Journal articles on the topic 'William Garnett'

None of Robert Southwell's writing illustrates as do the texts of A Shorte Rule of Good Life the conditions under which he wrote and the manner in which his work was transmitted by manuscript copy and printed book. Until recent years it was known only in rare printed copies representing a series of editions issued in rapid succession following Southwell's execution in 1595. The first, issued from Henry Garnet's second secret press in 1596 or 1597, was probably edited by Garnet himself. The volume also contained the first printing of Southwell's Epistle to his Father. There can be little doubt that ‘The Preface to the Reader’ preceding the Rule, though unsigned, was written by Garnet himself when the grief of loss was still raw. This was followed by two more editions from secret presses in England and further editions from Douai and St. Omer. The first commercial printing in London was that of Richard Field for William Barret in 1620, when the text was crudely adapted for English readers with Puritan sympathies in a volume that gathered together verse and prose already established in popularity, although the author was still identified merely as ‘R. S’.

AbstractThe Garnett Passe and Rodney Williams Foundation, a major medical research foundation in Melbourne, has recently acquired a hitherto unknown and uncatalogued painting by Dame Barbara Hepworth, the celebrated British sculptor and artist. It is of the Foundation's nominal patron Garnett Passe performing a tonsillectomy, probably at the London Clinic, in 1948. This article gives an account of Barbara Hepworth and her relationships with Garnett Passe and Norman Capener, the two surgeons who introduced her to this subject and who led to the creation of this unique work of art.

AbstractKevin Kane has written about the painting by Barbara Hepworth of Garnett Passe performing a tonsillectomy, and wondered about the way in which the gag appears to be suspended. This article traces historically the various methods of holding the gag for tonsillectomy, and postulates that what is illustrated in the Hepworth painting is a jack owned by the late Dr Sydney Cocks, who not only was a friend of Passe but who also commenced the discussions with Passe's widow, Barbara, concerning the formation by her of a trust to support young Australian ENT surgeons, which eventually became The Garnett Passe and Rodney Williams Memorial Foundation.

Atheists are not the first group that comes to mind when one commonly thinks of late nineteenth-century southern Appalachia. Richard Lynch Garner (1848–1920), a self-taught scientist from southwestern Virginia who moved to southern Gabon in 1892, sought to bind together conventional southern middle-class views on race and manhood with religious skepticism. Studies of unbelief in the United States have almost entirely ignored the South as well as the ways that freethinkers engaged with race, thereby leaving out men like Garner. Though Garner drew on northern and midwestern freethinkers like Robert Ingersoll for critiques of Christianity, he also saw himself as a defender of paternal southern views of race from northerners and from Christian missionaries. Still, he distanced himself from other southern agnostics, especially the race-baiting William Cowper Brann, by presenting himself as a fatherly protector of Africans and African Americans. Garner used his observations on Gabonese societies to critique colonialism and missionary work as denials of biological differences between the races. Interestingly, Garner contended that Gabonese spirituality was materialist and lacked a notion of divinity. Ultimately, Garner downplayed his freethinking and his anti-colonialism in his published work—probably to ensure his ability to continue his research in colonial Africa and perhaps to better market himself in the United States.

In his second year at the University of California, Berkeley, Arthur William Ryder (1877–1938), the Ohio-born Harvard scholar of Sanskrit language and literature, collaborated with the campus English Club and Garnet Holme, an English actor, to stage Ryder's translation of the Sanskrit classic Mrichchhakatikam, by Shudraka, as The Little Clay Cart. The 1907 production was described as “presented in true Hindu style. Under the direction of Garnet Holme, who … studied with Swamis of San Francisco … [and] the assistance of many Indian students of the university.” However, in the twenty-five-plus cast, there was not a single Indian actor with a speaking part. The intended objective was grandeur, and the production achieved that with elaborate sets and costumes, two live zebras, and elephants. Seven years later, the Ryder–Holme team returned with Ryder's translation of Kalidasa's Shakuntala, “bear cubs, a fawn, peacocks, and an onstage lotus pool with two real waterfalls.” While the archival materials do not indicate the involvement of any Indian actors (barring one Gobind B. Lal, who enacted the Prologue), its importance is evinced by the coverage it received in the Oakland Tribune, the Overland Monthly and Out West Magazine, and the Los Angeles Times.

Orientation distributions of garnet and omphacite in eclogite from the ultra-high pressure Dabie Shan belt in east-central China were determined from neutron diffraction data by the Rietveld method. Diffraction spectra were recorded in 16 sample orientations with seven detectors, with a kappa-geometry texture goniometer at the time-of-flight (TOF) neutron facility at the Intense Pulsed Neutron Source (IPNS). The textures of the two minerals were extracted simultaneously from 16 × 7 = 112 diffraction spectra, covering a large portion of the pole figure. The texture analysis was performed both with the Williams–Imhof–Matthies–Vinel (WIMV) method and the harmonic method, implemented in the program packageMAUD. The incomplete pole-figure coverage introduced artificial oscillations in the case of the harmonic method. The discrete WIMV method produced better results, which illustrate a more or less random orientation distribution for cubic garnet. Apparently elongated grains turned out to be layers of randomly oriented crystals. Monoclinic omphacite displays a sharp texture, with [001] parallel to the lineation direction. The texture data obtained by neutron diffraction were verified with EBSP (electron backscatter pattern) measurements.

ZUSAMMENFASSUNG Es ist unbestritten, daß Frauen entscheidend zum Überleben der katholischen Kirche in England beitrugen, indem sie in ihren Häusern Priester versteckten. Durch literaturwissenschaftliche Untersuchungen sind wir gut über die Stereotypen unterrichtet, die die antikatholische Propaganda über das Verhältnis zwischen Frauen und Klerikern konstruierte. Die konkreten Zusammenhänge sind jedoch noch weitgehend unerforscht. Das will der vorliegende Beitrag ändern, indem er von Klerikern verfaßte „Lebensgeschichten“ katholischer Frauen, kirchliche Korrespondenzen und die Berichte verschiedener Regierungsbehörden analysiert. Die Untersuchung von vier Fällen (Margaret Clitherow und John Mush; Anne, Countess of Arundel, und Robert Southwell, S. J.; Anne Vaux und Henry Garnet, S.J.; Dorothy Lawson und William Palmes, S. J.) macht deutlich, daß sich häufig enge und komplexe Beziehungen zwischen katholischen Frauen und ihren Beichtvätern entwickelten, die durchaus in der Lage waren, den frühmodernen Patriarchalismus einzuschränken.

AbstractRome’s decision to name an archpriest and to erect a highly irregular administrative structure, the archpresbyterate, surprised secular clergy and Jesuits who had advocated the establishment of bishops. Recent tension between Jesuits and secular clergy highlighted the need and importance of an hierarchical, ecclesiological office. But the appointment was made in such a way that some secular clergy questioned its legitimacy and authenticity. Until they ascertained that the decision had in fact been made by the pope, they withheld recognition of the archpriest. As they awaited a reply to their appeal, two Appellants, John Colleton and William Clarke, debated the matter with two Jesuit supporters of the archpriest, Henry Garnet and Edward Oldcorne who apparently failed to see the canonical issue involved, as they perceived anti-Jesuitism as the motivating factor.

Abstract This article traces the appearance and frequency of use of the term biogen (vital force or life force) in the corpus of osteopathic literature from Andrew Taylor Still and the early days of the American School of Osteopathy (ASO) through the early 20th century to the 21st century. The meaning and use of biogen is placed within its historical context and contemporaneous philosophical influences are explored. Early definitions of osteopathy as both a bio-mechanical and a bio-energetic method of healing are revealed. The work of William Garner Sutherland is discussed in terms of his acceptance and use of bio-energetic terminology and concepts. The influence of Walter Russell on Sutherland’s work is also discussed. Still’s personal traits of imagination, memory and intuition are discussed as the foundation of his lived experience of osteopathy.

I am chagrined that I forgot to mention the 1991 MLA convention session that Harold Fromm organized and on which I presented. Fromm's idea of proposing a special session on ecocriticism at the convention to raise interest in the topic and perhaps to garner essays for the anthology bore fruit, and thanks to him The Ecocriticism Reader features essays by three of the panel's participants: Alison Byerly, Cynthia Deitering, and William Howarth, the respondent. (The third presenter was Sean O'Grady.) Now that my memory is jogged, I recall the madcap scramble for a bigger room and the impromptu collection of people's names and addresses. The resulting mailing list was used to announce the formation of the Association for the Study of Literature and Environment (ASLE) less than a year later, at the 1992 Western Literature Association (WLA) conference in Reno.

As Carey McWilliams notes in Southern California Country: An Island on the Land (1946), theatricality has persisted as a central tactic of empire in the U.S. borderlands—from the rituals Spanish missionaries used to attract Native Americans to the historical dramas of Anglo-American boosters. The early decades of the twentieth century saw a number of plays that, in the words of Chelsea K. Vaughn, “romanticized the Spanish and Mexican periods of California history before assigning them comfortably to the past.” These include John S. McGroarty’s The Mission Play (1912) and Garnet Holme’s adaptation of Ramona (1923) as well as his original drama The Mission Pageant of San Juan Capistrano (1924). Such dramas were anticipated by ceremonial pageants that took place at Mission Revival hotels throughout the early twentieth century—to wit, Governor Theodore Roosevelt’s visit to the 1899 Rough Riders Reunion at the Castañeda Hotel in Las Vegas, New Mexico, and President William Howard Taft’s 1909 Columbus Day sojourn at the Glenwood Mission Inn, in Riverside, California. Each of these “hospitality pageants” casts the visiting dignitary as a typological protagonist—the Anglo-American “antitype” of the Spanish “type” embodied in conquistadores and/or missionaries.

The Ernest Henry Iron-Oxide-Copper-Gold deposit is the largest known Cu-Au deposit in the Eastern Succession of the Proterozoic Mount Isa Inlier, NW Queensland. Cu-Au mineralization is hosted in a K-feldspar altered breccia, bounded by two major pre-mineralization shear zones. Previous research suggests that Cu-Au mineralization and the ore-bearing breccia formed simultaneously through an eruption style explosive/implosive event, facilitated by the mixing of fluids at ~1530 Ma. However, the preservation of a highly deformed, weakly mineralized, pre-mineralization feature (termed the Inter-lens) within the orebody indicates that this model must be re-examined. The paragenesis of the Inter-lens is broadly consistent with previous studies on the deposit, and consists of albitization; an apatite-calcite-quartz-garnet assemblage; biotite-magnetite ± garnet alteration; K-feldspar ± hornblende alteration; Cu-Au mineralization and post-mineralization alteration and veining. Apatite from the paragenetically early apatite-calcite-quartz-garnet assemblage produce U–Pb ages of 1584 ± 22 Ma and 1587 ± 22 Ma, suggesting that the formation of apatite, and the maximum age of the Inter-lens is synchronous with D2 deformation of the Isan Orogeny and regional peak-metamorphic conditions. Apatite rare earth element-depletion trends display: (1) a depletion in rare earth elements evenly, corresponding with an enrichment in arsenic and (2) a selective light rare earth element depletion. Exposure to an acidic NaCl and/or CaCl2-rich sedimentary-derived fluid is responsible for the selective light rare earth element-depletion trend, while the exposure to a neutral to alkaline S, Na-, and/or Ca-rich magmatic fluid resulted in the depletion of rare earth elements in apatite evenly, while producing an enrichment in arsenic. We suggest the deposit experienced at least two hydrothermal events, with the first event related to peak-metamorphism (~1585 Ma) and a subsequent event related to the emplacement of the nearby (~1530 Ma) Williams–Naraku Batholiths. Brecciation resulted from competency contrasts between ductile metasedimentary rocks of the Inter-lens and surrounding shear zones against the brittle metavolcanic rocks that comprise the ore-bearing breccia, providing permeable pathways for the subsequent ore-bearing fluids.

The recusant brothers-in-law William, third Baron Vaux of Harrowden (1535-95) and Sir Thomas Tresham (1543-1605), are best-known as exemplars of stalwart Catholicism and for their claims of fidelity to queen and country. They rose to prominence for their connection to the Jesuit proto-martyr Edmund Campion in 1581, and Vaux’s daughters Anne and Eleanor are celebrated — or notorious — for their support of the Jesuit Henry Garnet and suspected complicity in the Gunpowder Plot. Tresham’s sister Mary married Vaux, and the two men enjoyed a close friendship. Vaux leant heavily on Tresham for counsel, and the families have thus been absorbed into arguments for a closed Catholic community who drew closer together amid persecution. Yet these families were also divided, not by religio-political matters of great weight, but by more earthly causes of family unhappiness: youthful disobedience, scandalous marriage, and money. Through a close analysis of three linked episodes of family strife, this article looks beyond the singular fact of their confessional identity to argue that, like their Protestant counterparts, Catholics were not immune to acrimony. Disruptions to family unity could heap further tribulation on Catholics, and shared confessional identity might not be sufficient to repair bonds once severed.

Greenhouse gas (GHG) emission and its associated effects have been a debate in literature for many years (Hoffman, 2011:5; Williams & Schaefer, 2012:175; Whitmarsh, 2011:690). According to Jackson (2016), climate change is seen as a yearly change within the earth's climate that is a result of changes in its atmosphere, as well as interactions between the atmosphere and other chemical, geologic, geographic and biological factors within the earth's system. Climate change has primarily caused a warming effect of the earth's atmosphere that has affected all aspects of life (Pachauri & Reisinger, 2007:7). While there are limited studies that measure greenhouse gas emissions arising from the entire global food chain, there have been estimates of GHG emissions attributable to global agricultural production (Garnett, 2011:23). Energy consumption is one of the biggest challenges food retailers are facing as it not only increases overhead costs but also GHG emission (Tassou, Hadawey & Marriott, 2011). Garnett (2011) alleges that the food chain produces greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions at all stages in its life cycle, from the farming process and its inputs, through to manufacture, distribution, refrigeration, retailing, food preparation in the home and waste disposal. Technological improvements, while essential, will not be sufficient in reducing GHG emissions. The combination of population growth and rising per capita anticipated consumption of meat and dairy products will undermine the cuts that technological and managerial innovation can achieve. Over the last few years food retailers in South Africa started to focus their attention towards GHG emissions, but there is still no framework for food retailers to reduce GHG emissions in South Africa (Tassou et al. 2007:2988). Various studies have argued that the food and drink, transportation, and construction industry sectors are regarded as the most significant contributors to GHG emissions (European Commission, 2006; SEI, WWF & CURE, 2006 and UNEP, 2008). Significant changes in food production and increases in food transport have resulted. The production of food on farms has become increasingly mechanised, large-scale, and specialised; and food supply chains have become more complicated and transport-intensive (Roelich, 2008). Food retailers are contributing to GHG emissions by means of electricity usage through refrigerator equipment, lighting, heating, air conditioning, baking and other secondary services. There is no general strategy for food retailers to reduce GHG emission and minimal research has been done in this sector (Tassou et al, 2011). Keywords: climate change; food retailers; greenhouse gas emission; perceptions; strategies

Frederick Tompkins was a physical chemist of great distinction whose contributions to the development of two research fields, surface science and solid state reactions, were matched by his long service as Secretary and Editor of the Faraday Society. Throughout his career he had the knack of attracting bright young students into his research group and, through a rigorous apprenticeship, turning them out as scientists who went on to occupy senior academic positions around the world. Thus his influence extended well beyond his own immediate contributions. Tompkins's early studies of adsorption (the taking–up of gases by surfaces) on solid surfaces were on polar solids but, although this was always maintained as an interest, perhaps his best–known contributions to adsorption studies were on metal surfaces. Work initiated in the 1950s, based on metal films deposited under stringent conditions and covering a range of different physical techniques, established his reputation firmly in the field of chemisorption on metals. Students and postdoctoral workers of his continued the development of this field. Tompkins was born in Yeovil, Somerset, in 1910, and was pleased to record that his scientific attainment at Yeovil Grammar School, which won him a County Scholarship to Bristol University, was matched by his talent as an essayist and as a pianist. As an undergraduate he was greatly influenced by the teaching of William Garner (FRS 1937) and of John (later Sir John) Lennard–Jones (FRS 1933), and at the age of 20 years he graduated with first–class honours in chemistry and theoretical physics. He completed his PhD at Bristol with Garner, who first introduced him to both surface and solid state chemistry.

In recent years there has been much debate regarding the evaluation of treatments in medicine. The evidence-based medicine (EBM) movement has formed partly out of the realisation that clinical practice is often poorly informed by the best available evidence, and that many widely used treatments are either completely untested, or tested and proven to be ineffective or even harmful. EBM has been characterised as a stick by which policy-makers and academics beat clinicians (Williams & Garner, 2002). However, another side to EBM has been the realisation that research performed to test new treatments has often been of poor quality, or has asked the wrong questions (Hotopf et al, 1997; Thornley & Adams, 1998; Barbui & Hotopf, 2001). We have previously argued that clinicians could justifiably criticise the research establishment for failing to provide answers to relevant clinical problems of everyday practice (Hotopf et al, 1999).

Abstract Charles Hodge continues to garner interest in contemporary theology, though sometimes for unlikely ends. This article assesses one example of this interest. William Placher finds in Hodge a distinction between what a biblical writer teaches under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit and what the writer assumes as a fallible human. In Placher's judgment, this distinction provides warrant to set aside certain ethical injunctions when they demonstrably originate in fallible human assumptions and not inspired teaching. A priori, Hodge appears to make such a distinction. In order to assess this reading, I develop case studies of Hodge's biblical interpretation with respect to two pressing issues in his day—slavery and the challenge of science to the Bible—and then consider Hodge's explicit teaching on the doctrines of inspiration and Scripture. I argue that while Placher's interpretation does not sustain the weight of scrutiny, Hodge's hermeneutic evidences surprising sophistication. Based on the case studies, I note that a form of the trajectory hermeneutic may be detected in Hodge, and additionally I find points at which Hodge views the biblical text as scientifically undetermined. I conclude by offering an evaluation of Hodge's hermeneutic, which commends his approach to the challenges of science for biblical interpretation but raises questions about his method for resolving ethical challenges. Scriptural openness to homosexuality is chosen as a contemporary crucible for Hodge's hermeneutic.

Abstract Charles Hodge continues to garner interest in contemporary theology, though sometimes for unlikely ends. This article assesses one example of this interest. William Placher finds in Hodge a distinction between what a biblical writer teaches under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit and what the writer assumes as a fallible human. In Placher's judgment, this distinction provides warrant to set aside certain ethical injunctions when they demonstrably originate in fallible human assumptions and not inspired teaching. A priori, Hodge appears to make such a distinction. In order to assess this reading, I develop case studies of Hodge's biblical interpretation with respect to two pressing issues in his day—slavery and the challenge of science to the Bible—and then consider Hodge's explicit teaching on the doctrines of inspiration and Scripture. I argue that while Placher's interpretation does not sustain the weight of scrutiny, Hodge's hermeneutic evidences surprising sophistication. Based on the case studies, I note that a form of the trajectory hermeneutic may be detected in Hodge, and additionally I find points at which Hodge views the biblical text as scientifically undetermined. I conclude by offering an evaluation of Hodge's hermeneutic, which commends his approach to the challenges of science for biblical interpretation but raises questions about his method for resolving ethical challenges. Scriptural openness to homosexuality is chosen as a contemporary crucible for Hodge's hermeneutic.

Abstract Introduction Implantable 3D printed ‘smart’ polymers are an emerging technology with potential applications in treating collapse in adult obstructive sleep apnea through mechanical airway manipulation. There is a paucity of devices that are commercially available or in research and development stage. Limited studies have investigated the use of implantable smart polymers in reversing the collapsibility of the pharyngeal airway by creating counter forces during sleep. This paper describes an application of implantable magnetic polymer technology in an in-vivo porcine model. Study Objectives: To assess the use of a novel magnetic polymer implant in reversing airway collapse and identifying potential anatomical targets for airway implant surgery in an in-vivo porcine model. Methods Target sites of airway collapse were genioglossus muscle, hyoid bone and middle constrictor. Magnetic polymer implants were sutured to these sites and external magnetic forces, through magnets with pull forces rated at 102kg and 294kg, were applied at the skin. The resultant airway movement was assessed via nasendoscopy. Pharyngeal plexus branches to the middle constrictor muscle were stimulated at 0.5mA, 1.0mA and 2.0mA and airway movement assessed via nasendoscopy. Results At the genioglossus muscles large magnetic forces were required to produce airway movement. At the hyoid bone, anterior movement of the airway was noted when using a 294kg rated magnet. At the middle constrictor muscle, an anterolateral (or rotatory) pattern of airway movement was noted when using the same magnet. Stimulation of pharyngeal plexus branches to the middle constrictor revealed contraction and increasing rigidity of the lateral walls of the airway as stimulation amplitude increased. The resultant effect was prevention of collapse, a previously unidentified pattern of airway movement. Conclusion Surgically implanted smart polymers are an emerging technology showing promise in the treatment of airway collapse in obstructive sleep apnea. Future research should investigate their biomechanical role as an adjunct to treatment of airway collapse through nerve stimulation. Support (if any) Garnett-Passe and Rodney Williams Memorial Foundation, Conjoint Grant, 2016-18.

