the execution of strategy, the first half is a prolonged cinematic game of chess, with neither player wanting to move lest the other has thought three moves ahead. Virilio opines that the fleet-in-being is ‘a new idea of violence that no longer comes from direct confrontation and bloodshed, but rather from the unequal properties of bodies, evaluation of the number of movements allowed them in a chosen element, permanent verification of their dynamic efficiency’ (Speed and Politics 62). Here, as in Patton, we begin to read the map as a sign of the subjective as well as the objective. This ‘game of chess’ (or, if you prefer, ‘Battleships’) is presented cinematically through the interaction of command teams with their battle-tables and fleet markers. To be sure, this is to show strategy being developed — but it is also to prepare viewers for the defamiliarised representation of the battle itself.The first sequence opens with a close-up of Admiral Yamamoto declaring: ‘This is how I expect the battle to develop.’ The plan to decoy the Americans with an attack on the Aleutians is shown via close-ups of the conveniently-labelled ‘Northern Force’ (Fig. 6). It is then explained that, twenty-four hours later, a second force will break off and strike south, on the Midway atoll. There is a cut from closeups of the pointer on the map to the wider shot of the Japanese commanders around their battle table (Fig. 7). Interestingly, apart from the opening of the film in the Japanese garden, and the later parts of the film in the operations room, the Japanese commanders are only ever shown in this battle-table area. This canonically positions the Japanese as pure strategists, little concerned with the enmeshing of war with political or social considerations. The sequence ends with Commander Yasimasa showing a photograph of Vice Admiral Halsey, who the Japanese mistakenly believe will be leading the carrier fleet. Despite some bickering among the commanders earlier in the film, this sequence shows the absolute confidence of the Japanese strategists in their plan. The shots are suitably languorous — averaging three to four seconds between cuts — and the body language of the commanders shows a calm determination. The battle-map here is presented as an index of perfect command and inevitable victory: each part of the plan is presented with narration suggesting the Japanese expect to encounter little resistance. While Yasimasa and his clique are confident, the other commanders suggest a reconnaissance flight over Pearl Harbor to ascertain the position of the American fleet; the fear of fleet-in-being is shown here firsthand and on the map, where the reconnaissance planes are placed alongside the ship markers. The battle-map is never shown in full: only sections of the naval landscape are presented. We suggest that this is done in order to prepare the audience for the later stages of the film: as in Patton (from time to time) the battle-map here is filmed abstractly, to prime the audience for the abstract montage of the battle itself in the film’s second half.Figure 6.Figure 7.Having established in the intervening running time that Halsey is out of action, his replacement, Rear Admiral Spruance, is introduced to the rest of the command team. As with all the important American command and strategy meetings in the film, this is done in the operations room. A transparent coordinates board is shown in the foreground as Nimitz, Spruance and Rear Admiral Fletcher move through to the battle table. Behind the men, as they lean over the table, is an enormous map of the world (Fig. 8). In this sequence, Nimitz freely admits that while he knows each Japanese battle group’s origin and heading, he is unsure of their target. He asks Spruance for his advice:‘Ray, assuming what you see here isn’t just an elaborate ruse — Washington thinks it is, but assuming they’re wrong — what kind of move do you suggest?’This querying is followed by Spruance glancing to a particular point on the map (Fig. 9), then a cut to a shot of models representing the aircraft carriers Hornet, Enterprise & Yorktown (Fig. 10). This is one of the few model/map shots unaccompanied by dialogue or exposition. In effect, this shot shows Spruance’s thought process before he responds: strategic thought presented via cinematography. Spruance then suggests situating the American carrier group just northeast of Midway, in case the Japanese target is actually the West Coast of the United States. It is, in effect, a hedging of bets. Spruance’s positioning of the carrier group also projects that group’s sphere of influence around Midway atoll and north to essentially cut off Japanese access to the US. The fleet-in-being is presented graphically — on the map — in order to, once again, cue the audience to match the later (edited) images of the battle to these strategic musings.In summary, in Midway, the map is an element of production design that works alongside cinematography, editing, and performance to present the notion of strategic thought to the audience. In addition, and crucially, it functions as an abstraction of strategy that prepares the audience for the cinematic disorientation that will occur through montage as the actual battle rages later in the film. Figure 8.Figure 9.Figure 10.This essay has argued that the battle-map is a simulacrum of the weakest kind: what Baudrillard would call ‘simulacra of simulation, founded on information, the model’ (121). Just as cinema itself offers a distorted view of history (the war film, in particular, tends to hagiography), the battle-map is an over-simplification that fails to capture the physical and psychological realities of conflict. We have also argued that in both Patton and Midway, the map is not a ‘free’ motif (Tomashevsky 69). Rather, it is bound: a central thematic device. In the two films, the battle-map emerges as a crucial isomorphic element. On the one hand, it features as a prop to signify command and to relay otherwise complex strategic plottings. At this syntagmatic level, it functions alongside cinematography, editing, and performance to give audiences a glimpse into how military strategy is formed and tested: a traditional ‘reading’ of the map. But on the flip side of what emerges as a classic structuralist binary, is the map as a device of foreshadowing (especially in Midway) and as a depiction of command’s profound limitations. Here, at a paradigmatic level, along a new axis of combination, a new reading of the map in war cinema is proposed: the battle-map is as much a sign of the subjective as it is the objective.ReferencesBasinger, Jeanine. The World War II Combat Film: Anatomy of a Genre. Middletown, CT: Columbia UP, 1986.Baudrillard, Jean. Simulacra and Simulation. Ann Arbour: U of Michigan Press, 1994.Bender, Stuart. Film Style and the World War II Combat Genre. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2013.Clausewitz, Carl. On War. Vol. 1. London: Kegan Paul, 1908.Colomb, Philip Howard. Naval Warfare: Its Ruling Principles and Practice Historically Treated. 3rd ed. London: W.H. Allen & Co, 1899.Culler, Jonathan. Structuralist Poetics. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975.Deleuze, Gilles. Cinema 2: The Time-Image. London: Continuum, 2005.Eichenbaum, Boris. The Young Tolstoi. Ann Arbor: Ardis, 1972.Goffman, Erving. Frame Analysis. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1976.Jakobson, Roman. "Linguistics and Poetics." Style in Language. Ed. T. Sebebeok. Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1960. 350—77.Langford, Michelle. Allegorical Images: Tableau, Time and Gesture in the Cinema of Werner Schroeter. Bristol: Intellect, 2006.Midway. Jack Smight. Universal Pictures, 1976. Film.Patton. Franklin J. Schaffner. 20th Century Fox, 1970. Film.Schulten, Susan. World War II Led to a Revolution in Cartography. New Republic 21 May 2014. 16 June 2017 <https://newrepublic.com/article/117835/richard-edes-harrison-reinvented-mapmaking-world-war-2-americans>.Tolstoy, Leo. War and Peace. Vol. 2. London: Folio, 1997.Tomashevsky, Boris. "Thematics." Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays. Eds. L. Lemon and M. Reis, Lincoln: U. Nebraska Press, 2012. 61—95.Tzu, Sun. The Art of War. San Diego: Canterbury Classics, 2014.Virilio, Paul. Speed and Politics. Paris: Semiotext(e), 2006.Virilio, Paul. War and Cinema: The Logistics of Perception. London: Verso, 1989.