Abstract Tissue inhibitors of metalloproteinases (TIMPs) are a family of endogenous proteins that were initially defined by their ability to inhibit the enzymatic activity of matrix metalloproteinases (MMPs), the major mediators of ECM breakdown and turnover. TIMPs are important regulators of ECM structure, function and homeostasis. Since their original discovery, additional MMP-independent functions have been attributed to TIMP family members leading to their designation as multifunctional proteins with discrete functional domains. TIMP2 is a unique family member, with a broad expression profile that is expressed in both normal and diseased tissues, even in those with minimal metalloproteinase activity. Understanding the functional transformation of matrisome regulators, like TIMP-2, during the dynamic evolution of tissue microenvironments associated with disease progression is essential to the development of ECM targeted therapeutics. This knowledge may also garner understanding of therapeutic resistance and the failure of conventional and next-generation cancer therapies. Interactome studies are predominantly performed in non-living systems, and very rarely performed in complex culture systems such as 3D spheroids/co-cultures. To investigate the TIMP-2 interactome in complex biological systems we recently developed carboxyl- and amino-terminal fusion genes of TIMP-2 with the promiscuous biotinylating peptides BioID2 and TurboID. Packaged for retroviral delivery, this system gives us great flexibility in assessing the TIMP-2 interactome in simple versus complex 3D co-culture systems. We show, for the first time, that conditions can be optimized to support proximity labeling reactions in the extracellular milieu, representing an important technical resource for extracellular matrix biologists. Using this method, we identify novel interacting partners for TIMP-2 that provide insight into the tissue-specific actions of this protein in both healthy and diseased tissues. Citation Format: David Peeney, Sadeechya Gurung, Yueqin Liu, Carolyn Lazaroff, Christopher Richie, William G. Stetler-Stevenson. Mapping the interactome of the endogenous metalloproteinase inhibitor TIMP2 using extracellular proximity labeling (ePL) [abstract]. In: Proceedings of the American Association for Cancer Research Annual Meeting 2022; 2022 Apr 8-13. Philadelphia (PA): AACR; Cancer Res 2022;82(12_Suppl):Abstract nr 3836.

TamdrupRoyal residence and memorial church in a new light Tamdrup has been shrouded in a degree of mystery in recent times. The solitary church located on a moraine hill west of Horsens is visible from afar and has attracted attention for centuries. On the face of it, it resembles an ordinary parish church, but on closer examination it is found to be unusually large, and on entering one discovers that hidden beneath one roof is a three-aisled construction, which originally was a Romanesque basilica. Why was such a large church built in this particular place? What were the prevailing circumstances in the Early Middle Ages when the foundation stone was laid? The mystery of Tamdrup has been addressed and discussed before. In the 1980s and 1990s, archaeological excavations were carried out which revealed traces of a magnate’s farm or a royal residence from the Late Viking Age or Early Middle Ages located on the field to the west of the church (fig. 4), and in 1991, the book Tamdrup – Kirke og gård was published. Now, by way of metal-detector finds, new information has been added. These new finds provide several answers, but also give rise to several new questions and problems. In recent years, a considerable number of metal finds recovered by metal detector at Tamdrup have been submitted to Horsens Museum. Since 2012, 207 artefacts have been recorded, primarily coins, brooches, weights and fittings from such as harness, dating from the Late Viking Age and Early Middle Ages. Further to these, a coin hoard dating from the time of Svein Estridson was excavated in 2013. The museum has processed the submitted finds, which have been recorded and passed on for treasure trove evaluation. As resources were not available for a more detailed assessment of the artefacts, in 2014 the museum formulated a research project that received funding from the Danish Agency for Culture, enabling the finds to be examined in greater depth. The aim of the research project was to study the metal-detector finds and the excavation findings, partly through an analysis of the total finds assemblage, partly by digitalisation of the earlier excavation plans so these could be compared with each other and with the new excavation data. This was intended to lead on to a new analysis, new interpretations and a new, overall evaluation of Tamdrup’s function, role and significance in the Late Viking Age and Early Middle Ages.Old excavations – new interpretationsIn 1983, on the eastern part of the field, a trial excavation trench was laid out running north-south (d). This resulted in two trenches (a, b) and a further three trial trenches being opened up in 1984 (fig. 6). In the northern trench, a longhouse, a fence and a pit-house were discovered (fig. 8). The interpretation of the longhouse (fig. 4) still stands, in so far as we are dealing with a longhouse with curved walls. The western end of the house appears unequivocal, but there could be some doubt about its eastern end. An alternative interpretation is a 17.5 m long building (fig. 8), from which the easternmost set of roof-bearing posts are excluded. Instead, another posthole is included as the northernmost post in the gable to the east. This gives a house with regularly curved walls, though with the eastern gable (4.3 m) narrower than the western (5.3 m). North of the trench (a) containing the longhouse, a trial trench (c) was also laid out, revealing a number of features. Similarly, there were also several features in the northern part of the middle trial trench (e). A pit in trial trench c was found to contain both a fragment of a bit branch and a bronze key. There was neither time nor resources to permit the excavation of these areas in 1984, but it seems very likely that there are traces of one or more houses here (fig. 9). Here we have a potential site for a possible main dwelling house or hall. In August 1990, on the basis of an evaluation, an excavation trench (h) was opened up to the west of the 1984 excavation (fig. 7). Here, traces were found of two buildings, which lay parallel to each other, oriented east-west. These were interpreted as small auxiliary buildings associated with the same magnate’s farm as the longhouse found in the 1984 excavation. The northern building was 4 m wide and the southern building was 5.5 m. Both buildings were considered to be c. 7 m long and with an open eastern gable. The southern building had one set of internal roof-bearing posts. The excavation of the two buildings in 1990 represented the art of the possible, as no great resources were available. Aerial photos from the time show that the trial trench from the evaluation was back-filled when the excavation was completed. Today, we have a comprehensive understanding of the trial trenches and excavation trenches thanks to the digitalised plans. Here, it becomes apparent that some postholes recorded during the evaluation belong to the southernmost of the two buildings, but these were unfortunately not relocated during the actual excavation. As these postholes, accordingly, did not form part of the interpretation, it was assumed that the building was 7 m in length (fig. 10). When these postholes from the evaluation are included, a ground plan emerges that can be interpreted as the remains of a Trelleborg house (fig. 11). The original 7 m long building constitutes the western end of this characteristic house, while the remainder of the south wall was found in the trial trench. Part of the north wall is apparently missing, but the rest of the building appears so convincing that the missing postholes must be attributed to poor conditions for preservation and observation. The northeastern part of the house has not been uncovered, which means that it is not possible to say with certainty whether the house was 19 or 25 m in length, minus its buttress posts. On the basis of the excavations undertaken in 1984 and 1990, it was assumed that the site represented a magnate’s farm from the Late Viking Age. It was presumed that the excavated buildings stood furthest to the north on the toft and that the farm’s main dwelling – in the best-case scenario the royal residence – should be sought in the area to the south between the excavated buildings. Six north-south-oriented trial trenches were therefore laid out in this area (figs. 6, 7 and 13 – trial trenches o, p, q, r, s and t). The results were, according to the excavation report, disappointing: No trace was found of Harold Bluetooth’s hall. It was concluded that there were no structures and features that could be linked together to give a larger entity such as the presumed magnate’s farm. After digitalisation of the excavation plans from 1991, we now have an overview of the trial trenches to a degree that was not possible previously (fig. 13). It is clear that there is a remarkable concentration of structures in the central and northern parts of the two middle trial trenches (q, r) and in part also in the second (p) and fourth (s) trial trenches from the west, as well as in the northern parts of the two easternmost trial trenches (s, t). An actual archaeological excavation would definitely be recommended here if a corresponding intensity of structures were to be encountered in an evaluation today (anno 2016). Now that all the plans have been digitalised, it is obvious to look at the trial trenches from 1990 and 1991 together. Although some account has to be taken of uncertainties in the digitalisation, this nevertheless confirms the picture of a high density of structures, especially in the middle of the 1991 trial trenches. The collective interpretation from the 1990 and 1991 investigations is that there are strong indications of settlement in the area of the middle 1991 trial trenches. It is also definitely a possibility that these represent the remains of a longhouse, which could constitute the main dwelling house. It can therefore be concluded that it is apparently possible to confirm the interpretation of the site as a potential royal residence, even though this is still subject to some uncertainty in the absence of new excavations. The archaeologists were disappointed following the evaluation undertaken in 1991, but the overview which modern technology is able to provide means that the interpretation is now rather more encouraging. There are strong indications of the presence of a royal residence. FindsThe perception of the area by Tamdrup church gained a completely new dimension when the first metal finds recovered by metal detector arrived at Horsens Museum in the autumn of 2011. With time, as the finds were submitted, considerations of the significance and function of the locality in the Late Viking Age and Early Middle Ages were subjected to revision. The interpretation as a magnate’s farm was, of course, common knowledge, but at Horsens Museum there was an awareness that this interpretation was in some doubt following the results of the 1991 investigations. The many new finds removed any trace of this doubt while, at the same time, giving cause to attribute yet further functions to the site. Was it also a trading place or a central place in conjunction with the farm? And was it active earlier than previously assumed? The 207 metal finds comprise 52 coins (whole, hack and fragments), 34 fittings (harness, belt fittings etc.), 28 brooches (enamelled disc brooches, Urnes fibulas and bird brooches), 21 weights, 15 pieces of silver (bars, hack and casting dead heads), 12 figures (pendants, small horses), nine distaff whorls, eight bronze keys, four lead amulets, three bronze bars, two fragments of folding scales and a number of other artefacts, the most spectacular of which included a gold ring and a bronze seal ring. In dating terms, most of the finds can be assigned to the Late Viking Age and Early Middle Ages. The largest artefact group consists of the coins, of which 52 have been found – either whole or as fragments. To these can be added the coin hoard, which was excavated in 2013 (fig. 12) and which primarily consists of coins minted under Svein Estridson. The other, non-hoard coins comprise: 13 Svein Estridson (figs. 15, 16), five Otto-Adelheid, five Arabic dirhams, three Sancta Colonia, one Canute the Great, one Edward the Confessor, one Theodorich II, one Heinrich II, one Rand pfennig, one Roman denarius (with drilled hole) and nine unidentified silver coins, of which some appear however to be German and others Danish/Anglo-Saxon. Most of the single coins date from the late 10th and early 11th centuries. The next-largest category of finds from Tamdrup are the fittings, which comprise 34 items. This category does, however, cover a broad diversity of finds, of which the dominant types are belt/strap fittings of various kinds and fittings associated with horse harness (figs. 17-24). In total, ten fittings have been found by metal detector that are thought to belong to harness. In addition to these is a single example from the excavation in 1984. The majority of these fittings are interpreted as parts of curb bits, headgear and stirrups. One particularly expressive figure was found at Tamdrup: a strap fitting from a stirrup, formed in a very characteristic way and depicting the face of a Viking (fig. 20). The fitting has been fixed on the stirrup strap at the point where the sides meet. Individual stirrup strap fittings are known by the hundred from England and are considered stylistically to be Anglo-Scandinavian. The fitting from Tamdrup is dated to the 11th century and is an example of a Williams’ Class B, Type 4, East Anglian type face mount. A special category of artefacts is represented by the brooches/fibulas, and enamel brooches are most conspicuous among the finds from Tamdrup. Of the total of 28 examples, 11 are enamel brooches. The most unusual is a large enamel disc brooch of a type that probably has not been found in Denmark previously (fig. 24). Its size alone (5.1 cm in diameter) is unusual. The centre of the brooch is raised relative to the rim and furnished with a pattern of apparently detached figures. On the rim are some alternating sail-shaped triangles on a base line which forms four crown-like motifs and defines a cruciform shape. Between the crowns are suggestions of small pits that probably were filled with enamel. Parallels to this type are found in central Europe, and the one that approaches closest stylistically is a brooch from Komjatice in western Slovakia, found in a grave (fig. 25). This brooch has a more or less identical crown motif, and even though the other elements are not quite the same, the similarity is striking. It is dated to the second half of the 10th century and the first half of the 11th century. The other enamel brooches are well-known types of small Carolingian and Ottonian brooches. There are four circular enamel cross-motif brooches (fig. 26a), two stellate disc brooches with central casing (fig. 26b), one stepped brooch with a cruciform motif, one cruciform fibula with five square casings and two disc-shaped brooches. In addition to the enamel brooches there are ten examples that can definitely be identified as animal brooches. Nine of these are of bronze, while one is of silver. The motifs are birds or dragons in Nordic animal styles from the Late Viking Age, Urnes and Ringerike styles, and simpler, more naturalistic forms of bird fibulas from the Late Viking Age and Early Middle Ages. Accordingly, the date for all the animal brooches is the 11th and 12th centuries. A total of 21 weights of various shapes and forms have been found at Tamdrup: spherical, bipolar spherical, disc-shaped, conical, square and facetted in various ways. Rather more than half are of lead, with the remainder being of bronze, including a couple of examples with an iron core and a mantle of bronze (so-called ørtug weights), where the iron has exploded out through the bronze mantle. One of the bipolar spheres (fig. 28) has ornamentation in the form of small pits on its base. Weights are primarily associated with trade, where it was important to be able to weigh an agreed amount of silver. Weights were, however, also used in the metal workshops, where it was crucial to be able to weigh a particular amount of metal for a specific cast in order to achieve the correct proportions between the different metals in an alloy. Eight bronze keys have been found, all dated broadly to the Viking Age (fig. 29). Most are fragmentarily preserved pieces of relatively small keys of a very simple type that must be seen as being for caskets or small chests. Keys became relatively widespread during the course of the Viking Age. Many were of iron and a good number of bronze. Nevertheless, the number of keys found at Tamdrup is impressive. A further group of artefacts that will be briefly mentioned are the distaff whorls. This is an artefact group which appears in many places and which was exceptionally common in the Viking Age. In archaeological excavations, examples are often found in fired clay, while metal distaff whorls – most commonly of lead – are found in particular by metal detector. Nine distaff whorls have been found at Tamdrup, all of lead. The finest and absolutely most prestigious artefact is a gold ring, which was found c. 60 m southwest of house 1. The ring consists of a 2 mm wide, very thin gold band, while the fittings comprise a central casing surrounded by originally eight small circular casings. In the middle sits a red stone, presumably a garnet, mounted in five rings. In a circle around the stone are the original eight small, circular mounts, of which six are preserved. The mounts, from which the stones are missing, alternate with three small gold spheres. The edges of the mounts have fine cable ornamentation. The dating is rather uncertain and is therefore not ascribed great diagnostic value. In the treasure trove description, the ring is dated to the Late Middle Ages/Renaissance, but it could presumably also date from the Early Middle Ages as it has features reminiscent of the magnificent brooch found at Østergård, which is dated to 1050. Two other spectacular artefacts were found in the form of some small four-legged animals, probably horses, cast in bronze. These figures are known from the Slav area and have presumably had a pre-Christian, symbolic function. Common to both of them are an elongated body, long neck and very short legs. Finally, mention should be made of four lead amulets. These are of a type where, on a long strip of lead, a text has been written in runes or Latin characters. Typically, these are Christian invocations intended to protect the wearer. The lead amulets are folded together and therefore do not take up much space. They are dated to the Middle Ages (1100-1400) and will therefore not be dealt with in further detail here. What the artefacts tell usWhat do the artefacts tell us? They help to provide a dating frame for the site, they tell us something about what has taken place there, they give an indication of which social classes/strata were represented, and, finally, they give us an insight into which foreign contacts could have existed, which influences people were under and which networks they were part of. Most of the artefacts date from the period 900-1000, and this is also the dating frame for the site as a whole. There is a slight tendency for the 10th century finds to be more evenly distributed across the site than those from the 11th century, which tend to be concentrated in the eastern part. A number of the finds are associated with tangible activities, for example the weights and, especially, the distaff whorls. Others also had practical functions but are, at the same time, associated with the upper echelons of society. Of the material from Tamdrup, the latter include the harness fittings and the keys, while the many brooches/fibulas and pendants also belong to artefact groups to which people from the higher strata of society had access. Some of the harness fittings and brooches suggest links with England. The stirrup-strap fitting and the cruciform strap fitting in Anglo-Scandinavian style have clear parallels in the English archaeological record. The coins, on the other hand, point towards Germany. There are a number of German coins from the end of the 10th century and the beginning of the 11th century, but the occurrence of Otto-Adelheid pennies and other German coins is not necessarily an indication of a direct German connection. From the second half of the 11th century, Svein Estridson coins dominate, but they are primarily Danish. Other artefacts that indicate contacts with western Europe are the enamelled brooches in Carolingian-Ottonian style. A number of objects suggest some degree of trade. Here again, it is the coins and the hack silver, and also the relatively large number of lead weights, that must be considered as relatively reliable indicators of trade, at least when their number is taken into consideration. In the light of the metal-detector finds it can, in conclusion, be stated that this was a locality inhabited by people of middle to high status. Many objects are foreign or show foreign inspiration and suggest therefore that Tamdrup was part of an international network. The artefacts support the interpretation of Tamdrup as a magnate’s farm and a royal residence. ConclusionTamdrup was located high up in the landscape, withdrawn from the coast, but nevertheless with quick and easy access to Horsens Fjord. Tamdrup could be approached from the fjord via Nørrestrand and the river Hansted Å on a northern route, or by the river Bygholm Å on a southern route (fig. 33). A withdrawn loca­tion was not atypical in the Viking Age and the Early Middle Ages. At that time there were also sites directly on the coast and at the heads of fjords, where early urbanisation materialised through the establishment of the first market towns, while the king’s residences had apparently to be located in places rather less accessible by boat and ship. As withdrawn but central, regional hubs and markers between land and sea. One must imagine that Tamdrup had a high status in the 10th and 11th centuries, when the king had a residence and a wooden church there. A place of great importance, culminating in the construction of a Romanesque basilica to commemorate the Christianisation of Denmark. Tamdrup appears to have lost its significance for the monarchy shortly after the stone church was completed, which could fit with King Niels, as the last of Svein Estridson’s sons, being killed in 1134, and another branch of the royal family taking over power. At the same time as Tamdrup lost its importance, Horsens flourished as a town and became of such great importance for the Crown that both Svein Grathe and Valdemar the Great had coins minted there. Tamdrup must have been a central element of the local topography in the Viking Age, when Horsens functioned as a landing place, perhaps with seasonal trading. In the long term, Horsens came out strongest, but it must be assumed that Tamdrup had the highest status between AD 900 and 1100.Lars PaghHorsens Museum

This article explores the circulation of ‘anti-psychiatry’ in British film and television during the long 1960s, focusing on the controversial BBC television play In Two Minds (1967) and its cinema remake Family Life (1971). These films were inspired by R. D. Laing's ideas on the aetiology of schizophrenia, and were understood as uniting the personal and political motivations of progressive film-makers (Ken Loach, Tony Garnett, David Mercer) and progressive psychiatrists (Laing, David Cooper, Aaron Esterson). Drawing upon practitioner interviews with producer Garnett and director Loach, and extensive archival research on the production and reception of these films , this article contests previous scholarship on the popular circulation of anti-psychiatry and the movement's perceived polarisation from mainstream British psychiatry. While the reception of In Two Minds and Family Life did intensify an adversarial relationship between ‘rebel’ anti-psychiatrists and hard-line behaviourists such as William Sargant, the wider psychiatric field largely welcomed the films' contributions to mental health awareness and used the publicity to counter the idea of a ‘battle’ within the profession. This included leading UK mental health organisation the National Association for Mental Health looking to Loach and Laing as models for engaging contemporary audiences as it rebranded to MIND in 1972 . This article contributes to historical understandings of the complex interactions between the fields of media and mental health, as well as recent scholarship challenging the idea of a clear split between anti-psychiatry and British medical orthodoxy.

In 1609, the Virginia Company published a series of sermons to garner support for the struggling joint-stock company. This essay analyzes two of these, with special attention to the biblical exegesis used. The two preachers examined, Robert Gray and William Symonds, both employ a hermeneutic of supercessionism—the belief that God’s promises to Israel have been transferred to Christians—to interpret the Bible in ways favorable to the goals of the colonizing power. In particular, supercessionist readings of the call of Abraham and the conquest of the land of Israel depicted in Joshua provide these authors justification for the widespread disenfranchisement and displacement of indigenous peoples and even for outright genocide. While claiming to hold out hope for the conversion of indigenous peoples to the Christian faith, the sermons of the Virginia Company contribute to a version of Christianity of and for white people alone.

Abstract We have produced a framework of general moral principles for animal research ethics in a book, Principles of Animal Research Ethics, which is forthcoming with Oxford University Press in fall 2019. This book includes a detailed statement and defense of our framework along with critical commentaries on our work from seven eminent scholars: Larry Carbone, Frans de Waal, Rebecca Dresser, Joseph Garner, Brian Hare, Margaret Landi, and Julian Savulescu. In the present paper, we explain the motivation for our project and present our framework of principles. The first section explains why a new framework is both needed and timely, on the basis of six important developments in recent decades. The second section challenges assertions of an unbridgeable gulf dividing the animal-research and animal-protection communities on the issue of animal research. It does so, first, by indicating common ground in the core values of social benefit and animal welfare and, then, by presenting and briefly defending our framework: three principles of social benefit and three principles of animal welfare. These six principles, we argue, constitute a more suitable framework than any other that is currently available, including the canonical 3 Rs advanced in 1959 by William M. S. Russell and Rex L. Burch.

“We are becoming a 24/7 workforce.” —Fair Workweek Initiative “I Can't Breathe” —Eric Garner, George Floyd, Manuel Ellis, Derrick Scott, Byron Williams, Vincente Villela, Ngozi Mbegu, Willie Ray Banks, James Brown… On May 1, 2020, Justa Barrios, a New York City home-care worker and labor activist, passed away from COVID-19. After working twenty-four-hour shifts for fourteen years, Barrios had injuries and compounding medical issues, including asthma, stomach difficulties, and heart problems. Her doctor determined that she could no longer work twenty-four-hour shifts. Yet when the home-care agency received a letter from the doctor requesting Barrios be assigned to eight-hour shifts, the agency dropped her. Barrios fought back. She found her voice in the “Ain't I a Woman?!” Campaign; comrades described her as a “fearless leader.” Stemming from an alliance among female immigrants and US-born garment, plastics, office, and home-care workers, via workers’ centers such as the National Mobilization Against Sweatshops, this organizing effort has sought to end twenty-four-hour days—and the legally permissible practice of paying for only thirteen hours—in New York state through direct action, the courts, union arbitration, and state legislation prohibiting twenty-four -hour shifts. Women such as Justa Barros, Lai Yee Chan, Mei Kum Chu, Seferina Rosario, and Sileni Martinez see the “Aint I a Woman?!” Campaign as a “new women's movement fighting for control over our time, health, respect and payment.” As a cross-racial group, members chose to invoke Sojourner Truth, who tied together the causes of slavery abolition and women's rights, emancipation from coerced labor and from patriarchy, the dignity of women's labor and the dignity of release from work. But this legislation, which would seem so obviously humane and jarringly anachronistic, has been stalled in the New York legislature and ignored by Governor Andrew Cuomo for over a year.

BLAIS, ANDRÉ, ELISABETH GIDENGIL, RICHARD NADEAU AND NEIL NEVITTE. Anatomy of a Liberal Victory: Making Sense of the Vote in the 2000 Canadian Election. By Linda Trimble 187NEVITTE, NEIL, ed. Value Change and Governance in Canada. By Donald E. Blake 188MONIÈRE, DENIS. Pour comprendre le nationalisme au Québec et ailleurs. Par François- Pierre Gingras 190LAMOUREUX, DIANE. L'amère patrie. Féminisme et nationalisme dans le Québec contemporain. Par Édith Garneau 192MACLURE, JOCELYN. Récits identitaires. Le Québec à l'épreuve du pluralisme. Par Geneviève Nootens 195MASSOLIN, PHILIP. Canadian Intellectuals, The Tory Tradition, and the Challenge of Modernity, 1939-1970. By William Christian 197BETCHERMANN, LITA-ROSE. Ernest Lapointe: Mackenzie King's Great Quebec Lieutenant. By Robert Bothwell 198BRODIE, IAN. Friends of the Court: The Privileging of Interest Groups Litigants in Canada. By Miriam Smith 200ROACH, KENT. The Supreme Court on Trial: Judicial Activism or Democratic Dialogue. By Gerald Baier 202BERNIER, ROBERT. Un siècle de propagande? Information. Communication. Marketing gouvernemental. Par Anne-Marie Gingras 203JOFFRIN, LAURENT. Le gouvernement invisible. Naissance d'une démocratie sans le peuple. Par Réjean Pelletier 205LUXTON, MEG AND JUNE CORMAN. Getting By in Hard Times: Gendered Labour at Home and on the Job. By Stephanie Ross 207VILLALBA, BRUNO ET XAVIER VANDENDRIESSCHE, sous la direction de. Le Front National et le Droit. Par Alain Baccigalupo 209HAYNES, JEFF. Democracy in the Developing World: Africa, Asia, Latin America and the Middle East. By Bruce Morrison 212DEFFONTAINES, JEAN-PIERRE ET JEAN-PIERRE PROD'HOMME. Territoires et acteurs du développement local : de nouveaux lieux de démocratie. Par Guy Chasson 214CORRALES, JAVIER. Presidents without Parties: The Politics of Economic Reform in Argentina and Venezuela in the 1990s. By Anil Hira 215JEFFREY, LESLIE ANN. Sex and Borders: Gender, National Identity, and Prostitution Policy in Thailand. By Teri Caraway 216GAUDREAULT-DESBIENS, JEAN-FRANÇOIS. Le sexe et le droit. Sur le féminisme de Catharine MacKinnon. Par Ann Robinson 218HAFFNER, SEBASTIAN. Allemagne, 1918. Une révolution trahie. Par Augustin Simard 220CRAIG, LEON HAROLD. Of Philosophers and Kings: Political Philosophy in Shakespeare's Macbeth and King Lear. By Edward Andrew 223LECA, JEAN. Pour(quoi) la philosophie politique : petit traité de science politique, Tome 1. Par Chedly Belkhodja 225PIOTTE, JEAN-MARC. Les neufs clés de la modernité. Par Gilles Labelle 227NARDIN, TERRY. The Philosophy of Michael Oakeshott. By Jeremy Rayner 228RAEDER, LINDA C. John Stuart Mill and the Religion of Humanity. By Richard Vernon 230FROESE, KATRIN. Rousseau and Nietzsche: Toward an Aesthetic Morality. By Sophie Bourgault 231TOURAINE, ALAIN. Beyond Neoliberalism. By Pascale Dufour 233BAUDRILLARD, JEAN. D'un fragment l'autre. Entretiens avec François L'Yvonnet. Par Yves Laberge 234WYN JONES, RICHARD, ed. Critical Theory and World Politics. By Jacqueline Best 235DERRIENNIC, JEAN-PIERRE. Les guerres civiles. Par Hugo Loiseau 236O'LEARY, BRENDAN, IAN LUSTICK AND TOM CALLAGHY, eds. Right-Sizing the State: The Politics of Moving Borders. By Tobias Theiler 237BARNETT, MICHAEL. Eyewitness to a Genocide: The United Nations and Rwanda. By John Hickman 239GOLDSTEIN, AVERY. Deterrence and Security in the 21st Century: China, Britain, France and the Enduring Legacy of the Nuclear Revolution. By David G. Haglund 240

IntroductionThe European will to modify the natural world emerged through English landscape design during the eighteenth century. Released from the neo-classical aesthetic dichotomy of the beautiful and the ugly, new categories of the picturesque and the sublime gestured towards an affective relationship to nature. Europeans began to see the world as a picture, the elements of which were composed as though part of a theatrical scene. Quite literally, as I shall discuss below, gardens were “composed with ‘pantomimic’ elements – ruins of castles and towers, rough hewn bridges, Chinese pagodas and their like” (McGillivray 134–35) transforming natural vistas into theatrical scenes. Such a transformation was made possible by a habit of spectating that was informed by the theatrical metaphor or theatrum mundi, one version of which emphasised the relationship between spectator and the thing seen. The idea of the natural world as an aesthetic object first developed in poetry and painting and then through English landscape garden style was wrought in three dimensions on the land itself. From representations of place a theatrical transformation occurred so that gardens became a places of representation.“The Genius of the Place in All”The eighteenth century inherited theatrum mundi from the Renaissance, although the genealogy of its key features date back to ancient times. Broadly speaking, theatrum mundi was a metaphorical expression of the world and humanity in two ways: dramaturgically and formally. During the Renaissance the dramaturgical metaphor was a moral emblem concerned with the contingency of human life; as Shakespeare famously wrote, “men and women [were] merely players” whose lives consisted of “seven ages” or “acts” (2.7.139–65). In contrast to the dramaturgical metaphor with its emphasis on role-playing humanity, the formalist version highlighted a relationship between spectator, theatre-space and spectacle. Rooted in Renaissance neo-Platonism, the formalist metaphor configured the world as a spectacle and “Man” its spectator. If the dramaturgical metaphor was inflected with medieval moral pessimism, the formalist metaphor was more optimistic.The neo-Platonist spectator searched in the world for a divine plan or grand design and spectatorship became an epistemological challenge. As a seer and a knower on the world stage, the human being became the one who thought about the world not just as a theatre but also through theatre. This is apparent in the etymology of “theatre” from the Greek theatron, or “seeing place,” but the word also shares a stem with “theory”: theaomai or “to look at.” In a graceful compression of both roots, Martin Heidegger suggests a “theatre” might be any “seeing place” in which any thing being beheld offers itself to careful scrutiny by the beholder (163–65). By the eighteenth century, the ancient idea of a seeing-knowing place coalesced with the new empirical method and aesthetic sensibility: the world was out there, so to speak, to provide pleasure and instruction.Joseph Addison, among others, in the first half of the century reconsidered the utilitarian appeal of the natural world and proposed it as the model for artistic inspiration and appreciation. In “Pleasures of the Imagination,” a series of essays in The Spectator published in 1712, Addison claimed that “there is something more bold and masterly in the rough careless strokes of nature, than in the nice touches and embellishments of art,” and compared to the beauty of an ordered garden, “the sight wanders up and down without confinement” the “wide fields of nature” and is “fed with an infinite variety of images, without any certain stint or number” (67).Yet art still had a role because, Addison argues, although “wild scenes [. . .] are more delightful than any artificial shows” the pleasure of nature increases the more it begins to resemble art; the mind experiences the “double” pleasure of comparing nature’s original beauty with its copy (68). This is why “we take delight in a prospect which is well laid out, and diversified, with fields and meadows, woods and rivers” (68); a carefully designed estate can be both profitable and beautiful and “a man might make a pretty landskip of his own possessions” (69). Although nature should always be one’s guide, nonetheless, with some small “improvements” it was possible to transform an estate into a landscape picture. Nearly twenty years later in response to the neo-Palladian architectural ambitions of Richard Boyle, the third Earl of Burlington, and with a similarly pictorial eye to nature, Alexander Pope advised:To build, to plant, whatever you intend,To rear the Column, or the Arch to bend,To swell the Terras, or to sink the Grot;In all, let Nature never be forgot.But treat the Goddess like a modest fair,Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare;Let not each beauty ev’ry where be spy’d,Where half the skill is decently to hide.He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds,Surprizes, varies, and conceals the Bounds.Consult the Genius of the Place in all;That tells the Waters or to rise, or fall,Or helps th’ ambitious Hill the heav’ns to scale,Or scoops in circling theatres the Vale,Calls in the Country, catches opening glades, Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades,Now breaks or now directs, th’ intending Lines;Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs. (Epistle IV, ll 47–64) Whereas Addison still gestured towards estate management, Pope explicitly advocated a painterly approach to garden design. His epistle articulated some key principles that he enacted in his own garden at Twickenham and which would inform later garden design. No matter what one added to a landscape, one needed to be guided by nature; one should be moderate in one’s designs and neither plant too much nor too little; one must be aware of the spectator’s journey through the garden and take care to provide variety by creating “surprises” that would be revealed at different points. Finally, one had to find the “spirit” of the place that gave it its distinct character and use this to create the cohesion in diversity that was aspired to in a garden. Nature’s aestheticisation had begun with poetry, developed into painting, and was now enacted on actual natural environments with the emergence of English landscape style. This painterly approach to gardening demanded an imaginative, emotional, and intellectual engagement with place and it stylistically rejected the neo-classical geometry and regularity of the baroque garden (exemplified by Le Nôtre’s gardens at Versailles). Experiencing landscape now took on a third dimension as wealthy landowners and their friends put themselves within the picture frame and into the scene. Although landscape style changed during the century, a number of principles remained more or less consistent: the garden should be modelled on nature but “improved,” any improvements should not be obvious, pictorial composition should be observed, the garden should be concerned with the spectator’s experience and should aim to provoke an imaginative or emotional engagement with it. During the seventeenth century, developments in theatrical technology, particularly the emergence of the proscenium arch theatre with moveable scenery, showed that poetry and painting could be spectacularly combined on the stage. Later in the eighteenth century the artist and stage designer Philippe Jacques de Loutherbourg combined picturesque painting aesthetics with theatrical design in works such as The Wonders of Derbyshire in 1779 (McGillivray 136). It was a short step to shift the onstage scene outside. Theatricality was invoked when pictorial principles were applied three dimensionally; gardens became sites for pastoral genre scenes that ambiguously positioned their visitors both as spectators and actors. Theatrical SceneryGardens and theatres were explicitly connected. Like “theatre,” the word “garden” was sometimes used to describe a collection, in book form, which promised “a whole world of items” which was not always “redeemable” in “straightforward ways” (Hunt, Gardens 54–55). Theatrum mundi could be emblematically expressed in a garden through statues and architectural fabriques which drew spectators into complex chains of associations involving literature, art, and society, as they progressed through it.In the previous century, writes John Dixon Hunt, “the expectation of a fine garden [. . .] was that it work upon its visitor, involving him [sic] often insidiously as a participant in its dramas, which were presented to him as he explored its spaces by a variety of statues, inscriptions and [. . .] hydraulically controlled automata” (Gardens 54). Such devices, which featured heavily in the Italian baroque garden, were by the mid eighteenth century seen by English and French garden theorists to be overly contrived. Nonetheless, as David Marshall argues, “eighteenth-century garden design is famous for its excesses [. . .] the picturesque garden may have aimed to be less theatrical, but it aimed no less to be theater” (38). Such gardens still required their visitors’ participation and were designed to deliver an experience that stimulated the spectators’ imaginations and emotions as they moved through them. Theatrum mundi is implicit in eighteenth-century gardens through a common idea of the world reimagined into four geographical quadrants emblematically represented by fabriques in the garden. The model here is Alexander Pope’s influential poem, “The Temple of Fame” (1715), which depicted the eponymous temple with four different geographic faces: its western face was represented by western classical architecture, its east face by Chinese, Persian, and Assyrian, its north was Gothic and Celtic, and its south, Egyptian. These tropes make their appearance in eighteenth-century landscape gardens. In Désert de Retz, a garden created between 1774 and 1789 by François Racine de Monville, about twenty kilometres west of Paris, one can still see amongst its remaining fabriques: a ruined “gothic” church, a “Tartar” tent (it used to have a Chinese maison, now lost), a pyramid, and the classically inspired Temple of Pan. Similar principles underpin the design of Jardin (now Parc) Monceau that I discuss below. Retz: Figure 1. Tartar tent.Figure 2. Temple of PanStowe Gardens in Buckinghamshire has a similar array of structures (although the classical predominates) including its original Chinese pavillion. It, too, once featured a pyramid designed by the architect and playwright John Vanbrugh, and erected as a memorial to him after his death in 1726. On it was carved a quote from Horace that explicitly referenced the dramaturgical version of theatrum mundi: You have played, eaten enough and drunk enough,Now is time to leave the stage for younger men. (Garnett 19) Stowe’s Elysian Fields, designed by William Kent in the 1730s according to picturesque principles, offered its visitor two narrative choices, to take the Path of Virtue or the Path of Vice, just like a re-imagined morality play. As visitors progressed along their chosen paths they would encounter various fabriques and statues, some carved with inscriptions in either Latin or English, like the Vanbrugh pyramid, that would encourage associations between the ancient world and the contemporary world of the garden’s owner Richard Temple, Lord Cobham, and his circle. Stowe: Figure 3. Chinese Pavillion.Figure 4. Temple of VirtueKent’s background was as a painter and scene designer and he brought a theatrical sensibility to his designs; as Hunt writes, Kent particularly enjoyed designing “recessions into woodland space where ‘wings’ [were] created” (Picturesque 29). Importantly, Kent’s garden drawings reveal his awareness of gardens as “theatrical scenes for human action and interaction, where the premium is upon more personal experiences” and it this spatial dimension that was opened up at Stowe (Picturesque 30).Picturesque garden design emphasised pictorial composition that was similar to stage design and because a garden, like a stage, was a three-dimensional place for human action, it could also function as a set for that action. Unlike a painting, a garden was experiential and time-based and a visitor to it had an experience not unlike, to cautiously use an anachronism, a contemporary promenade performance. The habit of imaginatively wandering through a theatre in book-form, moving associatively from one item to the next, trying to discern the author’s pattern or structure, was one educated Europeans were used to, and a garden provided an embodied dimension to this activity. We can see how this might have been by visiting Parc Monceau in Paris which still contains remnants of the garden designed by Louis Carrogis (known as Carmontelle) for the Duc de Chartres in the 1770s. Carmontelle, like Kent, had a theatrical background and his primary role was as head of entertainments for the Orléans family; as such he was responsible for designing and writing plays for the family’s private theatricals (Hays 449). According to Hunt, Carmontelle intended visitors to Jardin de Monceau to take a specific itinerary through its “quantity of curious things”:Visitors entered by a Chinese gateway, next door to a gothic building that served as a chemical laboratory, and passed through greenhouses and coloured pavilions. Upon pressing a button, a mirrored wall opened into a winter garden painted with trompe-l’œil trees, floored with red sand, filled with exotic plants, and containing at its far end a grotto in which supper parties were held while music was played in the chamber above. Outside was a farm. Then there followed a series of exotic “locations”: a Temple of Mars, a winding river with an island of rocks and a Dutch mill, a dairy, two flower gardens, a Turkish tent poised, minaret-like, above an icehouse, a grove of tombs [. . .], and an Italian vineyard with a classical Bacchus at its center, regularly laid out to contrast with an irregular wood that succeeded it. The final stretches of the itinerary included a Naumachia or Roman water-theatre [. . .], more Turkish and Chinese effects, a ruined castle, yet another water-mill, and an island on which sheep grazed. (Picturesque 121) Monceau: Figure 5. Naumachia.Figure 6. PyramidIn its presentation of a multitude of different times and different places one can trace a line of descent from Jardin de Monceau to the great nineteenth-century World Expos and on to Disneyland. This lineage is not as trite as it seems once we realise that Carmontelle himself intended the garden to represent “all times and all places” and Pope’s four quadrants of the world were represented by fabriques at Monceau (Picturesque 121). As Jardin de Monceau reveals, gardens were also sites for smaller performative interventions such as the popular fêtes champêtres, garden parties in which the participants ate, drank, danced, played music, and acted in comedies. Role playing and masquerade were an important part of the fêtes as we see, for example, in Jean-Antoine Watteau’s Fêtes Vénitiennes (1718–19) where a “Moorishly” attired man addresses (or is dancing with) a young woman before an audience of young men and women, lolling around a fabrique (Watteau). Scenic design in the theatre inspired garden designs and gardens “featured prominently as dramatic locations in intermezzi, operas, and plays”, an exchange that encouraged visitors to gardens to see themselves as performers as much as spectators (Hunt, Gardens 64). A garden, particularly within the liminal aegis of a fête was a site for deceptions, tricks, ruses and revelations, assignations and seductions, all activities which were inherently theatrical; in such a garden visitors could find themselves acting in or watching a comedy or drama of their own devising. Marie-Antoinette built English gardens and a rural “hamlet” at Versailles. She and her intimate circle would retire to rustic cottages, which belied the opulence of their interiors, and dressed in white muslin dresses and straw hats, would play at being dairy maids, milking cows (pre-cleaned by the servants) into fine porcelain buckets (Martin 3). Just as the queen acted in pastoral operas in her theatre in the grounds of the Petit Trianon, her hamlet provided an opportunity for her to “live” a pastoral fantasy. Similarly, François Racine de Monville, who commissioned Désert de Retz, was a talented harpist and flautist and his Temple of Pan was, appropriately, a music room.Versailles: Figure 7. Hamlet ConclusionRichard Steele, Addison’s friend and co-founder of The Spectator, casually invoked theatrum mundi when he wrote in 1720: “the World and the Stage [. . .] have been ten thousand times observed to be the Pictures of one another” (51). Steele’s reiteration of a Renaissance commonplace revealed a different emphasis, an emphasis on the metaphor’s spatial and spectacular elements. Although Steele reasserts the idea that the world and stage resemble each other, he does so through a third level of abstraction: it is as pictures that they have an affinity. World and stage are both positioned for the observer within complementary picture frames and it is as pictures that he or she is invited to make sense of them. The formalist version of theatrum mundi invokes a spectator beholding the world for his (usually!) pleasure and in the process nature itself is transformed. No longer were natural landscapes wildernesses to be tamed and economically exploited, but could become gardens rendered into scenes for their aristocratic owners’ pleasure. Désert de Retz, as its name suggests, was an artfully composed wilderness, a version of the natural world sculpted into scenery. Theatrum mundi, through the aesthetic category of the picturesque, emerged in English landscape style and effected a theatricalised transformation of nature that was enacted in the aristocratic gardens of Europe.ReferencesAddison, Joseph. The Spectator. No. 414 (25 June 1712): 67–70. Eighteenth Century Collections Online.Garnett, Oliver. Stowe. Buckinghamshire. The National Trust, 2011.Hays, David. “Carmontelle's Design for the Jardin de Monceau: A Freemasonic Garden in Late-Eighteenth-Century France.” Eighteenth-Century Studies 32.4 (1999): 447–62.Heidegger, Martin. The Question Concerning Technology and Other Essays. Trans. William Lovitt. New York: Harper and Row, 1977.Hunt, John Dixon. Gardens and the Picturesque: Studies in the History of Landscape Architecture. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 1992.———. The Picturesque Garden in Europe. London: Thames and Hudson, 2002.Marshall, David. The Frame of Art. Fictions of Aesthetic Experience, 1750–1815. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 2005.Martin, Meredith S. Dairy Queens: The Politics of Pastoral Architecture from Catherine de' Medici to Marie-Antoinette. Harvard: Harvard UP, 2011.McGillivray, Glen. "The Picturesque World Stage." Performance Research 13.4 (2008): 127–39.Pope, Alexander. “Epistle IV. To Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington.” Epistles to Several Persons. London, 1744. Eighteenth Century Collections Online.———. The Temple of Fame: A Vision. By Mr. Pope. 2nd ed. London, 1715. Eighteenth Century Collections Online. Shakespeare, William. As You Like It. Ed. Agnes Latham. London: Routledge, 1991.Steele, Richard. The Theatre. No. 7 (23 January 1720).