There’s always this never-ending discussion about the curator who imposes meaning or imposes the concept of art, of what art is. I think this is the wrong opposition. Every artwork produces its concept, or a concept of what art is. And the role of the curator is not to produce a concept of art but to invent, to fabricate, elaborate reading grids or coexistence grids between them.(Nicolas Bourriaud quoted in Bourriaud, Lunghi, O’Neill, and Ruf 91–92)In 2010 at a conference in Rotterdam, Nicolas Bourriaud, Enrico Lunghi, Paul O’Neill, and Beatrix Ruf discussed the question, “Is the curator per definition a political animal?” This paper draws on their discussion when posing the reverse scenario—is the political animal per definition a curator in the context of the development of large-scale public policy? In exploring this question, I suggest that recent conceptual discussions centring on “the curatorial turn” in the arena of the creative arts provide a useful framework for understanding and managing opportunities and pitfalls in policymaking that is influenced by news media. Such a conceptual understanding is important. My empirical research has identified a transport policy arena that is changing due to news media scrutiny in Sydney, Australia. My findings are that the discourses arising and circulating in the public and the news media wield considerable influence. I posit in this paper the view that recent academic discussion of curatorial practices could identify more effective and successful approaches to policy development and implementation. I also question whether some of the key problems highlighted by commentary on the curatorial turn, such as the silencing of the voice of the artist, find parallels in policy as the influence of the bureaucrat or technical expert is diminished by the rise of the politician as curator in mediatised policy. The Political AnimalPaul O’Neill defines a political animal: “to be a passionate and human visionary—someone who bridges gaps, negotiates the impossible in order to generate change, even slight change, movements, a shivering” (Bourriaud et al. 90). O’Neill’s definition is a different definition from Aristotle’s famous assertion that humans (collectively) are the “political animal” because they are the only animals to possess speech (Danta and Vardoulakis 3). The essence of O’Neill’s definition shifts from the Aristotelian view that all humans are political, towards what Chris Danta and Dimitris Vardoulakis (4) refer to as “the consumption of the political by politics,” where the domain of the political is the realm of the elite few rather than innately human as Aristotle suggests. Moreover, there is a suggestion in O’Neill’s definition that the “political animal” is the consummate politician, creating change against great opposition. I suggest that this idea of struggle and adversity in O’Neill’s definition echoes policy development’s own “turn” of the early 1990s, “the argumentative turn in policy analysis and planning” (Fischer and Forester 43). The Argumentative Turn The argumentative turn in policy analysis and planning is premised on the assertion that “policy is made of language” (Majone 1). It represents a seismic shift in previously championed academic conceptions of policy analysis—decisionism, rationality, the economic model of choice, and other models that advocate measured, rational, and objective policy development processes. The argumentative turn highlights the importance of communication in policy development. Prior to this turn, policy analysts considered formal communication to be something that happened after policy elites had completed the scientific, objective, analytical, and rational work. Communication was perceived as being the process of “seducing” or the “‘mere words’ that add gloss to the important stuff” (Throgmorton 117–19). Communication had meant selling or “spinning” the policy—a task often left to the devices of the public relations industry by the “less scrupulous” policymaker (Dryzek 227).The new line of inquiry posits the alternative view that, far from communication being peripheral, “the policy process is constituted by and mediated through communicative practices” (Fischer and Gottweis 2). Thanks largely to the work of Deborah Stone and Giandomenico Majone, academics began to ask, “What if our language does not simply mirror or picture the world but instead profoundly shapes our view of it in the first place?” (Fischer and Forester 1). The importance of this turn to the argument, I posit in this paper, is illustrated by Stone when she contends that the communication of conflicting views and interests create a world where paradoxical positions on policy are inevitable. Stone states, “Ask a politician to define a problem and he will probably draw a battlefield and tell you who stands on which side. The analytical language of politics includes ‘for and against,’ ‘supporters and enemies,’ ‘our side and their side’” (166). Stone describes a policymaking process that is inherently difficult. Her ideas echo O’Neill’s intonation that in order for movement or even infinitesimal change it is the negotiation of the impossible that makes a political animal. The Mediatisation of Sydney Transport Stone and Majone speak only cursorily of the media in policy development. However, in recent years academics have increasingly contended that “mediatisation” be recognised as referring to the increasing influence of media in social, cultural, and political spheres (Deacon and Stanyer; Strömbäck and Esser; Shehata and Strömbäck). My own research into the influence of mediatisation on transport policy and projects in Sydney has centred more specifically on the influence of news media. My focus has been a trend towards news media influence in Australian politics and policy that has been observed by academics for more than a decade (Craig; Young; Ward, PR State; Ward, Public Affair; Ward, Power). My research entailed two case study projects, the failed Sydney CBD Metro (SCM) rail line and a North West Rail Link (NWR) currently under construction. Data-gathering included a news media study of 180 relevant print articles; 30 expert interviews with respondents from politics, the bureaucracy, transport planning, news media, and public relations, whose work related to transport (with a number working on the case study projects); and surveys, interviews, and focus groups with 149 public respondents. The research identified projects whose contrasting fortunes tell a significant story in relation to the influence of news media. The SCM, despite being a project deemed to be of considerable merit by the majority of expert respondents, was, as stated by a transport planner who worked on the project, “poorly sold,” which “turned it into a project that was very easy to ridicule.” Following a resulting period of intense news media criticism, the SCM was abandoned. As a transport reporter for a daily newspaper asserts in an interview, the prevailing view in the news media is that the project “was done on the back of an envelope.” According to experts with knowledge of the SCM, that years of planning had been undertaken was not properly presented to the public. Conversely, the experts I interviewed deem the NWR to be a low-priority project for Sydney. As a former chief of staff within both federal and state government departments including transport states, “if you are going to put money into anything in