This paper is a study on a trans-parochial community (TCC) in order to obtain an accurate and holistic picture of itspractices and beliefs. It attempts to answer one main question: What is it doing and why? In light of the absence of scholarlyresearch on the trans-parochial dimension of charismatic communities, it provides an insider’s perspective of how theinner domains of parish life are experienced and understood by the members of one highly popular local TCC. These domainsare 1) community, 2) worship, 3) leadership, 4) formation, and 5) stewardship. Using ethnographically informed sources andmethods to gather data, it is found that the TCC in this study embodies an alternative style of worship and programming:contextualized, experiential, multi-sensory, and participative. Inside an unconventional space, it allows members to experiencethe spiritual and psychosocial goods that they seek and desire. The parishes may hold this TCC as a mirror of what they want toachieve and what it can and must do to reinforce the quality of pastoral attention that their parishioners receive. References Aldridge, A. Religion in the Contemporary World. 3rd Edition. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2013. Angier, P. Changing Youth Worship. 2 National Society/Church House Publishing, 1997. Arbuckle, G. Refounding the Church: Dissent for Leadership. Quezon City: Claretian Publications, 1996. Atkinson, R. “Alternative Worship: Post- Modern or Post-Mission Church.” ANVIL,Vol. 23 (4), 2006:259-264. Bryman, A. Social Research Method. 4th Edition. Oxford University Press, 2012. Catholic Bishops’ Conference of the Philippines. National Pastoral Consultationon Church Renewal: The Challenge to Catholicism in the New Millennium.Manila: St. Paul’s Press, 2001. Collins-Mayo, S. & Beaudoin, T. Religion, Pop Culture and “Virtual Faith”. FromReligion and Youth (Collins-Mayo, S. & Dandelion, P., Eds). England: Ashgate, 2003. Collins, S. Steve Collins 2012 A Definition of Alternative Worshiphttps://www.alternativeworship.org/definitions_definition.html), 2012. Fetterman, D. Ethnography: Step by Step. 3rd Edition. Los Angeles: Sage, 2010. Flory, R. & Miller, D.E. The Expressive Communalism of Post-Boomer Religion inthe USA. From Religion and Youth (Collins-Mayo, S. & Dandelion, P., Eds).England: Ashgate, 2008. Fowler, J. The Stages of Faith. London: Harper & Row, 1981. Glock, C & Stark, R. Religion and Society in tension. Chicago; Rand McNally, 1965. Gomes, J.E.A Gilles, S.N. Worship and Urban Structure in unconventional locations:the spatial features of religious groups’ diversity in Metro Manila.Philippine Sociological Review 62 (Special issue on the sociology of Religion):83-113. Likn:https:/www.dropbox.com/s/a34lvrsyo0kp04g/Gomez%26GillesWOrshipUrbanstr, 2014. Greely, A. After Secularity: The Neo-Gemeinschaft Society: A Post-ChristianPostscript. Sociology of Religion (3), 1966: 119-127DOI: https://doi.org/10.2307/3710385. Haynes, J. Religion in third world politics. Colorado: Lynne Rienner Publisher,1994. Huang, D.P., S.J. “Emerging Global Post-modern culture in the Philippines.”Landas,13, 1, 1999: 48-58. Jones, I. & Webster, P. Expressions of Authenticity: Music for Worship in RedefiningChristian Britain: Post 1945 perspectives. Garnet, Grimley, Harris, Whyte& Williams (Eds), London: SCM, 2007: 50-62. Lanuza, G.M. Christian Fundamentalism, Postmodernism, Globalization and theThird World. An Attempt at Sociological Explication. Philippiniana Sacra,Vol. XXXVIII, 114 (Sept-December 2003): 415-460, 2003. Lyon, D. Jesus in Disneyland: Religion in Postmodern Times. Cambridge: PolityPress, 2000. Luckman, T. The Invisible Religion: the problem of religion in modern society. London:Collier-MacMillan, 1989. Mangahas, M. Social Weather Station Survey on Religion. https://www.sws.org.ph/swsmain/artcldisppage/?artcsyscode=ART-2017041310552, 2017. Mangahas, M. Social Weather Station Survey on Religion. https://www.sws.org.ph/swsmain/artcldisppage/?artcsyscode=ART-2017041310552, 2013. Miller, D.E. Reinventing American Protestantism: Christianity in the New Millennium.Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997. Myers, D. Introducing Social Psychology. London: Mc-Graw Hill, 2003. Putnam, R. “Bowling Alone: America’s Declining Social Capital.” Journal of Democracy,6, 1951: 65-68. Roof, W.C. Spiritual Marketplace: baby boomers and the remaking of AmericanReligion. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1999. Salazar, C. “Understanding Belief: Some Qualitative Evidence.” Journal of EmpiricalTheology. 27, 2014:199-213. Spears, L. Character and Servant Leadership: Ten Characteristics of Effective,Caring Leaders, 2013. Spinks, B. The Worship Mall: Contemporary Responses to Contemporary Culture.Church Publishing Inc, 2010. Taylor, C. The Ethics of Authenticity. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991. Villote, R. From There to Here: A Pastoral Journal 1970-1988. Rizal: SynerAideConsultancies, 1988. Wilson, B. Religion in a Secular Society: a sociological comment. London: Watts, 1976. Wuthnow, R. After Heaven: Spirituality in America since the 1950s. Princeton: University,NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998.

Abstract Purpose. To know the perceptions of mothers and health professionals in relation to the care provided and received during breastfeeding at primary health care level.Methods. A qualitative exploratory study was conducted with breastfeeding mothers (10) and primary health care professionals (24). Data was gathered through indepth interviews and focus groups. Data analysis was performed through thematic content analysis. The rigor of the study was ensured by the Guba and Lincoln criteria for qualitative research. Ethical aspects were addressed through the informed consent process, confidentiality, and methodological rigor.Results. The experience of providing/receiving breastfeeding support was revealed as a dynamic, multidimensional care and support process, through three central themes: 1. Influence of previous care and support experiences during the breastfeeding process; 2. Importance of the context within which care is framed; and 3. Addressing emotions to establish trust between professionals and mothers.Conclusion. The study findings contribute to further understanding a complex phenomenon, such as breastfeeding support and care for mothers/families, from the experience of the actors involved, deepening the experiences of both in integrated manner. In addition, the relational, organizational, and contextual dimensions that influence support, and that should guide care, are also highlighted.Descriptors: breastfeeding; mothers; primary care nursing; qualitative research.How to cite this article: Lucchini-Raies C, Márquez-Doren F, Garay Unjidos N, Contreras J, Jara D, Calabacero C, et al., Care during Breastfeeding: Perceptions of Mothers and Health Professionals. Invest. Educ. Enferm. 2019; 37(2):e09ReferencesWorld Health Organisation. Infant and young child feeding [Internet]. 2017; (cited 03 May 2019):23–5. Available from: http://www.who.int/mediacentre/factsheets/fs342/en/ Rosso F, Skarmeta N, Sade A. Informe técnico: Encuesta nacional de la lactancia materna en la atención primaria ENALMA. Chile 2013 [Internet]. Santiago: Ministerio de Salud; 2013. Available from: http://web.minsal.cl/sites/default/files/INFORME_FINAL_ENALMA_2013.pdf Rodríguez L. Situación actual de la lactancia materna y regulación para su protección y promoción. Santaigo; 2017. MINSAL. Prestaciones Chile crece Contigo [Internet]. Santiago: Ministerio de Salud; 2017 [cited 23 Jan. 2017]. p. 7. Available from: http://www.crececontigo.gob.cl/sobre-chile-crece-contigo/que-ofrece/ Balogun O, O’Sullivan E, McFadden A, Ota E, Gavine A, Garner C, et al. Interventions for promoting the initiation of breastfeeding (Review). Cochrane Database Syst. Rev. 2016; (11):100. Niño MR, Silva GAE. Factores asociados a la lactancia materna exclusiva. Rev. Chil. Pediatr. 2012; 83(2):161–9. Burns E, Schmied V. “The right help at the right time”: Positive constructions of peer and professional support for breastfeeding. Women Birth. 2017; 30(5):389–97. Yang X, Gao L, Ip W-Y, Sally Chan WC. Predictors of breastfeeding self-efficacy in the immediate postpartum period: A cross-sectional study. Midwifery. 2016; 41:1–8. Belintxon-Martín M, Zaragüeta MC, Adrián MC, López-Dicastillo O. El comienzo de la lactancia: Experiencias de madres primerizas. An. Sist. Sanit. Navarra. 2011; 34(3):409–18. Debevec AD, Evanson TA. Improving Breastfeeding Support by Understanding Women’s Perspectives and Emotional Experiences of Breastfeeding. Nurs Womens Health. 2016; 20(5):464–74. Braun V, Clarke V. Using thematic analysis in psychology. Qual. Res. Psychol. 2006; 3(2):77–101. Streubert HJ, Rinaldi Carpenter D. Action Research Method. In: Streubert HJ, Rinaldi Carpenter D, editors. Qualitative Research in Nursing Advancing the Humanistic Imperative. Fifth Edit. Philadelphia: Lippincott Williams & Wilkins; 2011. p. 300–20. Mastrapa YE, Lamadrid M del PG. Relación enfermera-paciente: una perspectiva desde las teorías de las relaciones interpersonales. Rev. Cubana Enferm. 2016; 32(4):126–36. Grassley JS, Clark M, Schleis J. An Institutional Ethnography of Nurses’ Support of Breastfeeding on the Night Shift. J. Obstet. Gynecol. Neonatal Nurs. 2015; 44(5):567–77. Ratnasari D, Paramashanti BA, Hadi H, Yugistyowati A, Astiti D, Nurhayati E. Family support and exclusive breastfeeding among Yogyakarta mothers in employment. Asia Pac. J. Clin. Nutr. 2017; 26(May):S31–5. Kronborg H, Harder I, Hall EOC. First time mothers’ experiences of breastfeeding their newborn. Sex. Reprod. Healthc. 2015; 6(2):82–7. Wright AI, Hurst NM. Personal Infant Feeding Experiences of Postpartum Nurses Affect How They Provide Breastfeeding Support. J. Obstet. Gynecol. Neonatal Nurs. 2018; 47(3):342–51. Mujika A, Arantzamendi M, Lopez-Dicastillo O, Forbes A. Health professionals’ personal behaviours hindering health promotion: A study of nurses who smoke. J. Adv. Nurs. 2017; 73(11):2633–41. de Almeida JM, de Araújo Barros Luz S, da Veiga Ued F. Support of breastfeeding by health professionals: integrative review of the literature. Rev. Paul. Pediatr. 2015; 33(3):355–62. Holtzman O, Usherwood T. Australian General Practitioners’ Knowledge, Attitudes and Practices towards Breastfeeding. PLOS ONE. 2018; 13(2):1–16. Leslie JL, Lonneman W. Promoting Trust in the Registered Nurse- Patient Relationship. Home Healthc. Now. 2016;34(1):38–42. Bandura A. Self-Efficacy. Encycl Hum Behav. 1994; 4(1994):71–81. Brockway M, Benzies K, Hayden KA. Interventions to Improve Breastfeeding Self-Efficacy and Resultant Breastfeeding Rates: A Systematic Review and Meta-Analysis. J. Hum. Lact. 2017; 33(3):86-499. Toyama N, Kurihara K, Muranaka M, Kamibeppu K. Factors influencing self-efficacy in breastfeeding support among public health nurses in Japan. Health. 2013; 5(12):2051–8. Patnode C, Henninger M, Senger C, Perdue L, Whitlock E. Primary Care Interventions to Support Breastfeeding. JAMA. 2016; 316(16):1694–705. Leeming D, Marshall J, Locke A. Understanding process and context in breastfeeding support interventions: The potential of qualitative research. Matern. Child. Nutr. 2017; 13(4):1–10. Macvicar S, Kirkpatrick P, Humphrey T, Forbes-Mckay KE. Supporting Breastfeeding Establishment among Socially Disadvantaged Women: A Meta-Synthesis. Birth. 2015; 42(4):290–8.

Rip, mix, share, and sue. Has ‘copy’ become a dirty word? The invitation to artists, activists, consumers and critics to engage in the debate surrounding the creative processes of ‘copy’ has been insightful, if not inciting sampling/reproduction/reflection itself: It clearly questions whether ‘copy’ deserves the negative connotations that it currently summonses. It has confronted the divide between the original and its replica, and questioned notions of authenticity and the essence of identity. It has found that ‘open source’ is an opportunity to capitalise on creativity, and that reuse is resplendently productive. Cultural expression and social exchange are seen to rest upon the acts of copying which are brought to our attention in this edition. As this issue illustrates, the word ‘copy’ has numerous interpretations, applications, and angles, yet an overriding wealth of debate currently outweighs all others; and that surrounds the tumultuous issue of ‘protecting’ copyright in the digital age. Since its conception in the 17th century, copyright law has faced an increasing challenge in achieving its original aims; namely, to strike a balance between creators’ and consumers’ rights in allowing concurrent attribution and access to works. Recent dramatic technological advancements affecting reproduction and distribution of copies, particularly pertaining to the Internet, have fundamentally changed and challenged the content environment. When copyright laws were first conceived, copying and distributing creative works was difficult. Now these activities are virtually free, and practically pervasive; in the digital age, the difficulty lies in their control. Yet because the primarily Western copyright regime relies on providing rights holders with the ability to control their works, copyright industries are working on strategies to garner greater control. Heading this list of strategies are technological content protection mechanisms, consumer education, and lawsuits against individual copyright infringers. Peer-to-peer (P2P) networks are being exploited and sabotaged simultaneously by entities within the Creative Industries, in an attempt to learn from and eliminate the free ‘competition’. Perceiving the mismatch of legal sanction and access to enabling technologies, critics revile the increasing restriction on consumers and creativity. The music industry, in particular, is experimenting with new business models to confine consumers’ rights to enjoy a growing bank of online music. Technical protection mechanisms, within the ambit of Digital Rights Management (DRM), are increasingly applied to enforce these licensing restrictions, providing ‘speed bumps’ for access to content (Digital Connections Council of the Committee for Economic Development 50). Given that these mechanisms can only temporarily allow a limited level of control over access to and usage of content, however, both IP and contract law are essential to the prevention and deterrence of infringement. While production and distribution corporations agitate about online ‘piracy’, an increasing population of consumers are unsympathetic, knowing that very little of the music industry revenue ends up in the pockets of artists, and knowing very little of the complex law surrounding copyright. Over the past few hundred years the content distribution business has become particularly wealthy, and it is primarily this link of the content chain from creator to consumer that is tending towards redundancy in the digital networked world: those who once resided in the middle of the content chain will no longer be required. When individuals and collectives create something they are proud of, they want the world to experience and talk about it, if not ‘rip, mix, mash, and share’ it. The need to create and communicate has always been part of human makeup. Infants learn rapidly during their first few years primarily by observing and emulating the behaviour of adults. But as children progress, and begin creating what they perceive to be their unique contribution, they naturally want to claim and display it as their own; hence the importance of attribution and moral rights to this debate. Clearly, society benefits in many ways from this drive to create, innovate, communicate, learn and share contributions. One need only cite Sir Isaac Newton, who is attributed as having said, ‘If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.’ Academics and scientists worldwide have long collaborated by sharing and building on one another’s work, a fact acknowledged by the Science Commons initiative (http://www.sciencecommons.org/) to provide open access to academic research and development. Such has been inspired by the vision of Lawrence Lessig, as espoused in The Future of Ideas: The Fate of the Commons in a Connected World. Appropriation of bits and pieces (‘samples’) of another’s work, along with appropriate attribution, has always been acceptable until recently. This legal tension is explored by authors Frederick Wasser, in his article ‘When Did They Copyright the World Without Us Noticing?’, and Francis Raven, in ‘Copyright and Public Goods: An Argument for Thin Copyright Protection’. Wasser explores the recent agitation against the legislated copyright extension in the United States to 95 years from publication (or 120 years from creation, whichever is shorter) from an original 14, accompanied by the changing logic of copyright, which has further upset the balance between protection and fair use, between consumer and creator, and ultimately invests power in the intermediary. Raven argues for ‘thin’ copyright protection, having the intention to protect the incentive for producers to create while also defending the public’s right to a rich intellectual realm in the public domain. Current conflict surrounding music sampling illustrates that our evolution towards a regime of restrictive licensing of digital works, largely driven by copyright owners and content distributors, has made the use of bits and pieces of existing music difficult, if not impossible. In this issue’s feature article ‘Good Copy/Bad Copy’, Steve Collins examines the value of ‘copy’ where musical creativity and copyright law intersect. The recontextualisation and reshaping of music with regard to cover versions and sampling brings into relief the disparity in current legal and licensing provisions. When creativity is stifled by copyright, the original intention of the law is lost. Collins argues that creators are now subject to the control of an oppressive monopoly, which clearly should be addressed if innovative cultural expression is to thrive. The issue’s second article, ‘The Affect of Selection in Digital Sound Art’ by author and sound artist Owen Chapman, aka ‘Opositive’, explores the interplay and influence between the ‘raw and the remixed’, where subjective control over sound production is questioned. Transformation of sound hovers between an organic and intentional process, and creates affective influence: we are ultimately entreated to listen and learn, as sampling selection goes gestalt. Moving from the aural domain to the written, the significance of textual reuse and self-referentiality is introduced by Kirsten Seale in her academic exploration of reuse in the works of Iain Sinclair. Sinclair, in Dining on Stones (or, the Middle Ground), is seen to have subverted the postmodernist obscuration/denial of authorial control through the reintroduction of an assured self-sampling technique. Also in contemplating the written creative process, after significant exposure to the ever-more-evident proclivities of students to cut and paste from Websites, Dr. Gauti Sigthorsson asserts that plagiarism is merely symptomatic of the dominant sampling culture. Rather than looming as a crisis, Sigthorsson sees this increasing appropriation as a ‘teachable moment’, illustrating the delights of the open source process. Issues of identity and authenticity are explored in ‘Digital Doppelgängers’ by Lisa Bode, and ‘Slipping and Sliding: blind optimism, greed and the effect of fakes on our cultural understanding’ by art fraud and forensic expert Robyn Sloggett. In introducing the doppelgänger of Indo-European folklore and literature as the protagonist’s sinister double, Bode goes on to explore the digital manifestation: the image which challenges the integrity of the actor and his/her reflection, where original identity may be beyond the actor’s control. In copy’s final article ‘Slipping and Sliding’ by Sloggett, the determination of artistic authenticity is explored. Identity is seen to be predicated on authenticity: but does this necessarily hold? In reflecting on the notions of ‘copy’ explored in this issue, it is clear that civilisation has progressed by building on past successes and failures. A better, richer future can be possible if we continue to do exactly this. Instead, rights holders are striving to maintain control, using clumsy methods that effectively alter traditional user rights (or perceived rights) and practices. Imagine instead if all creative content were virtually free and easily accessible to all; where it would not longer be an infringement to make and share copies for non-commercial reasons. Is it possible to engineer an alternative incentive (to copyright) for creativity to flourish? This is, after all, the underlying goal behind copyright law. Copyright law provides a creator with a temporary monopoly over the sale and distribution of their work. Infringing copyright law is consequently depriving creators of this mechanism to make money, obtain notoriety and thus their very motivation to create. This goal to provide creative incentive is fundamentally important for society, intellectually and culturally, but alternative means to achieve it are worthy of exploration. A familiar alternative option to help generate creativity is to apply a special tax (levy) on all goods and services that enable viewing, listening, reading, publishing, copying, and downloading of digital content. The revenue pool this generates is then available for distribution amongst content creators, thereby creating a financial incentive. In over 40 countries, primarily European, partial variations of such a levy system are currently used to compensate copyright owners whilst allowing consumers a certain degree of free private copying. Professor William Fisher, Hale and Dorr Professor of Intellectual Property Law at Harvard University, and Director of the Berkman Centre for Internet and Society, proposes as much in his book outlining a government-administered compensation scheme, encompassing free online access to music and movies: Promises to Keep: Technology, Law and the Future of Entertainment. As we are left to contemplate copyrights and ‘copywrongs’ (Vaidhyanathan), we may reflect that the ‘promotion of the progress of science and the useful arts’, as per Harper v. Row (471 U.S.), rests with the (some say draconian) directions determined by legislation. Measures contained in instruments such as the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA), continue to diminish, if not desecrate, the public domain. Moreover, as the full impact of the Free Trade Agreement (FTA) with the United States looms for the Australian audience, in the adoption of the extension of the copyright term to the criminalisation of IP infringement, we realise that the establishment of economically viable and legal alternatives to the adopted regime is paramount. (Moore) We are also left to lament the recent decision in MGM vs. Grokster, where the US Supreme Court has ruled unanimously against the file-sharing service providers Grokster and Streamcast Networks (developers of Morpheus), serving as an illustration of ongoing uncertainty surrounding P2P networks and technologies, and lack of certainty of any court decisions regarding such matters. In the future, as we log into Longhorn (http://msdn.microsoft.com/longhorn/), we will wonder where our right to enjoy began to disappear. Electronic Frontier Foundation’s (http://www.eff.org/) cry to ‘Defend Freedom in the Digital World’ gains increasing resonance. In presenting ‘copy’ to you, we invite you cut, paste, innovate, create, and be entertained, to share, and share alike, while you still can. References Digital Connections Council of the Committee for Economic Development (CED). Promoting Innovation and Economic Growth: The Special Problem of Digital Intellectual Property, 2004. http://www.ced.org/docs/report/report_dcc.pdf>. Fisher, William. Promises to Keep: Technology, Law, and the Future of Entertainment. Palo Alto CA: Stanford UP, 2004. Lessig, Lawrence. The Future of Ideas: The Fate of the Commons in a Connected World. New York: Random House, 2001. Moore, Christopher. “Creative Choices: Changes to Australian Copyright Law and the Future of the Public Domain.” Media International Australia 114 (2005): 71-82. Vaidhyanathan, Siva. Copyrights and Copywrongs: The Rise of Intellectual Property and How It Threatens Creativity. New York: New York UP, 2003. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Leisten, Susanna, and Rachel Cobcroft. "Copy." M/C Journal 8.3 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0507/01-editorial.php>. APA Style Leisten, S., and R. Cobcroft. (Jul. 2005) "Copy," M/C Journal, 8(3). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0507/01-editorial.php>.