Sydney it would not be the NWR.” However, in the project’s favour is an overwhelming dominant public and media discourse that I label The north-west of Sydney is overdue rail transport. A communications respondent contends in an interview that because the NWR has “been talked about for so long” it holds “the right sighting, if you like, in people’s minds,” in other words, the media and the public have become used to the idea of the project.Ultimately, my findings, dealt with in more detail elsewhere (Richardson), suggest that powerful news media and public discourses, if not managed effectively, can be highly problematic for policymaking. This was found to be the case for the failure of the SCM. It is with this finding that I assert that the concept of curating the discourses surrounding a policy arena could hold considerable merit as a conceptual framework for discourse management. The Curatorial Turn in Policy Development? I was alerted to the idea of curating mediatised policy development during an expert interview for my empirical research. The respondent, chief editor of a Sydney newspaper, stated that, with an overwhelming mountain of information, news, views, and commentary being generated daily through the likes of the Internet and social media, the public needs curators to sift and sort the most important themes and arguments. The expert suggested this is now part of a journalist’s role. The idea of journalists as curators is far from new (Bakker 596). Nor is it the purpose of this paper. However, what struck me in this notion of curating was the critical role of sifting, sorting and ultimately selecting which themes, ideas, or pieces of information are privileged in myriad choices. My own empirical research was indicating that the management of highly influential news media and public discourses surrounding transport infrastructure also involved a considerable level of selection. Therefore, I hypothesised that the concept of curating might aid the managing of discourses when it comes to communicating for successful policy and project development that is subject to news media scrutiny. Research into scholarship has indicated that the concept of “the curatorial turn” is significant to this hypothesis. Since the 1960s the role of curator in art exhibition has shifted from that of “caretaker” for a collection to the shaper of an exhibition (O’Neill, “Turn”; O’Neill, Culture). Central to this shift is “the changing perception of the curator as carer to a curator who has a more creative and active part to play within the production of art itself” (O’Neill, Turn 243). Some commentators go so far as to suggest that curators have become cultural agents that “participate in the production of cultural value” (244). The curator’s role in exhibition design has also been equated to that of an author or auteur that drives an exhibition’s meaning (251–52). Why is this important for policy development? It is my view that there is certainly merit to viewing a significant part of the role of the political animal in policymaking as the curator of public and media discourse. As Beatrix Ruf suggests, the role of the curator is to create a “freedom for things to happen” within “a societal context” that not only takes into account the needs of the “artist” but also the “audience” (Bourriaud et al. 91). If we were to substitute bureaucrat for artist and media/public for audience then Ruf’s suggestion seems particularly relevant for the communication of policy. To return to Bourriaud’s quote that began this paper, perhaps the role of the curator/policymaker is not solely to produce a policy “but to invent, to fabricate, elaborate reading grids or coexistence grids,” to manage the discourses that influence the policy arena (Bourriaud et al. 92). Furthermore, the answer to why the concept of the curatorial turn seems relevant to policy development requires consideration not only of the rise of the voice and influence of the curator/policymaker but also of those at whose expense this shift has occurred. Through the rise of the curator the voice of the artist has dimmed. As the exhibition is elevated to “the status of quasi-artwork,” individual artworks themselves become simply “a useful fragment” (O’Neill, “Turn” 253). One of the underlying tensions of the curatorial turn is the rise of actors that are not practicing artists themselves. In other words, the producers of art, the artists, have less influence over their own practice. In New South Wales (NSW), we have witnessed a similar scenario with the steady rise of the voice and influence of the politician (and political adviser), at the expense of the public service. This loss of bureaucratic power was embedded structurally in the mid-1970s when Premier Neville Wran established the Ministerial Advisory Unit (MAU) to oversee NSW state government decisions. A respondent for my research states that when he began his career as a public servant: politicians didn’t really have a lot of ideas about things … the public service really ran the place … [Premier Wran] said, ‘this isn’t good enough. I’m being manipulated by the government departments. I’m going to set up something called the MAU which is politically appointed as a countervailing force to the bureaucracy to get the advice that I want.’The respondent infers a power grab by political actors to stymie the influence of the bureaucracy. This view is shared by several expert respondents for my research, as well as being substantiated by historian John Gunn (503). One of the clear results of the structural change has been that a politically driven media focus is now embedded in the structure of government policy and project decision-making. Instead of taking its lead from priorities emanating from the community, the bureaucracy is instead left with little choice but to look to the minister for guidance. As a project management consultant to government states in an interview:I think today the bureaucrat who makes the hard administrative decisions, the management decisions, is basically outweighed by communications, public relations, media relations director … the politicians are poll driven not policy driven. The respondent makes a point with which former politician Lindsay Tanner (Tanner) and academic Ian Ward (Ward, Power) agree—Australian politicians are increasingly structuring their operations around news media. The bureaucracy has become less relevant to policymaking as a result. My empirical research indicates this. The SCM and the NWR were highly publicised projects where the views of transport experts were largely ignored. They represent cases where the voice of the experts/artists had been completely suppressed by the voice of the politician/curator. I contend that this is where key questions of the role of the politician and the curator converge. Experts interviewed for my research express concerns that policymaking has been altered by structural changes to the bureaucracy. Similarly, some academics concerned with the rise of the curator question whether the shift will change the very nature of art (O’Neill, Cultures). A shared concern of the art world and those witnessing the policy arena in NSW is that the thoughts and ideas of those that do are being overshadowed by the views of those who talk. In terms of curatorial practice, O’Neill (Cultures) cites the views of Mick Wilson, who speaks of the rise of the “Foucauldian moment” and the “ubiquitous appeal of the term ‘discourse’ as a word to conjure and perform power,” where “even talking is doing something.” As O’Neill contends, “at this extreme, the discursive stands in the place of ‘doing’ within discourses on curatorial practice” (43). O’Neill submits Wilson’s point as an extreme view within the curatorial turn. However, the concern for the art world should be similar to the one experienced in the policy arena. Technical advice from the bureaucracy (doers) to ministers (talkers) has changed. In an interview with me, a partner in one of Australia’s leading architectural and planning practices contends that the technical advice of the bureaucracy to ministers is not as “fearless and robust” as it once was. Furthermore, he is concerned that planners have lost their influence as ministers now look to political advisers rather than technical advisers for direction. He states, “now what happens is most advisors to ministers are political advisers and they will give political advice … the planning advice hasn’t come from the planners.” The ultimate concern is that, through a silencing of the technical expert, policymaking is losing a vital layer of experience and knowledge that can only be to the detriment of the practice and its beneficiaries, the public. The closer one looks, the more evident the similarities between curating and policy development become. Acute budgetary limitations exist. There is an increased reliance on public funding. Large-scale curating, like policy development, involves “a negotiation of the relationship between public and private interests” (Ruf in Bourriaud et al. 90). There is also a tension between short- and long-term outlooks as well as local and global perspectives (Lunghi in Bourriaud et al. 97). And, significantly for my argument for the privileging of the concept of curating of discourse in policy, curating has also been called “a battlefield of ideas in which the public (or audience) has become ‘the big Other’” in that “everything that cannot find its audience, its public, is highly suspicious or very problematic” (Bourriaud in Bourriaud et al. 96–97). The closer the inspection, the starker the similarities of each pursuit. Lessons, Ramifications and Conclusions What can policymakers learn from the curatorial turn? For policymaking, it seems that the argumentative turn, the rise of news mediatisation, the strengthening of power and influence of the politician, and the “Foucauldian moment” have seen the rise of the discursive in place of doing that some quarters identify as being the case with the curatorial turn (O’Neill, Cultures). Therefore, it would be pertinent for policymakers to heed Bourriaud’s statement that began this paper: “the role of the curator is not to produce a concept of art (or policy) but to invent, to fabricate, elaborate reading grids or coexistence grids between them” (Bourriaud et al. 92). Is such a method of curating discourse the way forward for the political animal that seeks to achieve the politically “impossible” in policymaking? Perhaps for policymaking the importance of the concept of curating holds both opportunity and a warning. The opportunity, exemplified by the success of the NWR and the failure of the SCM projects in Sydney, is in accepting the role of media and public discourses in policy development so that they may be more thoroughly investigated and understood before being more effectively folded into the policymaking process. The warning lies in the concerns the curatorial turn has raised over the demise of the artist in light of the rise of discourse. The voice of the technical expert appears to be fading. How do we effectively curate discourses as well as restore the bureaucrat to former levels of robust fearlessness? I dare say it will take a political animal to do either. ReferencesBakker, Piet. “Mr Gates Returns.” Journalism Studies 15.5 (2014): 596–606.Bourriaud, Nicolas, Enrico Lunghi, Paul O’Neill, and Beatrix Ruf. “Is the Curator per Definition a Political Animal?” Rotterdam Dialogues: The Critics, the Curators, the Artists. Eds. Zoe Gray, Miriam Kathrein, Nicolaus Schafhausen, Monika Szewczyk, and Ariadne Urlus. Rotterdam: Witte de With Publishers, 2010. 87–99. Craig, Geoffrey. The Media, Politics and Public Life. Crows Nest, NSW: Allen and Unwin, 2004.Danta, Chris, and Dimitris Vardoulakis. “The Political Animal.” SubStance 37.3 (2008): 3–6. Dryzek, John S. “Policy Analysis and Planning: From Science to Argument.” The Argumentative Turn in Policy Analysis and Planning. Eds. Frank Fischer and John Forester. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 1993. 213–32.Fischer, Frank, and John Forester. “Editors’ Introduction.” The Argumentative Turn in Policy Analysis and Planning. Eds. Frank Fischer and John Forester. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 1993. 1–17.Fischer, Frank, and Herbert Gottweis. Argumentative Turn Revisited: Public Policy as Communicative Practice. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 2012.Gunn, John. Along Parallel Lines: A History of the Railways of New South Wales. Carlton: Melbourne UP, 1989.Majone, Giandomenico. Evidence, Argument, and Persuasion in the Policy Process. New Haven: Yale UP, 1989.O’Neill, Paul. “The Curatorial Turn: From Practice to Discourse.” The Biennial Reader. Eds. Elena Filipovic, Marieke Van Hal, and Solvig Øvstebø. Bergen, Norway: Bergen Kunsthall, 2007. 240–59.———. The Culture of Curating and the Curating of Cultures. Cambridge, MA: The MIT P, 2012.Richardson, Nicholas. “Political Upheaval in Australia: Media, Foucault and Shocking Policy.” Media International Australia. Forthcoming.Shehata, Adam, and Jesper Strömbäck. “Mediation of Political Realities: Media as Crucial Sources of Information.” Mediatization of Politics: Understanding the Transformation of Western Democracies. Eds. Frank Esser and Jesper Strömbäck. Basingstoke, Hampshire; New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014. 93–112. Stone, Deborah. Policy Paradox and Political Reason. Glenview, Illinois: Scott, Foresman and Company, 1988.Strömbäck, Jesper, and Frank Esser. “Mediatization of Politics: Towards a Theoretical Framework.” Mediatization of Politics: Understanding the Transformation of Western Democracies. Eds. Frank Esser and Jesper Strömbäck. Basingstoke, Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014. 3–28.Tanner, Lindsay. Sideshow: Dumbing Down Democracy. Carlton North, Victoria: Scribe, 2011.Throgmorton, James A. “Survey Research as Rhetorical Trope: Electric Power Planning in Chicago.” The Argumentative Turn in Policy Analysis and Planning. Eds. Frank Fischer and John Forester. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 1993. 117–44.Ward, Ian. “An Australian PR State?” Australian Journal of Communication 30.1 (2003): 25–42. ———. “Lobbying as a Public Affair: PR and Politics in Australia.” Communication, Creativity and Global Citizenship. ANZCA: Brisbane, 2009. 1039–56. ‹http://www.anzca.net/documents/anzca-09-1/refereed-proceedings-2009-1/79-lobbying-as-a-public-affair-pr-and-politics-in-australia-1/file.html›.———. “The New and Old Media, Power and Politics.” Government, Politics, Power and Policy in Australia. Eds. Dennis Woodward, Andrew Parkin, and John Summers. Frenchs Forest, NSW: Pearson, 2010. 374–93.Young, Sally. “Killing Competition: Restricting Access to Political Communication Channels in Australia.” AQ: Journal of Contemporary Analysis 75.3 (2003): 9–15.