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash INTRODUCTION “Precision psychiatry” is one aspect of the growing field of precision medicine. Precision psychiatry will provide individualized care tailored to certain biomarkers. The patient’s unique mental health profile is at the core of advancing machine learning models for clinical practice. Traditionally psychiatrists used a “trial-and-error” approach to standardized drugs, whereas precision psychiatry integrates objectivity with the diagnosis and treatment.[1] The long-term benefits of precision psychiatry include generating effective therapeutic plans for a person, eliminating the emotional burden of the trial-and-error process, and optimizing medications currently on the market for sustained use. To take advantage of the many benefits of precision psychiatry, more mental health practitioners, an effective allocation plan, and the continuation of traditional psychiatry are necessary. Precision psychiatry should not supplant traditional psychiatry as not all practitioners and patients will have access to it. ANALYSIS The National Institute of Mental Health is working on the Research Domain Criteria (RDoC) project intending to establish an updated classification system for mental health disorders based on a combination of observational and neurobiological findings.[2] While this effort is working toward the goal of providing a research-based classification system, the technological tools necessary to arm a physician with a well-endowed toolbox may not be cost-effective in the initial phase.[3] To reap the rewards of precision psychiatry, physicians should eventually circumvent the trial-and-error approach to psychiatric care, with its hefty financial burden often thrust upon the patient and family. a. Emotional and Financial Benefits The usual course of diagnosis for mental health disorders involves analyzing symptoms according to the Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) and the International Classification of Diseases (ICD) developed by the World Health Organization.[4] The promising advances in the accuracy of neuroimaging will prove to be an asset to the field of precision psychiatry. For example, several studies showcase the increased responsiveness to lithium therapy as a predictor of the efficacy of bipolar disorder treatment.[5] Ultimately, one of the greatest benefits of precision psychiatry is the ability to predict whether a particular person with major depressive disorder will develop antidepressant resistance by the course of their proposed treatment. 5 For 30 percent of people diagnosed with major depressive disorder, the treatment trajectory often ends with treatment resistance.[6] By circumventing the trial-and-error algorithm to psychiatric care, the patient’s emotional and financial burden may be reduced. b. Justice and Access Successfully implementing precision psychiatry is no easy feat; it requires interconnectedness, including “big data” storage, research analyzing molecular biosignatures, “computational psychiatry,” communication with experts in the field of neuroimaging and neuroscience, and electronic health records.[7] The success of precision psychiatry would revolutionize the field altogether, with the goal being “to improve the diagnostic process and the choice of a specific treatment using biomarkers derived from peripheral blood, imaging…or neuropsychological tests.”[8] However, the success of precision psychiatry is contingent on modifying the healthcare infrastructure, which cannot currently provide equitable access to basic mental health care.[9] For example, mental health disorders are the leading cause of lost productivity and disability, with the US incurring an economic cost of $42-53 billion per year.[10] One goal of the Affordable Care Act (ACA) was to increase insurance coverage for mental health care. However, the US still possesses “one of the highest mental health burdens among high-income countries.”[11] Access and affordability of psychiatric care in the US is already of utmost concern as one in six adults seeks out care; however, due to the lack of affordability, such required care is unattainable.[12] The mismatch between the volume of individuals requiring mental health care and the number receiving it may be due to the relatively low workforce capacity in comparison to other high-income countries.[13] The US has a staggeringly low number of mental healthcare professionals compared to Canada, including nurses, psychiatrists, psychologists, and social workers, with 105 and 277 professionals per 100,000 individuals, respectively.[14] The gap in mental health care is prominent in the US, where one-third of the indigenous population diagnosed with a mental health disorder does not receive any treatment.[15] Inequity in access to mental health care is still of paramount concern, with basic mental health care needs remaining unmet for many Americans.[16] Precision psychiatry involving advanced technology and interdisciplinary care teams provides individualized psychiatric care, which could prove beneficial. However, the inability to guarantee equitable access to such care calls into question distributive justice and whether the benefits will accrue to those in need. c. Saves Time Precision psychiatry is costly, and communities with limited psychiatric resources may potentially become further disadvantaged. If precision psychiatry is readily available to the masses and is used instead of trial and error, the willingness of people to seek mental health care may rise. A faster route to the discovery of medication combinations optimized for the patient would contribute to building trust and rapport. Targeting both the biological and physical manifestations of mental illness not only provide rapid improvement but also decreases the risk of losing patients due to frustration over lack of improvement with pharmacological intervention. Providing precision psychiatry decreases the time required for each person to achieve a successful therapeutic regimen, ultimately allowing the physician to invest time in a greater number of patients. The redistribution of mental health care and eliminating mental healthcare deserts are necessary to reap the benefits. d. A Humanistic Approach Establishing rigorous evidence-based criteria for precision psychiatry will not only involve decades of research but may also impact the humanistic aspects of psychiatry. Psychiatry involves a humanistic approach to medical care. Building a trustworthy patient-physician relationship is the foundation of exemplary care. Precision psychiatry provides the crucial benefit of tailoring medical treatments to the predicted response rate of the person.[17] However, one must be wary of falling into the trap that precision psychiatry is the answer for mental health disorders. Without active intercommunication between varying healthcare disciplines, including social work, the person may be “reduced to an object of big data.”[18] A humanistic approach will properly include the ongoing relationship with the psychiatrist and may include some trial and error as well to reflect patient preferences based on side effect profile rather than efficacy alone. CONCLUSION Reducing people to either their brain or their computed contribution to “big data” will not benefit precision psychiatry. While it is helpful to understand the root of a patient’s mental illness through neuroimaging and neurological biomarkers, such intrinsically evidence-based medicine must coexist with traditional psychiatric care. Precision psychiatry could benefit people with treatment-resistant mental illness by integrating neurological biomarkers as a tool for retrofitting existing medications to the person. Used under ethical standards, precision psychiatry is a positive development. Distributive justice should be included in the goals of all health care, especially in the distribution of precision psychiatry as it becomes more finetuned and garners broad appeal. During the phasing-in period of precision psychiatry, the gap in equitable access to standard mental health care should be resolved. The US needs to better its mental health diagnosis and treatment options to offer both traditional and precision psychiatry to people in need. Although it may take several years, even decades for a rigorous set of tools capable of foreseeing medication responsiveness to come to fruition for physicians, such precision psychiatry will be a game-changer. [1] Evers, Kathinka. “Personalized medicine in psychiatry: ethical challenges and opportunities.” Dialogues in Clinical Neuroscience vol. 11,4 (2009): 427-34. [2] Menke, Andreas. “Precision pharmacotherapy: psychiatry's future direction in preventing, diagnosing, and treating mental disorders.” Pharmacogenomics and Personalized Medicine vol. 11 211-222. 19 Nov. 2018, doi:10.2147/PGPM.S146110. [3] Manchia, et al., p131 [4] Menke, p 211 [5] Manchia, Mirko et al. “Challenges and Future Prospects of Precision Medicine in Psychiatry.” Pharmacogenomics and Personalized Medicine vol. 13 127-140. 23 Apr. 2020, doi:10.2147/PGPM.S198225. [6] Manchia, et al., p 131 [7] Fernandes, Brisa S et al. “The new field of 'precision psychiatry'.” BMC Medicine vol. 15,1 80. 13 Apr. 2017, doi:10.1186/s12916-017-0849-x. [8] Menke, p211 [9] Fernandes, p80 [10] Williams, Leanne M. “Precision psychiatry: a neural circuit taxonomy for depression and anxiety.” The Lancet. Psychiatry vol. 3,5 (2016): 472-80. doi:10.1016/S2215-0366(15)00579-9. [11] Tikkanen, Roosa et al. “Mental Health Conditions and Substance Use: Comparing U.S. Needs and Treatment Capacity with Those in Other High-Income Countries.” Commonwealth Fund. 21 May. 2020, doi:10.26099/09ht-rj07. [12] Fernandes, p 80 [13] Fernandes, p 80 [14] Fernandes, p 80 [15] Kohn, Robert et al. “Mental health in the Americas: an overview of the treatment gap.” Revista panamericana de salud publica = Pan American Journal of Public Health vol. 42 e165. 10 Oct. 2018, doi:10.26633/RPSP.2018.165 [16] Kohn et al., p 165 [17] Fernandes, p 80 [18] Stiefel, Friedrich et al. “Precision psychiatry: Promises made-Promises to be kept?.” The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Psychiatry vol. 53,9 (2019): 841-843. doi:10.1177/0004867419849482.

One of the commonplace and myopic reactions to the rise of televisual time-shifting via video-on-demand, DVD rental services, illegal downloads, and streaming media was to decree “the death of the communal television experience”. For many, new forms of watching television unconstrained by time-bound, regularly scheduled programming meant the demise of the predominant form of media liveness that existed commercially since the 1950s. Nevertheless, as time-shifting practices evolved, so have attendant notions of televisual temporality—including changing forms of liveness, shared experience, and the plastic and flexible nature of new viewing patterns (Bury & Li; Irani, Jefferies, & Knight; Turner; Couldry). Although these temporal conceptualisations are relevant to streaming media, in the few years since the launch of platforms such as Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon, what it means “to stream” has rapidly expanded. Social media platforms like Twitter, Facebook, Snapchat, YouTube, and TikTok allow users to record, share, and livestream their own content. Not only does social media add to the growing definition of streaming, but these streaming interactions are also predominately mobile (Munson; Droesch). Taken together, a live and social experience of time via audio-visual media is not lost but is instead reactivated through the increasingly mobile nature of streaming. In the following article, I examine how mobile streaming media practices are part of a construction of shared temporality that both draws upon and departs from conceptualisations of televisual and fixed streaming liveness. Accordingly, HQ Trivia—a mobile-specific streaming gameshow app launched in August 2017—demonstrates novel attempts at reimagining the temporally-bound live televisual experience while simultaneously offering new monetisation strategies via mobile streaming technologies. Through this example, I argue that pervasive Web-connectivity, streaming platforms, data collection, mobile devices, and mobile streaming practices form arrangements of valorisation that are temporally bound yet concomitantly mobile, allowing new forms of social cohesion and temporal control.A Brief History of Televisual TemporalityTime is at once something infinitely mysterious and inherently understood. As John Durham Peters concisely explains, “time lies at the heart of the meaning of our lives” (175). It is precisely due to the myriad ontological, phenomenological, and epistemological dimensions of time that the subject has long been the focus of critical inquiry. As part of the so-called spatial turn, Michel Foucault argues that theory formerly treated space as “the dead, the fixed, the undialectical, the immobile. Time, on the contrary, was richness, fecundity, life, dialectic” (70). While scholarly turns toward space and later mobility have shifted the emphasis of critical inquiry, time is not rendered irrelevant. For example, Doreen Massey defines spaces as the product of interrelations, as sphere of possibility and heterogeneous multiplicity, and as always under construction (9). Critical to these conceptualisations of space, then, is the element of time. Considering space not as a static container in which individual actors enter and leave but instead as a production of ongoing becoming demonstrates how space, mobility, and time are inexorably intertwined. Time, space, and mobility are also interrelated when it comes to conversations of power. Judy Wajcman and Nigel Dodd contend that temporal control is related to dynamics of power, in that the powerful are fast and the powerless slow (3). Questions of speed, mobility, and the control of time itself, however, require attention to the media that help construct time. Aspects of time may always escape human comprehension, yet, “Whatever time is, calendars and clocks measure, control, and constitute it” (Peters 176). Time is a sociotechnical construction, but temporal experience is bound up in more than just time-keeping apparatuses. Elucidated by Sarah Sharma, temporalities are not experienced as uniform time, but instead produced within larger economies of labor and temporal worth (8). To reach a more productive understanding of temporalities, Sharma offers power-chronography, which conceptualises time as experiential, political, and produced by social differences and institutions (15). Put another way, time is an experience structured by the social, economic, political, and technical toward forms of social cohesion and control.Time has always been central to the televisual. Though it is often placed in a genealogy with film, William Uricchio contends that early discursive imaginings and material experiments in television are more indebted to technologies such as the telegraph and telephone in promising live and simultaneous communication across distances (289-291). In essence, film is a technology of storage, related to 18th- and 19th-century traditions of conceptualising time as fragmented; the televisual is instead associated with the “contrasting notion of time conceived as a continuous present, as flow, as seamless” (Uricchio 295). Responding to Uricchio, Doron Galili asserts that the relationship between film and television is dialectical and not hierarchical. For Galili, the desire for simultaneity and storage oscillates—both are present, both remain separate from one another. It is the synthesis of simultaneity and storage that allows both to operate together as a technological and mediated vision of mastering time. Despite disagreements regarding how best to conceptualise early film and television, it is clear that the televisual furthered a desire for spatial and temporal coordination, liveness, and simultaneity.In recent years, forms of televisual “time-shifting” allow viewers to escape temporally-bound scheduling. In what is commonly periodised as TVIII, the proliferation of digital platforms, video-on-demand, legal and illegal downloads, and DVD players, and streaming media displaced more traditional forms of watching live television (Jenner 259). It is important to note that while streaming is often related to the televisual, the televisual-to-streaming shift is not a clean linear evolution. Televisual-style content persists in streaming, but streaming might be better defined as matrix media, where content is made available away from the television set (Jenner 260). Regardless, the rise of streaming media platforms such as Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime is commonly framed as part of televisual temporal disruption, as scholars note the growing plurality of televisual-type viewing options (Bury and Li 594). Further still, streaming platforms are often defined as television, a recent example occurring when Netflix CEO Reed Hastings called the service a “global Internet TV network” in 2016.The changing landscape of streaming and time-shifting notwithstanding, individuals remain aware of the viewing patterns of others, and this anticipation impacts the coordination and production of the collective television experience (Irani, Jeffries, and Knight 621). Related to this goal is how liveness connects viewers to shared social realities as they are occurring and helps to create a collective sense of time (Couldry 355-356). This shared experience of the social is still readily available in a time-shifted landscape, in that even shows released via an all-at-once format (for example, Netflix’s Stranger Things) can rapidly become a cultural phenomenon. Moreover, livestreaming has become commonplace as alternative to cable television for live events and sports, along with new uses for gaming and social media. As Graeme Turner notes, “if liveness includes a sense of the shrinking temporal gap between oneself and the rest of the world, as well as a palpable sense of immediacy, then this is something we can find as readily online as in television”. To this end, the claim that streaming media is harbinger of the “death of liveness” is far too simplistic. Liveness vis-à-vis streaming is not something that ceases to exist—shared temporal experiences simply occur in new forms.HQ TriviaOne such strategy to reactive a more traditional form of televisual liveness through streaming is to make streaming more social and mobile. Launched in August 2017, HQ Trivia (later retitled HQ Trivia and Words) requires users, known as HQties, to download the app and log in at 3.00 pm and 9.00 pm Eastern Standard Time to join a live gameshow. In each session, gameshow hosts ask a series of 12 single-elimination questions with three answer choices. Any users who successfully answer all 12 questions correctly split the prize pool for the show, which ranges from $250 to $250,000. Though these monetary prizes appear substantial, the per-person winnings paid out are often quite low based on the number winners splitting the pool. In the short time since its inception, HQ has had high and low audience participation numbers and has also spawned a myriad of imitators, including Facebook’s “Confetti” gameshow.Mobile streaming via trivia gameshows are a return to forms of televisual liveness and participation often disrupted by the flexible nature of streaming. HQ’s twice-a-day events require users to re-adapt to temporal constraints to play and participate. Just as intriguing is that “HQ sees its biggest user participation—and largest prizes—on Sundays, especially if games coincide with national events, such as holidays, sports games or award shows” (Alcantara). Though it is difficult to draw conclusions from this correlation, the fact that HQ garners more players and attention during events and holidays complicates notions of mobile trivia as a primary form of entertainment. It is possible, perhaps, that HQ is an evolution to the so-called second screen experience, in which a mobile device is used simultaneously with a television. As noted by Hye-Jin Lee and Mark Andrejevic, the rise of the second screen often enables real-time monitoring, customisation, and targeting that is envisioned by the promoters of the interactive commercial economy (41). Second screens are a way to reestablish live-viewing and, by extension, advertising through the importance of affective economies (46). Affect, or a preconscious structure of feeling, is critical to platform monetisation, in that the capture of big data requires an infrastructuralisation of desire—in streaming media often a desire for entertainment (Cockayne 6). Through affective capture, users become willing to repeat certain actions via love for and connection to a platform. Put another way, big data collection and processing is often the central monetisation strategy of platforms, but capturing this data requires first cultivating user attachment and repeat actions.To this end, many platforms operate by encouraging as much user engagement as possible. HQ certainly endeavors for strong affective investment by users (a video search for “HQ Trivia winner reactions” demonstrates the often-zealous nature of HQties, even when winning relatively low amounts of prize money). However, HQ departs from the typical platform streaming model in that engagement with the app is limited to two games per day. These comparatively diminutive temporal appointments have substantial implications for HQ’s strategies of valorisation, or the process of apprehending and making productive the user as laborer in new times and spaces (Franklin 13). Media theorists have long acknowledged the “work of watching” television, in which the televisual is “a real economic process, a value-creating process, and a metaphor, a reflection of value creation in the economy as a whole” (Jhally and Livant 125). Televisual monetisation is predominately based on the advertising model, which functions to accelerate the selling of commodities. This configuration of capital accumulation is enabled by a lineage of privatisation of broadcasting; television is heralded as a triumph of deregulation, but in practice is an oligopolistic, advertising-supported system of electronic media aided by government policies (Streeter 175). By contrast, streaming media accomplishes capitalistic accumulation through the collection, storage, and processing of big data via cloud infrastructure. Cloud infrastructure enables unprecedented storage and analytic capacity, and is heavily utilised in streaming media to compress and transmit data packets.Although the metaphor of the cloud situates user data as ephemeral and free, these infrastructures are better conceptualised as a “digital enclosure”, which invokes the importance of privatisation and commodification, as well as the materiality and spatiality of data collection (Andrejevic 297). As such, streaming monetisation is often achieved through the multitude of monetisation possibilities that occur through the collection of vast amounts of user data. Streaming and mobile streaming, then, are similar to the televisual in that these processes monetise the work of watching; yet, the ubiquitous data collection of streaming permits more efficient forms of computational commodification.Mobile streaming media continues the lineage of ubiquitous immaterial labor—a labor form that can, and commonly is, accomplished by “filling the cracks” of non-work time with content engagement and accompanying data collection. HQ Trivia, nevertheless, functions as a notable departure from this model in that company has made public claims that the platform will not utilise the myriad user identification and location data collected by the app. Instead, HQ has engaged in brand promotions that include Warner Brothers movies Ready Player One and Rampage, along with a brief Nike partnership (Feldman; Perry). Here, mobile and temporal valorisation occurs through monetisation strategies more akin to traditional televisual advertising than the techniques of big data collection often utilised by platforms. Whether or not eschewing the proclivity toward monetising user data for a more traditional form of brand promotion will yield rewards for HQ remains to be seen. Nonetheless, this return to more conventional televisual monetisation strategies sets HQ apart from many other applications that rely on data collection and subsequent sale of user data for targeted advertisements.Affective attachment and the transformation of leisure times through mobile devices is critical not just to value generation, but also to the relationship between mobile streaming and temporal and mobile control. As previously noted, Sharma elucidates that time is part of biopolitical forms of control, produced and experienced differently. Nick Couldry echoes these sentiments, in that there are rival forms of liveness stemming from a desire for connectivity, and that these “types of liveness are now pulling in different directions” (360). Despite common positionings, the relationship between television and streaming media is not a neat linear evolution—television, streaming, and mobile streaming continue to operate both side-by-side and in conjunction with one another. The experience of time, nevertheless, operates differently in these media forms. Explained by Wendy Chun, television structures temporality through steady streams of information, the condensation of time that demands response in crisis, and the most powerful moments of “touching the real” via catastrophe (74). New media differs by instead fostering crisis as the norm, in that “crises promise to move users from banal to the crucial by offering the experience of something like responsibility; something like the consequences and joys of ‘being in touch’” (Chun 75). New media crisis is often felt via reminders and other increasingly pervasive prompts that require an immediate user response. HQ differs from other forms of streaming and mobile streaming in that the plastic and flexible nature of viewing is replaced by mobile notifications and reminders that one must be ready for twice-daily games or risk losing a chance to win.In contributing to a sense of new media crisis, HQ fosters novel expectations for the mobile streaming subject. Through temporally-bound mobile livestreaming, “networked smart screens are the mechanism by which time and space will be both overcome and reanimated” as the “real world” is transformed into a magical landscape of mobile desire (Oswald and Packer 286). There is a double-edged element to this transformation, however, in that power of HQ Trivia is the ability to reanimate space through a promise that users are able to win substantial prize money only if one remembers to tune in at certain times. Within HQ Trivia, the much-emphasised temporal freedom of streaming time-shifting is eschewed for more traditional forms of televisual liveness; at the same time, smartphone technologies permit mobile on-the-go forms of engagement. Accordingly, a more traditional televisual simultaneity reemerges even as the spaces of streaming are untethered from the living room. It is in this reemphasis of liveness and sharedness that the user is simultaneously empowered vis-à-vis mobile devices and made mobile streaming subject through new temporal expectations and forms of monetisation.As mobile streaming becomes increasingly pervasive, new experimental applications jockey for user attention and time. HQ Trivia’s model of eschewing data collection for more traditional televisual monetisation represents attempts to recreate mobile media engagement not through individual isolated audio-visual practices, but instead through a live and mobile experience. Consequently, HQ Trivia and other temporally-bound gameshow apps demonstrate a reimagined live televisual experience, and, in turn, a monetisation of mobile engagement through affective investment.ReferencesAlcantara, Chris. “Diving into HQ Trivia: The Toughest Rounds, the Best Time to Play and How Some Users Beat the Odds.” The Washington Post 5 Mar. 2018. <http://www.washingtonpost.com/graphics/2018/business/hq-trivia/?utm_term=.02dc389ae3a9>.Andrejevic, Mark. “Surveillance in the Digital Enclosure.” The Communication Review 10.4 (2007): 295-317.Bury, Rhiannon, and Johnson Li. “Is It Live or Is It Timeshifted, Streamed or Downloaded? Watching Television in the Era of Multiple Screens.” New Media & Society 17.4 (2013): 592-610.Chun, Wendy Hui Kyong. Updating to Remain the Same: Habitual New Media. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2017.Cockayne, Daniel G. “Affect and Value in Critical Examinations of the Production and ‘Prosumption’ of Big Data.” Big Data & Society 3.2 (2016): 1-11.Couldry, Nick. “Liveness, ‘Reality,’ and the Mediated Habitus from Television to the Mobile Phone.” Communication Review 7.4 (2004): 353-361.Droesch, Blake. “More than Half of US Social Network Users Will Be Mobile-Only in 2019.” EMarketer 26 Apr. 2019. <http://www.emarketer.com/content/more-than-half-of-social-network-users-will-be-mobile-only-in-2019>.Franklin, Seb. Control: Digitality as Cultural Logic. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2015.Galili, Doron. “Seeing by Electricity: The Emergence of Television and the Modern Mediascape, 1878—1939.” PhD dissertation. Chicago: U of Chicago, 2011.Irani, Lilly, Robin Jeffries, and Andrea Knight. “Rhythms and Plasticity: Television Temporality at Home.” Personal and Ubiquitous Computing 14.7 (2010): 621-632.Jenner, Mareike. “Is This TVIV? On Netflix, TVIII and Binge-Watching.” New Media & Society 18.2 (2014): 257-273.Jhally, Sut, and Bill Livant. “Watching as Working: The Valorization of Audience Consciousness.” Journal of Communication 36.3 (1986): 124-143.Lee, Hye-Jin, and Mark Andrejevic. “Second-Screen Theory: From Democratic Surround to the Digital Enclosure.” Connected Viewing: Selling, Streaming & Sharing Media in the Digital Age. Eds. Jennifer Holt and Kevin Sanson. New York: Routledge, 2014. 40-62.Massey, Doreen. For Space. London: Sage, 2005.Munson, Ben. “More than Half of Global Video Views Start on Mobile.” Fierce Video 24 Sep. 2019. <https://www.fiercevideo.com/video/more-than-half-global-video-views-start-mobile-report-says>.Oswald, Kathleen, and Jeremy Packer. “Flow and Mobile Media.” Communication Matters: Materialist Approaches to Media, Mobility and Networks. Eds. Jeremy Packer and Stephen B. Crofts Wiley. New York: Routledge, 2012. 276-287.Perry, Erica. “Here's How HQ Trivia Is Finally Monetizing Its Massive Audience.” Social Media Week 29 Mar. 2018. <http://socialmediaweek.org/blog/2018/03/heres-how-hq-trivia-is-finally-monetizing-its-massive-audience/>.Peters, John Durham. The Marvelous Clouds: Toward a Philosophy of Elemental Media. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2016.Sharma, Sarah. In the Meantime: Temporality and Cultural Politics. Durham: Duke UP, 2014.Sterling, Greg. “Nearly 80 Percent of Social Media Time Now Spent on Mobile Devices.” Marketing Land 4 Apr. 2016. <http://marketingland.com/facebook-usage-accounts-1-5-minutes-spent-mobile-171561>.Streeter, Thomas. Selling the Air. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1996.Turner, Graeme. “'Liveness' and 'Sharedness' Outside the Box” Flow Journal 8 (2011). <https://www.flowjournal.org/2011/04/liveness-and-sharedness-outside-the-box/>.Uricchio, William. “Television's First Seventy-Five Years: The Interpretive Flexibility of a Medium in Transition.” The Oxford Handbook of Film and Media Studies. Ed. Robert Kolker. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2008. 286-305.Wajcman, Judy, and Nigel Dodd. “Introduction: The Powerful Are Fast, The Powerless Are Slow.” The Sociology of Speed: Digital, Organizational, and Social Temporalities. Eds. Judy Wajcman and Nigel Dodd. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2017. 1-12.