IntroductionIn the year 2000, a group of likeminded individuals got together and convened the first annual World Barista Championship in Monte Carlo. With twelve competitors from around the globe, each competitor was judged by seven judges: one head judge who oversaw the process, two technical judges who assessed technical skills, and four sensory judges who evaluated the taste and appearance of the espresso drinks. Competitors had fifteen minutes to serve four espresso coffees, four cappuccino coffees, and four “signature” drinks that they had devised using one shot of espresso and other ingredients of their choice, but no alcohol. The competitors were also assessed on their overall barista skills, their creativity, and their ability to perform under pressure and impress the judges with their knowledge of coffee. This competition has grown to the extent that eleven years later, in 2011, 54 countries held national barista championships with the winner from each country competing for the highly coveted position of World Barista Champion. That year, Alejandro Mendez from El Salvador became the first world champion from a coffee producing nation. Champion baristas are more likely to come from coffee consuming countries than they are from coffee producing countries as countries that produce coffee seldom have a culture of espresso coffee consumption. While Ireland is not a coffee-producing nation, the Irish are the highest per capita consumers of tea in the world (Mac Con Iomaire, “Ireland”). Despite this, in 2008, Stephen Morrissey from Ireland overcame 50 other national champions to become the 2008 World Barista Champion (see, http://vimeo.com/2254130). Another Irish national champion, Colin Harmon, came fourth in this competition in both 2009 and 2010. This paper discusses the history and development of coffee and coffee houses in Dublin from the 17th century, charting how coffee culture in Dublin appeared, evolved, and stagnated before re-emerging at the beginning of the 21st century, with a remarkable win in the World Barista Championships. The historical links between coffeehouses and media—ranging from print media to electronic and social media—are discussed. In this, the coffee house acts as an informal public gathering space, what urban sociologist Ray Oldenburg calls a “third place,” neither work nor home. These “third places” provide anchors for community life and facilitate and foster broader, more creative interaction (Oldenburg). This paper will also show how competition from other “third places” such as clubs, hotels, restaurants, and bars have affected the vibrancy of coffee houses. Early Coffee Houses The first coffee house was established in Constantinople in 1554 (Tannahill 252; Huetz de Lemps 387). The first English coffee houses opened in Oxford in 1650 and in London in 1652. Coffee houses multiplied thereafter but, in 1676, when some London coffee houses became hotbeds for political protest, the city prosecutor decided to close them. The ban was soon lifted and between 1680 and 1730 Londoners discovered the pleasure of drinking coffee (Huetz de Lemps 388), although these coffee houses sold a number of hot drinks including tea and chocolate as well as coffee.The first French coffee houses opened in Marseille in 1671 and in Paris the following year. Coffee houses proliferated during the 18th century: by 1720 there were 380 public cafés in Paris and by the end of the century there were 600 (Huetz de Lemps 387). Café Procope opened in Paris in 1674 and, in the 18th century, became a literary salon with regular patrons: Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot and Condorcet (Huetz de Lemps 387; Pitte 472). In England, coffee houses developed into exclusive clubs such as Crockford’s and the Reform, whilst elsewhere in Europe they evolved into what we identify as cafés, similar to the tea shops that would open in England in the late 19th century (Tannahill 252-53). Tea quickly displaced coffee in popularity in British coffee houses (Taylor 142). Pettigrew suggests two reasons why Great Britain became a tea-drinking nation while most of the rest of Europe took to coffee (48). The first was the power of the East India Company, chartered by Elizabeth I in 1600, which controlled the world’s biggest tea monopoly and promoted the beverage enthusiastically. The second was the difficulty England had in securing coffee from the Levant while at war with France at the end of the seventeenth century and again during the War of the Spanish Succession (1702-13). Tea also became the dominant beverage in Ireland and over a period of time became the staple beverage of the whole country. In 1835, Samuel Bewley and his son Charles dared to break the monopoly of The East India Company by importing over 2,000 chests of tea directly from Canton, China, to Ireland. His family would later become synonymous with the importation of coffee and with opening cafés in Ireland (see, Farmar for full history of the Bewley's and their activities). Ireland remains the highest per-capita consumer of tea in the world. Coffee houses have long been linked with social and political change (Kennedy, Politicks; Pincus). The notion that these new non-alcoholic drinks were responsible for the Enlightenment because people could now gather socially without getting drunk is rejected by Wheaton as frivolous, since there had always been alternatives to strong drink, and European civilisation had achieved much in the previous centuries (91). She comments additionally that cafés, as gathering places for dissenters, took over the role that taverns had long played. Pennell and Vickery support this argument adding that by offering a choice of drinks, and often sweets, at a fixed price and in a more civilized setting than most taverns provided, coffee houses and cafés were part of the rise of the modern restaurant. It is believed that, by 1700, the commercial provision of food and drink constituted the second largest occupational sector in London. Travellers’ accounts are full of descriptions of London taverns, pie shops, coffee, bun and chop houses, breakfast huts, and food hawkers (Pennell; Vickery). Dublin Coffee Houses and Later incarnations The earliest reference to coffee houses in Dublin is to the Cock Coffee House in Cook Street during the reign of Charles II (1660-85). Public dining or drinking establishments listed in the 1738 Dublin Directory include taverns, eating houses, chop houses, coffee houses, and one chocolate house in Fownes Court run by Peter Bardin (Hardiman and Kennedy 157). During the second half of the 17th century, Dublin’s merchant classes transferred allegiance from taverns to the newly fashionable coffee houses as places to conduct business. By 1698, the fashion had spread to country towns with coffee houses found in Cork, Limerick, Kilkenny, Clonmel, Wexford, and Galway, and slightly later in Belfast and Waterford in the 18th century. Maxwell lists some of Dublin’s leading coffee houses and taverns, noting their clientele: There were Lucas’s Coffee House, on Cork Hill (the scene of many duels), frequented by fashionable young men; the Phoenix, in Werburgh Street, where political dinners were held; Dick’s Coffee House, in Skinner’s Row, much patronized by literary men, for it was over a bookseller’s; the Eagle, in Eustace Street, where meetings of the Volunteers were held; the Old Sot’s Hole, near Essex Bridge, famous for its beefsteaks and ale; the Eagle Tavern, on Cork Hill, which was demolished at the same time as Lucas’s to make room for the Royal Exchange; and many others. (76) Many of the early taverns were situated around the Winetavern Street, Cook Street, and Fishamble Street area. (see Fig. 1) Taverns, and later coffee houses, became meeting places for gentlemen and centres for debate and the exchange of ideas. In 1706, Francis Dickson published the Flying Post newspaper at the Four Courts coffee house in Winetavern Street. The Bear Tavern (1725) and the Black Lyon (1735), where a Masonic Lodge assembled every Wednesday, were also located on this street (Gilbert v.1 160). Dick’s Coffee house was established in the late 17th century by bookseller and newspaper proprietor Richard Pue, and remained open until 1780 when the building was demolished. In 1740, Dick’s customers were described thus: Ye citizens, gentlemen, lawyers and squires,who summer and winter surround our great fires,ye quidnuncs! who frequently come into Pue’s,To live upon politicks, coffee, and news. (Gilbert v.1 174) There has long been an association between coffeehouses and publishing books, pamphlets and particularly newspapers. Other Dublin publishers and newspapermen who owned coffee houses included Richard Norris and Thomas Bacon. Until the 1850s, newspapers were burdened with a number of taxes: on the newsprint, a stamp duty, and on each advertisement. By 1865, these taxes had virtually disappeared, resulting in the appearance of 30 new newspapers in Ireland, 24 of them in Dublin. Most people read from copies which were available free of charge in taverns, clubs, and coffee houses (MacGiolla Phadraig). Coffee houses also kept copies of international newspapers. On 4 May 1706, Francis Dickson notes in the Dublin Intelligence that he held the Paris and London Gazettes, Leyden Gazette and Slip, the Paris and Hague Lettres à la Main, Daily Courant, Post-man, Flying Post, Post-script and Manuscripts in his coffeehouse in Winetavern Street (Kennedy, “Dublin”). Henry Berry’s analysis of shop signs in Dublin identifies 24 different coffee houses in Dublin, with the main clusters in Essex Street near the Custom’s House (Cocoa Tree, Bacon’s, Dempster’s, Dublin, Merchant’s, Norris’s, and Walsh’s) Cork Hill (Lucas’s, St Lawrence’s, and Solyman’s) Skinners’ Row (Bow’s’, Darby’s, and Dick’s) Christ Church Yard (Four Courts, and London) College Green (Jack’s, and Parliament) and Crampton Court (Exchange, and Little Dublin). (see Figure 1, below, for these clusters and the locations of other Dublin coffee houses.) The earliest to be referenced is the Cock Coffee House in Cook Street during the reign of Charles II (1660-85), with Solyman’s (1691), Bow’s (1692), and Patt’s on High Street (1699), all mentioned in print before the 18th century. The name of one, the Cocoa Tree, suggests that chocolate was also served in this coffee house. More evidence of the variety of beverages sold in coffee houses comes from Gilbert who notes that in 1730, one Dublin poet wrote of George Carterwright’s wife at The Custom House Coffee House on Essex Street: Her coffee’s fresh and fresh her tea,Sweet her cream, ptizan, and whea,her drams, of ev’ry sort, we findboth good and pleasant, in their kind. (v. 2 161) Figure 1: Map of Dublin indicating Coffee House clusters 1 = Sackville St.; 2 = Winetavern St.; 3 = Essex St.; 4 = Cork Hill; 5 = Skinner's Row; 6 = College Green.; 7 = Christ Church Yard; 8 = Crampton Court.; 9 = Cook St.; 10 = High St.; 11 = Eustace St.; 12 = Werburgh St.; 13 = Fishamble St.; 14 = Westmorland St.; 15 = South Great George's St.; 16 = Grafton St.; 17 = Kildare St.; 18 = Dame St.; 19 = Anglesea Row; 20 = Foster Place; 21 = Poolbeg St.; 22 = Fleet St.; 23 = Burgh Quay.A = Cafe de Paris, Lincoln Place; B = Red Bank Restaurant, D'Olier St.; C = Morrison's Hotel, Nassau St.; D = Shelbourne Hotel, St. Stephen's Green; E = Jury's Hotel, Dame St. Some coffee houses transformed into the gentlemen’s clubs that appeared in London, Paris and Dublin in the 17th century. These clubs originally met in coffee houses, then taverns, until later proprietary clubs became fashionable. Dublin anticipated London in club fashions with members of the Kildare Street Club (1782) and the Sackville Street Club (1794) owning the premises of their clubhouse, thus dispensing with the proprietor. The first London club to be owned by the members seems to be Arthur’s, founded in 1811 (McDowell 4) and this practice became widespread throughout the 19th century in both London and Dublin. The origin of one of Dublin’s most famous clubs, Daly’s Club, was a chocolate house opened by Patrick Daly in c.1762–65 in premises at 2–3 Dame Street (Brooke). It prospered sufficiently to commission its own granite-faced building on College Green between Anglesea Street and Foster Place which opened in 1789 (Liddy 51). Daly’s Club, “where half the land of Ireland has changed hands”, was renowned for the gambling that took place there (Montgomery 39). Daly’s sumptuous palace catered very well (and discreetly) for honourable Members of Parliament and rich “bucks” alike (Craig 222). The changing political and social landscape following the Act of Union led to Daly’s slow demise and its eventual closure in 1823 (Liddy 51). Coincidentally, the first Starbucks in Ireland opened in 2005 in the same location. Once gentlemen’s clubs had designated buildings where members could eat, drink, socialise, and stay overnight, taverns and coffee houses faced competition from the best Dublin hotels which also had coffee rooms “in which gentlemen could read papers, write letters, take coffee and wine in the evening—an exiguous substitute for a club” (McDowell 17). There were at least 15 establishments in Dublin city claiming to be hotels by 1789 (Corr 1) and their numbers grew in the 19th century, an expansion which was particularly influenced by the growth of railways. By 1790, Dublin’s public houses (“pubs”) outnumbered its coffee houses with Dublin boasting 1,300 (Rooney 132). Names like the Goose and Gridiron, Harp and Crown, Horseshoe and Magpie, and Hen and Chickens—fashionable during the 17th and 18th centuries in Ireland—hung on decorative signs for those who could not read. Throughout the 20th century, the public house provided the dominant “third place” in Irish society, and the drink of choice for itd predominantly male customers was a frothy pint of Guinness. Newspapers were available in public houses and many newspapermen had their own favourite hostelries such as Mulligan’s of Poolbeg Street; The Pearl, and The Palace on Fleet Street; and The White Horse Inn on Burgh Quay. Any coffee served in these establishments prior to the arrival of the new coffee culture in the 21st century was, however, of the powdered instant variety. Hotels / Restaurants with Coffee Rooms From the mid-19th century, the public dining landscape of Dublin changed in line with London and other large cities in the United Kingdom. Restaurants did appear gradually in the United Kingdom and research suggests that one possible reason for this growth from the 1860s onwards was the Refreshment Houses and Wine Licences Act (1860). The object of this act was to “reunite the business of eating and drinking”, thereby encouraging public sobriety (Mac Con