Our culture abhors the world.Yet Quicksand is swallowing the duellists; the river is threatening the fighter: earth, waters and climate, the mute world, the voiceless things once placed as a decor surrounding the usual spectacles, all those things that never interested anyone, from now on thrust themselves brutally and without warning into our schemes and manoeuvres (Michel Serres, The Natural Contract, p 3). When Michel Serres describes culture's abhorrence of the world in the opening pages of The Natural Contract he draws our attention to the sidelining of nature in histories and theories that have sought to describe Western culture. As Serres argues, cultural histories are quite often built on the debates and struggles of humanity, which are largely held apart from their natural surroundings, as if on a stage, "purified of things" (3). But, as he is at pains to point out, human activity and conflict always take place within a natural milieu, a space of quicksand, swelling rivers, shifting earth, and atmospheric turbulence. Recently, via the potential for vast environmental change, what was once thought of as a staid “nature” has reasserted itself within culture. In this paper I explore how Serres’s positioning of nature can be understood amid new communication systems, which, via the apparent dematerialization of messages, seems to have further removed culture from nature. From here, I focus on a set of artworks that work against this division, reformulating the connection between information, a topic usually considered in relation to media and anthropic communication (and something about which Serres too has a great deal to say), and nature, an entity commonly considered beyond human contrivance. In particular, I explore how information visualisation and sonification has been used to give a new sense of materiality to the atmosphere, repotentialising the air as a natural and informational entity. The Natural Contract argues for the legal legitimacy of nature, a natural contract similar in standing to Rousseau’s social contract. Serres’ss book explores the history and notion of a “legal person”, arguing for a linking of the scientific view of the world and the legal visions of social life, where inert objects and living beings are considered within the same legal framework. As such The Natural Contract does not deal with ecology per-se, but instead focuses on an argument for the inclusion of nature within law (Serres, “A Return” 131). In a drastic reconfiguring of the subject/object relationship, Serres explains how the space that once existed as a backdrop for human endeavour now seems to thrust itself directly into history. "They (natural events) burst in on our culture, which had never formed anything but a local, vague, and cosmetic idea of them: nature" (Serres, The Natural Contract 3). In this movement, nature does not simply take on the role of a new object to be included within a world still dominated by human subjects. Instead, human beings are understood as intertwined with a global system of turbulence that is both manipulated by them and manipulates them. Taking my lead from Serres’s book, in this paper I begin to explore the disconnections and reconnections that have been established between information and the natural environment. While I acknowledge that there is nothing natural about the term “nature” (Harman 251), I use the term to designate an environment constituted by the systematic processes of the collection of entities that are neither human beings nor human crafted artefacts. As the formation of cultural systems becomes demarcated from these natural objects, the scene is set for the development of culturally mediated concepts such as “nature” and “wilderness,” as entities untouched and unspoilt by cultural process (Morton). On one side of the divide the complex of communication systems is situated, on the other is situated “nature”. The restructuring of information flows due to developments in electronic communication has ostensibly removed messages from the medium of nature. Media is now considered within its own ecology (see Fuller; Strate) quite separate from nature, except when it is developed as media content (see Cubitt; Murray; Heumann). A separation between the structures of media ecologies and the structures of natural ecologies has emerged over the history of electronic communication. For instance, since the synoptic media theory of McLuhan it has been generally acknowledged that the shift from script to print, from stone to parchment, and from the printing press to more recent developments such as the radio, telephone, television, and Web2.0, have fundamentally altered the structure and effects of human relationships. However, these developments – “the extensions of man” (McLuhan)— also changed the relationship between society and nature. Changes in communications technology have allowed people to remain dispersed, as ideas, in the form of electric currents or pulses of light travel vast distances and in diverse directions, with communication no longer requiring human movement across geographic space. Technologies such as the telegraph and the radio, with their ability to seemingly dematerialize the media of messages, reformulated the concept of communication into a “quasi-physical connection” across the obstacles of time and space (Clarke, “Communication” 132). Prior to this, the natural world itself was the medium through which information was passed. Rather than messages transmitted via wires, communication was associated with the transport of messages through the world via human movement, with the materiality of the medium measured in the time it took to cover geographic space. The flow of messages followed trade flows (Briggs and Burke 20). Messages moved along trails, on rail, over bridges, down canals, and along shipping channels, arriving at their destination as information. More recently however, information, due to its instantaneous distribution and multiplication across space, seems to have no need for nature as a medium. Nature has become merely a topic for information, as media content, rather than as something that takes part within the information system itself. The above example illustrates a separation between information exchange and the natural environment brought about by a set of technological developments. As Serres points out, the word “media” is etymologically related to the word “milieu”. Hence, a theory of media should be always related to an understanding of the environment (Crocker). But humans no longer need to physically move through the natural world to communicate, ideas can move freely from region to region, from air-conditioned room to air-conditioned room, relatively unimpeded by natural forces or geographic distance. For a long time now, information exchange has not necessitated human movement through the natural environment and this has consequences for how the formation of culture and its location in (or dislocation from) the natural world is viewed. A number of artists have begun questioning the separation between media and nature, particularly concerning the materiality of air, and using information to provide new points of contact between media and the atmosphere (for a discussion of the history of ecoart see Wallen). In Eclipse (2009) (fig. 1) for instance, an internet based work undertaken by the collective EcoArtTech, environmental sensing technology and online media is used experimentally to visualize air pollution. EcoArtTech is made up of the artist duo Cary Peppermint and Leila Nadir and since 2005 they have been inquiring into the relationship between digital technology and the natural environment, particularly regarding concepts such as “wilderness”. In Eclipse, EcoArtTech garner photographs of American national parks from social media and photo sharing sites. Air quality data gathered from the nearest capital city is then inputted into an algorithm that visibly distorts the image based on the levels of particle pollution detected in the atmosphere. The photographs that circulate on photo sharing sites such as Flickr—photographs that are usually rather banal in their adherence to a history of wilderness photography—are augmented by the environmental pollution circulating in nearby capital cities. Figure 1: EcoArtTech, Eclipse (detail of screenshot), 2009 (Internet-based work available at:http://turbulence.org/Works/eclipse/) The digital is often associated with the clean transmission of information, as packets of data move from a server, over fibre optic cables, to be unpacked and re-presented on a computer's screen. Likewise, the photographs displayed in Eclipse are quite often of an unspoilt nature, containing no errors in their exposure or focus (most probably because these wilderness photographs were taken with digital cameras). As the photographs are overlaid with information garnered from air quality levels, the “unspoilt” photograph is directly related to pollution in the natural environment. In Eclipse the background noise of “wilderness,” the pollution in the air, is reframed as foreground. “We breathe background noise…Background noise is the ground of our perception, absolutely uninterrupted, it is our perennial sustenance, the element of the software of all our logic” (Serres, Genesis 7). Noise is activated in Eclipse in a similar way to Serres’s description, as an indication of the wider milieu in which communication takes place (Crocker). Noise links the photograph and its transmission not only to the medium of the internet and the glitches that arise as information is circulated, but also to the air in the originally photographed location. In addition to noise, there are parallels between the original photographs of nature gleaned from photo sharing sites and Serres’s concept of a history that somehow stands itself apart from the effects of ongoing environmental processes. By compartmentalising the natural and cultural worlds, both the historiography that Serres argues against and the wilderness photograph produces a concept of nature that is somehow outside, behind, or above human activities and the associated matter of noise. Eclipse, by altering photographs using real-time data, puts the still image into contact with the processes and informational outputs of nature. Air quality sensors detect pollution in the atmosphere and code these atmospheric processes into computer readable information. The photograph is no longer static but is now open to continual recreation and degeneration, dependent on the coded value of the atmosphere in a given location. A similar materiality is given to air in a public work undertaken by Preemptive Media, titled Areas Immediate Reading (AIR) (fig. 2). In this project, Preemptive Media, made up of Beatriz da Costa, Jamie Schulte and Brooke Singer, equip participants with instruments for measuring air quality as they walked around New York City. The devices monitor the carbon monoxide (CO), nitrogen oxides (NOx) or ground level ozone (O3) levels that are being breathed in by the carrier. As Michael Dieter has pointed out in his reading of the work, the application of sensing technology by Preemptive Media is in distinct contrast to the conventional application of air quality monitoring, which usually takes the form of extremely high resolution located devices spread over great distances. These larger air monitoring networks tend to present the value garnered from a large expanse of the atmosphere that covers individual cities or states. The AIR project, in contrast, by using small mobile sensors, attempts to put people in informational contact with the air that they are breathing in their local and immediate time and place, and allows them to monitor the small parcels of atmosphere that surround other users in other locations (Dieter). It thus presents many small and mobile spheres of atmosphere, inhabited by individuals as they move through the city. In AIR we see the experimental application of an already developed technology in order to put people on the street in contact with the atmospheres that they are moving through. It gives a new informational form to the “vast but invisible ocean of air that surrounds us and permeates us” (Ihde 3), which in this case is given voice by a technological apparatus that converts the air into information. The atmosphere as information becomes less of a vague background and more of a measurable entity that ingresses into the lives and movements of human users. The air is conditioned by information; the turbulent and noisy atmosphere has been converted via technology into readable information (Connor 186-88). Figure 2: Preemptive Media, Areas Immediate Reading (AIR) (close up of device), 2011 Throughout his career Serres has developed a philosophy of information and communication that may help us to reframe the relationship between the natural and cultural worlds (see Brown). Conventionally, the natural world is understood as made up of energy and matter, with exchanges of energy and the flows of biomass through food webs binding ecosystems together (DeLanda 120-1). However, the tendencies and structures of natural systems, like cultural systems, are also dependent on the communication of information. It is here that Serres provides us with a way to view natural and cultural systems as connected by a flow of energy and information. He points out that in the wake of Claude Shannon’s famous Mathematical Theory of Communication it has been possible to consider the relationship between information and thermodynamics, at least in Shannon’s explanation of noise as entropy (Serres, Hermes74). For Serres, an ecosystem can be conceptualised as an informational and energetic system: “it receives, stores, exchanges, and gives off both energy and information in all forms, from the light of the sun to the flow of matter which passes through it (food, oxygen, heat, signals)” (Serres, Hermes 74). Just as we are related to the natural world based on flows of energy— as sunlight is converted into energy by plants, which we in turn convert into food— we are also bound together by flows of information. The task is to find new ways to sense this information, to actualise the information, and imagine nature as more than a welter of data and the air as more than background. If we think of information in broad ranging terms as “coded values of the output of a process” (Losee 254), then we see that information and the environment—as a setting that is produced by continual and energetic processes—are in constant contact. After all, humans sense information from the environment all the time; we constantly decode the coded values of environmental processes transmitted via the atmosphere. I smell a flower, I hear bird songs, and I see the red glow of a sunset. The process of the singing bird is coded as vibrations of air particles that knock against my ear drum. The flower is coded as molecules in the atmosphere enter my nose and bind to cilia. The red glow is coded as wavelengths from the sun are dispersed in the Earth’s atmosphere and arrive at my eye. Information, of course, does not actually exist as information until some observing system constructs it (Clarke, “Information” 157-159). This observing system as we see the sunset, hear the birds, or smell the flower involves the atmosphere as a medium, along with our sense organs and cognitive and non-cognitive processes. The molecules in the atmosphere exist independently of our sense of them, but they do not actualise as information until they are operationalised by the observational system. Prior to this, information can be thought of as noise circulating within the atmosphere. Heinz Von Foester, one of the key figures of cybernetics, states “The environment contains no information. The environment is as it is” (Von Foester in Clarke, “Information” 157). Information, in this model, actualises only when something in the world causes a change to the observational system, as a difference that makes a difference (Bateson 448-466). Air expelled from a bird’s lungs and out its beak causes air molecules to vibrate, introducing difference into the atmosphere, which is then picked up by my ear and registered as sound, informing me that a bird is nearby. One bird song is picked up as information amid the swirling noise of nature and a difference in the air makes a difference to the observational system. It may be useful to think of the purpose of information as to control action and that this is necessary “whenever the people concerned, controllers as well as controlled, belong to an organised social group whose collective purpose is to survive and prosper” (Scarrott 262). Information in this sense operates the organisation of groups. Using this definition rooted in cybernetics, we see that information allows groups, which are dependent on certain control structures based on the sending and receiving of messages through media, to thrive and defines the boundaries of these groups. We see this in a flock of birds, for instance, which forms based on the information that one bird garners from the movements of the other birds in proximity. Extrapolating from this, if we are to live included in an ecological system capable of survival, the transmission of information is vital. But the form of the information is also important. To communicate, for example, one entity first needs to recognise that the other is speaking and differentiate this information from the noise in the air. Following Clarke and Von Foester, an observing system needs to be operational. An art project that gives aesthetic form to environmental processes in this vein—and one that is particularly concerned with the co-agentive relation between humans and nature—is Reiko Goto and Tim Collin’s Plein Air (2010) (fig. 3), an element in their ongoing Eden 3 project. In this work a technological apparatus is wired to a tree. This apparatus, which references the box easels most famously used by the Impressionists to paint ‘en plein air’, uses sensing technology to detect the tree’s responses to the varying CO2 levels in the atmosphere. An algorithm then translates this into real time piano compositions. The tree’s biological processes are coded into the voice of a piano and sensed by listeners as aesthetic information. What is at stake in this work is a new understanding of atmospheres as a site for the exchange of information, and an attempt to resituate the interdependence of human and non-human entities within an experimental aesthetic system. As we breathe out carbon dioxide—both through our physiological process of breathing and our cultural processes of polluting—trees breath it in. By translating these biological processes into a musical form, Collins and Gotto’s work signals a movement from a process of atmospheric exchange to a digital process of sensing and coding, the output of which is then transmitted through the atmosphere as sound. It must be mentioned that within this movement from atmospheric gas to atmospheric music we are not listening to the tree alone. We are listening to a much more complex polyphony involving the components of the digital sensing technology, the tree, the gases in the atmosphere, and the biological (breathing) and cultural processes (cars, factories and coal fired power stations) that produce these gases. Figure 3: Reiko Goto and Tim Collins, Plein Air, 2010 As both Don Ihde and Steven Connor have pointed out, the air that we breathe is not neutral. It is, on the contrary, given its significance in technology, sound, and voice. Taking this further, we might understand sensing technology as conditioning the air with information. This type of air conditioning—as information alters the condition of air—occurs as technology picks up, detects, and makes sensible phenomena in the atmosphere. While communication media such as the telegraph and other electronic information distribution systems may have distanced information from nature, the sensing technology experimentally applied by EcoArtTech, Preeemptive Media, and Goto and Collins, may remind us of the materiality of air. These technologies allow us to connect to the atmosphere; they reformulate it, converting it to information, giving new form to the coded processes in nature.AcknowledgmentAll images reproduced with the kind permission of the artists. References Bateson, Gregory. Steps to an Ecology of Mind. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1972. Briggs, Asa, and Peter Burke. A Social History of the Media: From Gutenberg to the Internet. Maden: Polity Press, 2009. Brown, Steve. “Michel Serres: Science, Translation and the Logic of the Parasite.” Theory, Culture and Society 19.1 (2002): 1-27. Clarke, Bruce. “Communication.” Critical Terms for Media Studies. Eds. Mark B. N. Hansen and W. J. T. Mitchell. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010. 131-45 -----. “Information.” Critical Terms for Media Studies. Eds. Mark B. N. Hansen and W. J. T. Mitchell. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010. 157-71 Crocker, Stephen. “Noise and Exceptions: Pure Mediality in Serres and Agamben.” CTheory: 1000 Days of Theory. (2007). 7 June 2012 ‹http://www.ctheory.net/articles.aspx?id=574› Connor, Stephen. The Matter of Air: Science and the Art of the Etheral. London: Reaktion, 2010. Cubitt, Sean. EcoMedia. Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi, 2005 Deiter, Michael. “Processes, Issues, AIR: Toward Reticular Politics.” Australian Humanities Review 46 (2009). 9 June 2012 ‹http://www.australianhumanitiesreview.org/archive/Issue-May-2009/dieter.htm› DeLanda, Manuel. Intensive Science and Virtual Philosophy. London and New York: Continuum, 2002. Fuller, Matthew. Media Ecologies: Materialist Energies in Art and Technoculture. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2005 Harman, Graham. Guerilla Metaphysics. Illinois: Open Court, 2005. Ihde, Don. Listening and Voice: Phenomenologies of Sound. Albany: State University of New York, 2007. Innis, Harold. Empire and Communication. Toronto: Voyageur Classics, 1950/2007. Losee, Robert M. “A Discipline Independent Definition of Information.” Journal of the American Society for Information Science 48.3 (1997): 254–69. McLuhan, Marshall. Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. London: Sphere Books, 1964/1967. Morton, Timothy. Ecology Without Nature: Rethinking Environmental Aesthetics. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2007. Murray, Robin, and Heumann, Joseph. Ecology and Popular Film: Cinema on the Edge. Albany: State University of New York, 2009 Scarrott, G.C. “The Nature of Information.” The Computer Journal 32.3 (1989): 261-66 Serres, Michel. Hermes: Literature, Science Philosophy. Baltimore: The John Hopkins Press, 1982. -----. The Natural Contract. Trans. Elizabeth MacArthur and William Paulson. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1992/1995. -----. Genesis. Trans. Genevieve James and James Nielson. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1982/1995. -----. “A Return to the Natural Contract.” Making Peace with the Earth. Ed. Jerome Binde. Oxford: UNESCO and Berghahn Books, 2007. Strate, Lance. Echoes and Reflections: On Media Ecology as a Field of Study. New York: Hampton Press, 2006 Wallen, Ruth. “Ecological Art: A Call for Intervention in a Time of Crisis.” Leonardo 45.3 (2012): 234-42.

Introduction In the wake of the disaster of World War I, the Surrealists formulated a hostile critique of the novel that identified its limitations in expressing the depth of the mind's faculties and the fragmentation of the psyche after catastrophic events. From this position of crisis, the Surrealists undertook a series of experimental innovations in form, structure, and style in an attempt to renew the genre. This article examines how the praxis of shock is deployed in a number of Surrealist city novels as a conduit for revolt against a society that grew increasingly mechanised in the climate of post-war regeneration. It seeks to counter the contemporary view that Surrealist city dérives (drifts) represent an intriguing yet ultimately benign method of urban research. By reconsidering its origins in response to a world catastrophe, this article emphasises the Surrealist novel’s binding of the affective properties of shock to the dream-awakening dialectic at the heart of the political position of Surrealism. The Surrealist City Novel Today it has almost become a truism to assert that there is a causal link between the catastrophic devastation wrought by the events of the two World Wars and the ideology of rupture that characterised the iconoclasms of the Modernist avant-gardes. Yet, as we progress into the twenty-first century, it is timely to recognise that new generations are rediscovering canonical and peripheral texts of this era and refracting them through a prism of contemporary preoccupations. In many ways, the revisions of today’s encounters with that past era suggest we have travelled some distance from the rawness of such catastrophic events. One post-war body of work recently subjected to view via an unexpected route is the remarkable array of Surrealist city novels set in Paris in the 1920s and 1930s, representing a spectrum of experimental texts by such authors as André Breton, Louis Aragon, Robert Desnos, Philippe Soupault, and Michel Leiris. Over the past decade, these works have become recuperated in the Anglophone context as exemplary instances of ludic engagement with the city. This is due in large part to the growing surge of interest in psychogeography, an urban research method concerned with the influence that geographical environments exert over the emotions and behaviours of individuals, and a concern for tracing the literary genealogies of walking and writing in broad sweeping encyclopaedic histories and guidebook style accounts (for prominent examples see Rebecca Solnit’s Wanderlust and Merlin Coverley’s Psychogeography). Yet as Surrealist novels continue to garner renewed interest for their erotic intrigue, their strolling encounters with the unconscious or hidden facets of the city, and as precursors to the apparently more radical practice of Situationist psychogeography, this article suggests that something vital is missing. By neglecting the revolutionary significance that the Surrealists placed upon the street and its inextricable connection to the shock of the marvellous, I suggest that we have arrived at a point of diminished appreciation of the praxis of the dream-awakening dialectic at the heart of Surrealist politics. With the movement firmly lodged in the popular imagination as concerned merely with the art of play and surprise, the Surrealists’ sensorial conception of the city as embedded within a much larger critique of the creators of “a sterile and dead world” (Rasmussen 372) is lost. This calls into question to what extent we can now relate to the urgency with which avant-gardes like the Surrealists responded to the disaster of war in their call for “the revolution of the subject, a revolution that destroyed identity and released the fantastic” (372). At the same time, a re-evaluation of the Surrealist city novel as a significant precursor to the psychogeograhical dérive (drift) can prove instructive in locating the potential of walking, in order to function as a form of praxis (defined here as lived practice in opposition to theory) that goes beyond its more benign construction as the “gentle art” of getting lost. The Great Shock To return to the origins of Surrealism is to illuminate the radical intentions of the movement. The enormous shock that followed the Great War represented, according to Roger Shattuck, “a profound organic reaction that convulsed the entire system with vomiting, manic attacks, and semi-collapse” (9). David Gascoyne considers 1919, the inaugural year of Surrealist activity, as “a year of liquidation, the end of everything but also of paroxysmic death-birth, incubating seeds of renewal” (17). It was at this time that André Breton and his collaborator Philippe Soupault came together at the Hôtel des Grands Hommes in Paris to conduct their early experimental research. As the authors took poetic license with the psychoanalytical method of automatic writing, their desire to unsettle the latent content of the unconscious as it manifests in the spontaneous outpourings of dream-like recollections resulted in the first collection of Surrealist texts, The Magnetic Fields (1920). As Breton recalls: Completely occupied as I still was with Freud at that time, and familiar with his methods of examination which I had had some slight occasion to use on some patients during the war, I resolved to obtain from myself what we were trying to obtain from them, namely, a monologue spoken as rapidly as possible without any intervention on the part of critical faculties, a monologue consequently unencumbered by the slightest inhibition and which was, as closely as possible, akin to spoken thought. (Breton, Manifesto 22–23) Despite their debts to psychoanalytical methods, the Surrealists sought radically different ends from therapeutic goals in their application. Rather than using analysis to mitigate the pathologies of the psyche, Breton argued that such methods should instead be employed to liberate consciousness in ways that released the individual from “the reign of logic” (Breton, Manifesto 11) and the alienating forces of a mechanised society. In the same manifesto, Breton links his critique to a denunciation of the novel, principally the realist novel which dominated the literary landscape of the nineteenth-century, for its limitations in conveying the power of the imagination and the depths of the mind’s faculties. Despite these protestations, the Surrealists were unable to completely jettison the novel and instead launched a series of innovations in form, structure, and style in an attempt to renew the genre. As J.H. Matthews suggests, “Being then, as all creative surrealism must be, the expression of a mood of experimentation, the Surrealist novel probes not only the potentialities of feeling and imagination, but also those of novelistic form” (Matthews 6). When Nadja appeared in 1928, Breton was not the first Surrealist to publish a novel. However, this work remains the most well-known example of its type in the Anglophone context. Largely drawn from the author’s autobiographical experiences, it recounts the narrator’s (André’s) obsessive infatuation with a mysterious, impoverished and unstable young woman who goes by the name of Nadja. The pair’s haunted and uncanny romance unfolds during their undirected walks, or dérives, through the streets of Paris, the city acting as an affective register of their encounters. The “intellectual seduction” comes to an abrupt halt (Breton, Nadja 108), however, when Nadja does in fact go truly mad, disappearing from the narrator’s life when she is committed to an asylum. André makes no effort to seek her out and after launching into a diatribe vehemently attacking the institutions that administer psychiatric treatment, nonchalantly resumes the usual concerns of his everyday life. At a formal level, Breton’s unconventional prose indeed stirs many minor shocks and tremors in the reader. The insertion of temporally off-kilter photographs and surreal drawings are intended to supersede naturalistic description. However, their effect is to create a form of “negative indexicality” (Masschelein) that subtly undermines the truth claims of the novel. Random coincidences charged through with the attractive force of desire determine the plot while the compressed dream-like narrative strives to recount only those facts of “violently fortuitous character” (Breton, Nadja 19). Strikingly candid revelations perpetually catch the reader off guard. But it is in the novel’s treatment of the city, most specifically, in which we can recognise the evolution of Surrealism’s initial concern for the radically subversive and liberatory potential of the dream into a form of praxis that binds the shock of the marvellous to the historical materialism of Marx and Engels. This praxis unfolds in the novel on a number of levels. By placing its events firmly at the level of the street, Breton privileges the anti-heroic realm of everyday life over the socially hierarchical domain of the bourgeois domestic interior favoured in realist literature. More significantly, the sites of the city encountered in the novel act as repositories of collective memory with the power to rupture the present. As Margaret Cohen comprehensively demonstrates in her impressive study Profane Illumination, the great majority of sites that the narrator traverses in Nadja reveal connections in previous centuries to instances of bohemian activity, violent insurrection or revolutionary events. The enigmatic statue of Étienne Dolet, for example, to which André is inexplicably drawn on his city walks and which produces a sensation of “unbearable discomfort” (25), commemorates a sixteenth-century scholar and writer of love poetry condemned as a heretic and burned at the Place Maubert for his non-conformist attitudes. When Nadja is suddenly gripped by hallucinations and imagines herself among the entourage of Marie-Antoinette, “multiple ghosts of revolutionary violence descend on the Place Dauphine from all sides” (Cohen 101). Similarly, a critique of capitalism emerges in the traversal of those marginal and derelict zones of the city, such as the Saint-Ouen flea market, which become revelatory of the historical cycles of decay and ruination that modernity seeks to repress through its faith in progress. It was this poetic intuition of the machinations of historical materialism, in particular, that captured the attention of Walter Benjamin in his 1929 “Surrealism” essay, in which he says of Breton that: He can boast an extraordinary discovery: he was the first to perceive the revolutionary energies that appear in the “outmoded”—in the first iron constructions, the first factory buildings, the earliest photos, objects that have begun to be extinct, grand pianos, the dresses of five years ago, fashionable restaurants when the vogue has begun to ebb from them. The relation of these things to revolution—no one can have a more exact concept of it than these authors. (210) In the same passage, Benjamin makes passing reference to the Passage de l’Opéra, the nineteenth-century Parisian arcade threatened with demolition and eulogised by Louis Aragon in his Surrealist anti-novel Paris Peasant (published in 1926, two years earlier than Nadja). Loosely structured around a series of walks, Aragon’s book subverts the popular guidebook literature of the period by inventorying the arcade’s quotidian attractions in highly lyrical and imagistic prose. As in Nadja, a concern for the “outmoded” underpins the praxis which informs the politics of the novel although here it functions somewhat differently. As transitional zones on the cusp of redevelopment, the disappearing arcades attract Aragon for their liminal status, becoming malleable dreamscapes where an ontological instability renders them ripe for eruptions of the marvellous. Such sites emerge as “secret repositories of several modern myths,” and “the true sanctuaries of a cult of the ephemeral”. (Aragon 14) City as Dreamscape Contemporary literature increasingly reads Paris Peasant through the lens of psychogeography, and not unproblematically. In his brief guide to psychogeography, British writer Merlin Coverley stresses Aragon’s apparent documentary or ethnographical intentions in describing the arcades. He suggests that the author “rails against the destruction of the city” (75), positing the novel as “a handbook for today’s breed of psychogeographer” (76). The nuances of Aragon’s dream-awakening dialectic, however, are too easily effaced in such an assessment which overlooks the novel’s vertiginous and hyperbolic prose as it consistently approaches an unreality in its ambivalent treatment of the arcades. What is arguably more significant than any documentary concern is Aragon’s commitment to the broader Surrealist quest to transform reality by undermining binary oppositions between waking life and the realm of dreams. As Hal Foster’s reading of the arcades in Surrealism insists: This gaze is not melancholic; the surrealists do not cling obsessively to the relics of the nineteenth-century. Rather it uncovers them for the purposes of resistance through re-enchantment. If we can grasp this dialectic of ruination, recovery, and resistance, we will grasp the intimated ambition of the surrealist practice of history. (166) Unlike Aragon, Breton defended the political position of Surrealism throughout the ebbs and flows of the movement. This notion of “resistance through re-enchantment” retained its significance for Breton as he clung to the radical importance of dreams and the imagination, creative autonomy, and individual freedom over blind obedience to revolutionary parties. Aragon’s allegiance to communism led him to surrender the poetic intoxications of Surrealist prose in favour of the more sombre and austere tone of social realism. By contrast, other early Surrealists like Philippe Soupault contributed novels which deployed the praxis of shock in a less explicitly dialectical fashion. Soupault’s Last Nights of Paris (1928), in particular, responds to the influence of the war in producing a crisis of identity among a generation of young men, a crisis projected or transferred onto the city streets in ways that are revelatory of the author’s attunement to how “places and environment have a profound influence on memory and imagination” (Soupault 91). All the early Surrealists served in the war in varying capacities. In Soupault’s case, the writer “was called up in 1916, used as a guinea pig for a new typhoid vaccine, and spent the rest of the war in and out of hospital. His close friend and cousin, René Deschamps, was killed in action” (Read 22). Memories of the disaster of war assume a submerged presence in Soupault’s novel, buried deep in the psyche of the narrator. Typically, it is the places and sites of the city that act as revenants, stimulating disturbing memories to drift back to the surface which then suffuse the narrator in an atmosphere of melancholy. During the novel’s numerous dérives, the narrator’s detective-like pursuit of his elusive love-object, the young streetwalker Georgette, the tracking of her near-mute artist brother Octave, and the following of the ringleader of a criminal gang, all appear as instances of compensation. Each chase invokes a desire to recover a more significant earlier loss that persistently eludes the narrator. When Soupault’s narrator shadows Octave on a walk that ventures into the city’s industrial zone, recollections of the disaster of war gradually impinge upon his aleatory perambulations. His description evokes two men moving through the trenches together: The least noise was a catastrophe, the least breath a great terror. We walked in the eternal mud. Step by step we sank into the thickness of night, lost as if forever. I turned around several times to look at the way we had come but night alone was behind us. (80) In an article published in 2012, Catherine Howell identifies Last Nights of Paris as “a lyric celebration of the city as spectacle” (67). At times, the narrator indeed surrenders himself to the ocular pleasures of modernity. Observing the Eiffel Tower, he finds delight in “indefinitely varying her silhouette as if I were examining her through a kaleidoscope” (Soupault 30). Yet it is important to stress the role that shock plays in fissuring this veneer of spectacle, especially those evocations of the city that reveal an unnerving desensitisation to the more violent manifestations of the metropolis. Reading a newspaper, the narrator remarks that “the discovery of bags full of limbs, carefully sawed and chopped up” (23) signifies little more than “a commonplace crime” (22). Passing the banks of the Seine provokes “recollection of an evening I had spent lying on the parapet of the Pont Marie watching several lifesavers trying in vain to recover the body of an unfortunate suicide” (10). In his sensitivity to the unassimilable nature of trauma, Soupault intuits a phenomenon which literary trauma theory argues profoundly limits the text’s claim to representation, knowledge, and an autonomous subject. In this sense, Soupault appears less committed than Breton to the idea that the after-effects of shock might be consciously distilled into a form of praxis. Yet this prolongation of an unintegrated trauma still posits shock as a powerful vehicle to critique a society attempting to heal its wounds without addressing their underlying causes. This is typical of Surrealism’s efforts to “dramatize the physical and psychological trauma of a war that everyone wanted to forget so that it would not be swept away too quickly” (Lyford 4). Woman and Radical Madness In her 2007 study, Surrealist Masculinities, Amy Lyford focuses upon the regeneration and nation building project that characterised post-war France and argues that Surrealist tactics sought to dismantle an official discourse that promoted ideals of “robust manhood and female maternity” (4). Viewed against this backdrop, the trope of madness in Surrealism is central to the movement’s disruptive strategies. In Last Nights of Paris, a lingering madness simmers beneath the surface of the text like an undertow, while in other Surrealist texts the lauding of madness, specifically female hysteria, is much more explicit. Indeed, the objectification of the madwoman in Surrealism is among the most problematic aspects of its praxis of shock and one that raises questions over to what extent, if at all, Surrealism and feminism can be reconciled, leading some critics to define the movement as inherently misogynistic. While certainly not unfounded, this critique fails to answer why a broad spectrum of women artists have been drawn to the movement. By contrast, a growing body of work nuances the complexities of the “blinds spots” (Lusty 2) in Surrealism’s relationship with women. Contemporary studies like Natalya Lusty’s Surrealism, Feminism, Psychoanalysis and Katharine Conley’s earlier Automatic Woman both afford greater credit to Surrealism’s female practitioners in redefining their subject position in ways that trouble and unsettle the conventional understanding of women’s role in the movement. The creative and self-reflexive manipulation of madness, for example, proved pivotal to the achievements of Surrealist women. In her short autobiographical novella, Down Below (1944), Leonora Carrington recounts the disturbing true experience of her voyage into madness sparked by the internment of her partner and muse, fellow Surrealist Max Ernst, in a concentration camp in 1940. Committed to a sanatorium in Santander, Spain, Carrington was treated with the seizure inducing drug Cardiazol. Her text presents a startling case study of therapeutic maltreatment that is consistent with Bretonian Surrealism’s critique of the use of psycho-medical methods for the purposes of regulating and disciplining the individual. As well as vividly recalling her intense and frightening hallucinations, Down Below details the author’s descent into a highly paranoid state which, somewhat perversely, heightens her sense of agency and control over her environment. Unable to discern boundaries between her internal reality and that of the external world, Carrington develops a delusional and inflated sense of her ability to influence the city of Madrid: In the political confusion and the torrid heat, I convinced myself that Madrid was the world’s stomach and that I had been chosen for the task of restoring that digestive organ to health […] I believed that I was capable of bearing that dreadful weight and of drawing from it a solution for the world. The dysentery I suffered from later was nothing but the illness of Madrid taking shape in my intestinal tract. (12–13) In this way, Carrington’s extraordinarily visceral memoir embodies what can be described as the Surrealist woman’s “double allegiance” (Suleiman 5) to the praxis of shock. On the one hand, Down Below subversively harnesses the affective qualities of madness in order to manifest textual disturbances and to convey the author’s fierce rebellion against societal constraints. At the same time, the work reveals a more complex and often painful representational struggle inherent in occupying the position of both the subject experiencing madness and the narrator objectively recalling its events, displaying a tension not present in the work of the male Surrealists. The memoir concludes on an ambivalent note as Carrington describes finally becoming “disoccultized” of her madness, awakening to “the mystery with which I was surrounded and which they all seemed to take pleasure in deepening around me” (53). Notwithstanding its ambivalence, Down Below typifies the political and historical dimensions of Surrealism’s struggle against internal and external limits. Yet as early as 1966, Surrealist scholar J.H. Matthews was already cautioning against reaching that point where the term Surrealist “loses any meaning and becomes, as it is for too many, synonymous with ‘strange,’ ‘weird,’ or even ‘fanciful’” (5–6). To re-evaluate the praxis of shock in the Surrealist novel, then, is to seek to reinstate Surrealism as a movement that cannot be reduced to vague adjectives or to mere aesthetic principles. It is to view it as an active force passionately engaged with the pressing social, cultural, and political problems of its time. While the frequent nods to Surrealist methods in contemporary literary genealogies and creative urban research practices such as psychogeography are a testament to its continued allure, the growing failure to read Surrealism as political is one of the more contradictory symptoms of the expanding temporal distance from the catastrophic events from which the movement emerged. As it becomes increasingly common to draw links between disaster, creativity, and renewal, the shifting sands of the reception of Surrealism are a reminder of the need to resist domesticating movements born from such circumstances in ways that blunt their critical faculties and dull the awakening power of their praxis of shock. To do otherwise is to be left with little more than cheap thrills. References Aragon, Louis. Paris Peasant (1926). Trans. Simon Watson Taylor. Boston: Exact Change, 1994. Benjamin, Walter. “Surrealism: The Last Snapshot of the European Intelligentsia” (1929). Trans. Edmund Jephcott. Walter Benjamin Selected Writings, Volume 2, Part I, 1927–1930. Eds. Michael W. Jennings, Howard Eiland, and Gary Smith. Cambridge, MA: The Belknap P, 2005. Breton, André. “Manifesto of Surrealism” (1924). Manifestoes of Surrealism. Trans. Richard Seaver and Helen R. Lane. Ann Arbor, MI: U of Michigan P, 1990. ———. Nadja (1928). Trans. Richard Howard. New York: Grove P, 1960. Breton, André, and Philippe Soupault. The Magnetic Fields (1920). Trans. David Gascoyne. London: Atlas P, 1985. Carrington, Leonora. Down Below (1944). Chicago: Black Swan P, 1983. Cohen, Margaret. Profane Illumination: Walter Benjamin and the Paris of Surrealist Revolution. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 1993. Conley, Katharine. Automatic Woman: The Representation of Woman in Surrealism. Lincoln, NE: U of Nebraska P, 1996. Coverley, Merlin. Psychogeography. Harpenden: Pocket Essentials, 2010. Foster, Hal. Compulsive Beauty. Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 1993. Gascoyne, David. “Introduction.” The Magnetic Fields (1920) by André Breton and Philippe Soupault. Trans. David Gascoyne. London: Atlas P, 1985. Howell, Catherine. “City of Night: Parisian Explorations.” Public: Civic Spectacle 45 (2012): 64–77. Lusty, Natalya. Surrealism, Feminism, Psychoanalysis. Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2007. Lyford, Amy. Surrealist Masculinities: Gender Anxiety and the Aesthetics of Post-World War I Reconstruction in France. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 2007. Masschelein, Anneleen. “Hand in Glove: Negative Indexicality in André Breton’s Nadja and W.G. Sebald’s Austerlitz.” Searching for Sebald: Photography after W.G. Sebald. Ed. Lise Patt. Los Angeles, CA: ICI P, 2007. 360–87. Matthews, J.H. Surrealism and the Novel. Ann Arbor, MI: U of Michigan P, 1996. Rasmussen, Mikkel Bolt. “The Situationist International, Surrealism and the Difficult Fusion of Art and Politics.” Oxford Art Journal 27.3 (2004): 365–87. Read, Peter. “Poets out of Uniform.” Book Review. The Times Literary Supplement. 15 Mar. 2002: 22. Shattuck, Roger. “Love and Laughter: Surrealism Reappraised.” The History of Surrealism. Ed. Maurice Nadeau. Trans. Richard Howard. New York: Penguin Books, 1978. 11–34. Solnit, Rebecca. Wanderlust: A History of Walking. London: Verso, 2002. Soupault, Philippe. Last Nights of Paris (1928). Trans. William Carlos Williams. Boston: Exact Change, 1992. Suleiman, Susan Robin. “Surrealist Black Humour: Masculine/Feminine.” Papers of Surrealism 1 (2003): 1–11. 20 Feb. 2013 ‹http://www.surrealismcentre.ac.uk/papersofsurrealism/journal1›.