Iomaire, “Emergence” v.2 95). Advertisements for Dublin restaurants appeared in The Irish Times from the 1860s. Thom’s Directory includes listings for Dining Rooms from the 1870s and Refreshment Rooms are listed from the 1880s. This pattern continued until 1909, when Thom’s Directory first includes a listing for “Restaurants and Tea Rooms”. Some of the establishments that advertised separate coffee rooms include Dublin’s first French restaurant, the Café de Paris, The Red Bank Restaurant, Morrison’s Hotel, Shelbourne Hotel, and Jury’s Hotel (see Fig. 1). The pattern of separate ladies’ coffee rooms emerged in Dublin and London during the latter half of the 19th century and mixed sex dining only became popular around the last decade of the 19th century, partly infuenced by Cesar Ritz and Auguste Escoffier (Mac Con Iomaire, “Public Dining”). Irish Cafés: From Bewley’s to Starbucks A number of cafés appeared at the beginning of the 20th century, most notably Robert Roberts and Bewley’s, both of which were owned by Quaker families. Ernest Bewley took over the running of the Bewley’s importation business in the 1890s and opened a number of Oriental Cafés; South Great Georges Street (1894), Westmoreland Street (1896), and what became the landmark Bewley’s Oriental Café in Grafton Street (1927). Drawing influence from the grand cafés of Paris and Vienna, oriental tearooms, and Egyptian architecture (inspired by the discovery in 1922 of Tutankhamen’s Tomb), the Grafton Street business brought a touch of the exotic into the newly formed Irish Free State. Bewley’s cafés became the haunt of many of Ireland’s leading literary figures, including Samuel Becket, Sean O’Casey, and James Joyce who mentioned the café in his book, Dubliners. A full history of Bewley’s is available (Farmar). It is important to note, however, that pots of tea were sold in equal measure to mugs of coffee in Bewley’s. The cafés changed over time from waitress- to self-service and a failure to adapt to changing fashions led to the business being sold, with only the flagship café in Grafton Street remaining open in a revised capacity. It was not until the beginning of the 21st century that a new wave of coffee house culture swept Ireland. This was based around speciality coffee beverages such as espressos, cappuccinos, lattés, macchiatos, and frappuccinnos. This new phenomenon coincided with the unprecedented growth in the Irish economy, during which Ireland became known as the “Celtic Tiger” (Murphy 3). One aspect of this period was a building boom and a subsequent growth in apartment living in the Dublin city centre. The American sitcom Friends and its fictional coffee house, “Central Perk,” may also have helped popularise the use of coffee houses as “third spaces” (Oldenberg) among young apartment dwellers in Dublin. This was also the era of the “dotcom boom” when many young entrepreneurs, software designers, webmasters, and stock market investors were using coffee houses as meeting places for business and also as ad hoc office spaces. This trend is very similar to the situation in the 17th and early 18th centuries where coffeehouses became known as sites for business dealings. Various theories explaining the growth of the new café culture have circulated, with reasons ranging from a growth in Eastern European migrants, anti-smoking legislation, returning sophisticated Irish emigrants, and increased affluence (Fenton). Dublin pubs, facing competition from the new coffee culture, began installing espresso coffee machines made by companies such as Gaggia to attract customers more interested in a good latté than a lager and it is within this context that Irish baristas gained such success in the World Barista competition. In 2001 the Georges Street branch of Bewley’s was taken over by a chain called Café, Bar, Deli specialising in serving good food at reasonable prices. Many ex-Bewley’s staff members subsequently opened their own businesses, roasting coffee and running cafés. Irish-owned coffee chains such as Java Republic, Insomnia, and O’Brien’s Sandwich Bars continued to thrive despite the competition from coffee chains Starbucks and Costa Café. Indeed, so successful was the handmade Irish sandwich and coffee business that, before the economic downturn affected its business, Irish franchise O’Brien’s operated in over 18 countries. The Café, Bar, Deli group had also begun to franchise its operations in 2008 when it too became a victim of the global economic downturn. With the growth of the Internet, many newspapers have experienced falling sales of their printed format and rising uptake of their electronic versions. Most Dublin coffee houses today provide wireless Internet connections so their customers can read not only the local newspapers online, but also others from all over the globe, similar to Francis Dickenson’s coffee house in Winetavern Street in the early 18th century. Dublin has become Europe’s Silicon Valley, housing the European headquarters for companies such as Google, Yahoo, Ebay, Paypal, and Facebook. There are currently plans to provide free wireless connectivity throughout Dublin’s city centre in order to promote e-commerce, however, some coffee houses shut off the wireless Internet in their establishments at certain times of the week in order to promote more social interaction to ensure that these “third places” remain “great good places” at the heart of the community (Oldenburg). Conclusion Ireland is not a country that is normally associated with a coffee culture but coffee houses have been part of the fabric of that country since they emerged in Dublin in the 17th century. These Dublin coffee houses prospered in the 18th century, and survived strong competition from clubs and hotels in the 19th century, and from restaurant and public houses into the 20th century. In 2008, when Stephen Morrissey won the coveted title of World Barista Champion, Ireland’s place as a coffee consuming country was re-established. 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Orientador: Eduardo Romero de Oliveira
Resumo: As oficinas ferroviárias são as grandes responsáveis pela manutenção das atividades ferroviárias. Seu espaço de trabalho é comparável ao de uma indústria pelas atividades que exerce. No estado de São Paulo, as oficinas da Companhia Paulista, em Jundiaí, tiveram um papel importante na era ferroviária brasileira, e seu espaço funcional foi especialmente projetado para atender uma grande demanda de serviços e modificado ao longo dos anos com o mesmo propósito. O presente trabalho investiga a arquitetura da oficina ferroviária da Companhia Paulista, na cidade de Jundiaí, a fim de compreender seu espaço funcional e tem como objetivos específicos levantar informações sobre as principais oficinas ferroviárias do estado de São Paulo; identificar empresas e profissionais envolvidos com o projeto de construção das oficinas de Jundiaí e como ocorreram essas participações; apurar a relação entre arquitetura e tecnologia a fim de entender se a edificação foi construída de maneira apropriada à atividade industrial da época; se o sistema construtivo da oficina de Jundiaí seguiu algum tratado e diferenças e semelhanças entre a oficina da CPEF de Jundiaí e outras que possuam ligação com nosso objeto de estudo. O procedimento metodológico é de natureza qualitativa e exploratória e utiliza-se de pesquisa bibliográfica e documental como coleta de dados, além da análise visual. Ao final da pesquisa, pode-se compreender diversos fatores mobilizados n... (Resumo completo, clicar acesso eletrônico abaixo)
Abstract: Railway workshops are the biggest responsible for the maintenance of railway activities. Their workspace is comparable to that of an industry, for its activities. In Sao Paulo’s state, Companhia Paulista workshops, in Jundiaí, played an important role in the Brazilian railway era, and its functional space was specially designed to meet a high demand for services and was modified over the years for the same purpose. This paper investigates the architecture of the Companhia Paulista railway workshop, in the city of Jundiaí, in order to understand its functional space and has as its specific objectives to gather/raise information about the main railway workshops of the state of São Paulo; identify companies and professionals involved with the construction project of Jundiaí workshops and how these participations occurred; investigate the relationship between architecture and technology in order to understand if the building was built in a appropriate way to the industrial activity of the time; if the building system of the Jundiaí workshop followed any treatise and differences and similarities between the Jundiaí workshop and others that are linked to our object of study. The methodological procedure is qualitative and exploratory and uses bibliographic and documentary research as data collection, in addition to visual analysis. In the end of the research, we can understand several factors mobilized in the execution of the project and construction that resulted in the buil... (Complete abstract click electronic access below)
Mestre

A presente tese objetiva estudar os “turmeiros”, trabalhadores envolvidos na construção da Linha Sul da Estrada de Ferro São Paulo – Rio Grande (1908-1910), especificamente no trecho em que mais tarde ocorreu o Movimento do Contestado (1912- 1916). A historiografia sobre este, via de regra, retrata tais personagens de maneira depreciativa e sugere sua liderança no conflito. Após um profundo estudo historiográfico, constatou-se que esta representação encontrava-se amparada por única fonte, partindo-se então para a coleta de outros documentos. Os estudos demonstraram que a construção da ferrovia em questão envolveu o uso constante de corrupção e negociatas. Recorreu ainda ao desgastado discurso da modernidade, que não correspondeu à experiência desfrutada pelos moradores locais e pelos construtores, que sofreram as conseqüências de uma intensa exploração. O próprio Movimento do Contestado, se por um lado causou perdas à Companhia, por outro resgatou a ferrovia de um constante déficit, levando-a a um curto período de superávit. Ao aproximar-se o foco investigativo, constatou-se a imprecisão de afirmações categóricas feitas pela historiografia sobre os trabalhadores da construção da Linha Sul. Segundo esta, tratava-se de homens desclassificados, vindos do centro do país e que teriam permanecido na região, tornando-a mais violenta. Os estudos demonstraram que um contingente muito significativo, talvez mesmo a maioria dos trabalhadores, era composto de imigrantes. Parte destes foi trazida especialmente pela Companhia, outros abandonaram temporariamente as regiões coloniais dos estados do sul, especialmente do Paraná, para auferir ganhos provisórios com a construção. Tudo indica que a maioria não permaneceu na região ao final dos trabalhos, que se deu se forma paulatina e possibilitou uma lenta retirada. Questiona-se, desta maneira, a participação em grande número destes homens no Movimento do Contestado, apontando para uma permanência bem menos expressiva que afirma a historiografia. A investigação teve seus pressupostos teóricos tomados da micro-história, através do recorte preciso do objeto, do uso intensivo de fontes e do método indiciário.
The present thesis aims to study the workers, known as “turmeiros”, who were hired to work in the construction of the south line of the railroad that connected São Paulo to Rio Grande (1908-1910) specifically in the part that was later called the Contestado Movement (1912-1916). The historiography about this movement gives a depreciative idea of these workers and suggests their leadership in the conflict. After a deep historigraphic study, it was observed that this representation was supported by only one source so other documents were collected. The study showed that the railway construction was involved with corruption and shady business. A worn out speech of modernity was used but it did not correspond the experience the locals and the constructors had, who suffered the consequences of intense exploration. The Contestado Movement itself had caused some loss to the Company but on the other side rescued the railway from a constant deficit taking it to a short period of surplus. Getting closer to the investigative focus, it was noted the imprecision of some categorical affirmations that were done by the historiography about the construction workers of the South Line. According to them, they were discredited people who came from the center of the country and who stayed in the region making it more violent. Studies showed that a very significant contingent or perhaps even the majority of the workers were immigrants. Some of those workers were brought by the Railway Company; others left some colonial regions temporarily in the south states, especially from Paraná, to obtain some provisional money with the construction of the railroad. There was some indication that most of them did not stay in the region when the work was finished, it happened gradually and the withdrawal was slow. The participation of a great number of these men in the Contestado Movement is questioned and it points to permanence much less expressive than what was affirmed in the historiography. The investigation had its theoretical suppositions that were taken from the microhistory, through the precise clipping of the object and also from the intensive use of sources and evidentiary method.

In The Man without Content, Giorgio Agamben addresses the question of the progressively more invasive hold in modern times of the world of work. In Ancient Greece, he explains, work held less privileged status in the understanding of active life. Reading Aristotle thus allows Agamben to see how man could indeed be defined as a workless being. Paul Nizan’s Antoine Bloyé (1933), by contrast, provides a striking depiction of man as animal laborans. The novel’s narrator explains how, for a period of fifteen years, the eponymous protagonist has worked unreflectingly as a railway company employee. Worklessness is the state that least applies to a character whose actions are unleisurely and aimed at an end, whereas the happy man, for Aristotle, is drawn to ‘the activity of reason which is contemplative’. Late in the novel, Nizan proposes childhood as an egalitarian space. More specifically in relation to the overall configuration of the present book, by positing equality as preceding a conventionally programmed move into the inegalitarian, he anticipates the central premise of Rancière’s Le Maître ignorant. Nizan’s novel, then, argues against hierarchy in that it dramatizes the psychological undermining of a protagonist subjected to narrow, societal dressage.