IntroductionIn the wine world, authenticity is not just desired, it is actively required. That demand comes from a complex of producers, distributors and consumers, and other interested parties. Consequently, the authenticity of wine is constantly created, reworked, presented, performed, argued over, contested and appreciated.At one level, such processes have clear economic elements. A wine deemed to be an authentic “expression” of something—the soil and micro-climate in which it was grown, the environment and culture of the region from which it hails, the genius of the wine-maker who nurtured and brought it into being, the quintessential characteristics of the grape variety it is made from—will likely make much more money than one deemed inauthentic. In wine, as in other spheres, perceived authenticity is a means to garner profits, both economic and symbolic (Beverland).At another level, wine animates a complicated intertwining of human tastes, aesthetics, pleasures and identities. Discussions as to the authenticity, or otherwise, of a wine often involve a search by the discussants for meaning and purpose in their lives (Grahm). To discover and appreciate a wine felt to “speak” profoundly of the place from whence it came possibly involves a sense of superiority over others: I drink “real” wine, while you drink mass-market trash (Bourdieu). It can also create reassuring senses of ontological security: in discovering an authentic wine, expressive of a certain aesthetic and locational purity (Zolberg and Cherbo), I have found a cherishable object which can be reliably traced to one particular place on Earth, therefore possessing integrity, honesty and virtue (Fine). Appreciation of wine’s authenticity licenses the self-perception that I am sophisticated and sensitive (Vannini and Williams). My judgement of the wine is also a judgement upon my own aesthetic capacities (Hennion).In wine drinking, and the production, distribution and marketing processes underpinning it, much is at stake as regards authenticity. The social system of the wine world requires the category of authenticity in order to keep operating. This paper examines how and why this has come to be so. It considers the crafting of authenticity in long-term historical perspective. Demand for authentic wine by drinkers goes back many centuries. Self-conscious performances of authenticity by producers is of more recent provenance, and was elaborated above all in France. French innovations then spread to other parts of Europe and the world. The paper reviews these developments, showing that wine authenticity is constituted by an elaborate complex of environmental, cultural, legal, political and commercial factors. The paper both draws upon the social science literature concerning the construction of authenticity and also points out its limitations as regards understanding wine authenticity.The History of AuthenticityIt is conventional in the social science literature (Peterson, Authenticity) to claim that authenticity as a folk category (Lu and Fine), and actors’ desires for authentic things, are wholly “modern,” being unknown in pre-modern contexts (Cohen). Consideration of wine shows that such a view is historically uninformed. Demands by consumers for ‘authentic’ wine, in the sense that it really came from the location it was sold as being from, can be found in the West well before the 19th century, having ancient roots (Wengrow). In ancient Rome, there was demand by elites for wine that was both really from the location it was billed as being from, and was verifiably of a certain vintage (Robertson and Inglis). More recently, demand has existed in Western Europe for “real” Tokaji (sweet wine from Hungary), Port and Bordeaux wines since at least the 17th century (Marks).Conventional social science (Peterson, Authenticity) is on solider ground when demonstrating how a great deal of social energies goes into constructing people’s perceptions—not just of consumers, but of wine producers and sellers too—that particular wines are somehow authentic expressions of the places where they were made. The creation of perceived authenticity by producers and sales-people has a long historical pedigree, beginning in early modernity.For example, in the 17th and 18th centuries, wine-makers in Bordeaux could not compete on price grounds with burgeoning Spanish, Portuguese and Italian production areas, so they began to compete with them on the grounds of perceived quality. Multiple small plots were reorganised into much bigger vineyards. The latter were now associated with a chateau in the neighbourhood, giving the wines connotations of aristocratic gravity and dignity (Ulin). Product-makers in other fields have used the assertion of long-standing family lineages as apparent guarantors of tradition and quality in production (Peterson, Authenticity). The early modern Bordelaise did the same, augmenting their wines’ value by calling upon aristocratic accoutrements like chateaux, coats-of-arms, alleged long-term family ownership of vineyards, and suchlike.Such early modern entrepreneurial efforts remain the foundations of the very high prestige and prices associated with elite wine-making in the region today, with Chinese companies and consumers particularly keen on the grand crus of the region. Globalization of the wine world today is strongly rooted in forms of authenticity performance invented several hundred years ago.Enter the StateAnother notable issue is the long-term role that governments and legislation have played, both in the construction and presentation of authenticity to publics, and in attempts to guarantee—through regulative measures and taxation systems—that what is sold really has come from where it purports to be from. The west European State has a long history of being concerned with the fraudulent selling of “fake” wines (Anderson, Norman, and Wittwer). Thus Cosimo III, Medici Grand Duke of Florence, was responsible for an edict of 1716 which drew up legal boundaries for Tuscan wine-producing regions, restricting the use of regional names like Chianti to wine that actually came from there (Duguid).These 18th century Tuscan regulations are the distant ancestors of quality-control rules centred upon the need to guarantee the authenticity of wines from particular geographical regions and sub-regions, which are today now ubiquitous, especially in the European Union (DeSoucey). But more direct progenitors of today’s Geographical Indicators (GIs)—enforced by the GATT international treaties—and Protected Designations of Origin (PDOs)—promulgated and monitored by the EU—are French in origin (Barham). The famous 1855 quality-level classification of Bordeaux vineyards and their wines was the first attempt in the world explicitly to proclaim that the quality of a wine was a direct consequence of its defined place of origin. This move significantly helped to create the later highly influential notion that place of origin is the essence of a wine’s authenticity. This innovation was initially wholly commercial, rather than governmental, being carried out by wine-brokers to promote Bordeaux wines at the Paris Exposition Universelle, but was later elaborated by State officials.In Champagne, another luxury wine-producing area, small-scale growers of grapes worried that national and international perceptions of their wine were becoming wholly determined by big brands such as Dom Perignon, which advertised the wine as a luxury product, but made no reference to the grapes, the soil, or the (supposedly) traditional methods of production used by growers (Guy). The latter turned to the idea of “locality,” which implied that the character of the wine was an essential expression of the Champagne region itself—something ignored in brand advertising—and that the soil itself was the marker of locality. The idea of “terroir”—referring to the alleged properties of soil and micro-climate, and their apparent expression in the grapes—was mobilised by one group, smaller growers, against another, the large commercial houses (Guy). The terroir notion was a means of constructing authenticity, and denouncing de-localised, homogenizing inauthenticity, a strategy favouring some types of actors over others. The relatively highly industrialized wine-making process was later represented for public consumption as being consonant with both tradition and nature.The interplay of commerce, government, law, and the presentation of authenticity, also appeared in Burgundy. In that region between WWI and WWII, the wine world was transformed by two new factors: the development of tourism and the rise of an ideology of “regionalism” (Laferté). The latter was invented circa WWI by metropolitan intellectuals who believed that each of the French regions possessed an intrinsic cultural “soul,” particularly expressed through its characteristic forms of food and drink. Previously despised peasant cuisine was reconstructed as culturally worthy and true expression of place. Small-scale artisanal wine production was no longer seen as an embarrassment, producing wines far more “rough” than those of Bordeaux and Champagne. Instead, such production was taken as ground and guarantor of authenticity (Laferté). Location, at regional, village and vineyard level, was taken as the primary quality indicator.For tourists lured to the French regions by the newly-established Guide Michelin, and for influential national and foreign journalists, an array of new promotional devices were created, such as gastronomic festivals and folkloric brotherhoods devoted to celebrations of particular foodstuffs and agricultural events like the wine-harvest (Laferté). The figure of the wine-grower was presented as an exemplary custodian of tradition, relatively free of modern capitalist exchange relations. These are the beginnings of an important facet of later wine companies’ promotional literatures worldwide—the “decoupling” of their supposed commitments to tradition, and their “passion” for wine-making beyond material interests, from everyday contexts of industrial production and profit-motives (Beverland). Yet the work of making the wine-maker and their wines authentically “of the soil” was originally stimulated in response to international wine markets and the tourist industry (Laferté).Against this background, in 1935 the French government enacted legislation which created theInstitut National des Appellations d’Origine (INAO) and its Appelation d’Origine Controlle (AOC) system (Barham). Its goal was, and is, to protect what it defines as terroir, encompassing both natural and human elements. This legislation went well beyond previous laws, as it did more than indicate that wine must be honestly labelled as deriving from a given place of origin, for it included guarantees of authenticity too. An authentic wine was defined as one which truly “expresses” the terroir from which it comes, where terroir means both soil and micro-climate (nature) and wine-making techniques “traditionally” associated with that area. Thus French law came to enshrine a relatively recently invented cultural assumption: that places create distinctive tastes, the value of this state of affairs requiring strong State protection. Terroir must be protected from the untrammelled free market. Land and wine, symbiotically connected, are de-commodified (Kopytoff). Wine is embedded in land; land is embedded in what is regarded as regional culture; the latter is embedded in national history (Polanyi).But in line with the fact that the cultural underpinnings of the INAO/AOC system were strongly commercially oriented, at a more subterranean level the de-commodified product also has economic value added to it. A wine worthy of AOC protection must, it is assumed, be special relative to wines un-deserving of that classification. The wine is taken out of the market, attributed special status, and released, economically enhanced, back onto the market. Consequently, State-guaranteed forms of authenticity embody ambivalent but ultimately efficacious economic processes. Wine pioneered this Janus-faced situation, the AOC system in the 1990s being generalized to all types of agricultural product in France. A huge bureaucratic apparatus underpins and makes possible the AOC system. For a region and product to gain AOC protection, much energy is expended by collectives of producers and other interested parties like regional development and tourism officials. The French State employs a wide range of expert—oenological, anthropological, climatological, etc.—who police the AOC classificatory mechanisms (Barham).Terroirisation ProcessesFrench forms of legal classification, and the broader cultural classifications which underpin them and generated them, very much influenced the EU’s PDO system. The latter uses a language of authenticity rooted in place first developed in France (DeSoucey). The French model has been generalized, both from wine to other foodstuffs, and around many parts of Europe and the world. An Old World idea has spread to the New World—paradoxically so, because it was the perceived threat posed by the ‘placeless’ wines and decontextualized grapes of the New World which stimulated much of the European legislative measures to protect terroir (Marks).Paxson shows how artisanal cheese-makers in the US, appropriate the idea of terroir to represent places of production, and by extension the cheeses made there, that have no prior history of being constructed as terroir areas. Here terroir is invented at the same time as it is naturalised, made to seem as if it simply points to how physical place is directly expressed in a manufactured product. By defining wine or cheese as a natural product, claims to authenticity are themselves naturalised (Ulin). Successful terroirisation brings commercial benefits for those who engage in it, creating brand distinctiveness (no-one else can claim their product expresses that particularlocation), a value-enhancing aura around the product which, and promotion of food tourism (Murray and Overton).Terroirisation can also render producers into virtuous custodians of the land who are opposed to the depredations of the industrial food and agriculture systems, the categories associated with terroir classifying the world through a binary opposition: traditional, small-scale production on the virtuous side, and large-scale, “modern” harvesting methods on the other. Such a situation has prompted large-scale, industrial wine-makers to adopt marketing imagery that implies the “place-based” nature of their offerings, even when the grapes can come from radically different areas within a region or from other regions (Smith Maguire). Like smaller producers, large companies also decouple the advertised imagery of terroir from the mundane realities of industry and profit-margins (Beverland).The global transportability of the terroir concept—ironic, given the rhetorical stress on the uniqueness of place—depends on its flexibility and ambiguity. In the French context before WWII, the phrase referred specifically to soil and micro-climate of vineyards. Slowly it started mean to a markedly wider symbolic complex involving persons and personalities, techniques and knowhow, traditions, community, and expressions of local and regional heritage (Smith Maguire). Over the course of the 20th century, terroir became an ever broader concept “encompassing the physical characteristics of the land (its soil, climate, topography) and its human dimensions (culture, history, technology)” (Overton 753). It is thought to be both natural and cultural, both physical and human, the potentially contradictory ramifications of such understanding necessitating subtle distinctions to ward off confusion or paradox. Thus human intervention on the land and the vines is often represented as simply “letting the grapes speak for themselves” and “allowing the land to express itself,” as if the wine-maker were midwife rather than fabricator. Terroir talk operates with an awkward verbal balancing act: wine-makers’ “signature” styles are expressions of their cultural authenticity (e.g. using what are claimed as ‘traditional’ methods), yet their stylistic capacities do not interfere with the soil and micro-climate’s natural tendencies (i.e. the terroir’sphysical authenticity).The wine-making process is a case par excellence of a network of humans and objects, or human and non-human actants (Latour). The concept of terroir today both acknowledges that fact, but occludes it at the same time. It glosses over the highly problematic nature of what is “real,” “true,” “natural.” The roles of human agents and technologies are sequestered, ignoring the inevitably changing nature of knowledges and technologies over time, recognition of which jeopardises claims about an unchanging physical, social and technical order. Harvesting by machine production is representationally disavowed, yet often pragmatically embraced. The role of “foreign” experts acting as advisors —so-called “flying wine-makers,” often from New World production cultures —has to be treated gingerly or covered up. Because of the effects of climate change on micro-climates and growing conditions, the taste of wines from a particular terroir changes over time, but the terroir imaginary cannot recognise that, being based on projections of timelessness (Brabazon).The authenticity referred to, and constructed, by terroir imagery must constantly be performed to diverse audiences, convincing them that time stands still in the terroir. If consumers are to continue perceiving authenticity in a wine or winery, then a wide range of cultural intermediaries—critics, journalists and other self-proclaiming experts must continue telling convincing stories about provenance. Effective authenticity story-telling rests on the perceived sincerity and knowledgeability of the teller. Such tales stress romantic imagery and colourful, highly personalised accounts of the quirks of particular wine-makers, omitting mundane details of production and commercial activities (Smith Maguire). Such intermediaries must seek to interest their audience in undiscovered regions and “quirky” styles, demonstrating their insider knowledge. But once such regions and styles start to become more well-known, their rarity value is lost, and intermediaries must find ever newer forms of authenticity, which in turn will lose their burnished aura when they become objects of mundane consumption. An endless cycle of discovering and undermining authenticity is constantly enacted.ConclusionAuthenticity is a category held by different sorts of actors in the wine world, and is the means by which that world is held together. This situation has developed over a long time-frame and is now globalized. Yet I will end this paper on a volte face. Authenticity in the wine world can never be regarded as wholly and simply a social construction. One cannot directly import into the analysis of that world assumptions—about the wholly socially constructed nature of phenomena—which social scientific studies of other domains, most notably culture industries, work with (Peterson, Authenticity). Ways of thinking which are indeed useful for understanding the construction of authenticity in some specific contexts, cannot just be applied in simplistic manners to the wine world. When they are applied in direct and unsophisticated ways, such an operation misses the specificities and particularities of wine-making processes. These are always simultaneously “social” and “natural”, involving multiple forms of complex intertwining of human actions, environmental and climatological conditions, and the characteristics of the vines themselves—a situation markedly beyond beyond any straightforward notion of “social construction.”The wine world has many socially constructed objects. But wine is not just like any other product. Its authenticity cannot be fabricated in the manner of, say, country music (Peterson, Country). Wine is never in itself only a social construction, nor is its authenticity, because the taste, texture and chemical elements of wine derive from complex human interactions with the physical environment. Wine is partly about packaging, branding and advertising—phenomena standard social science accounts of authenticity focus on—but its organic properties are irreducible to those factors. Terroir is an invention, a label put on to certain things, meaning they are perceived to be authentic. But the things that label refers to—ranging from the slope of a vineyard and the play of sunshine on it, to how grapes grow and when they are picked—are entwined with human semiotics but not completely created by them. 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