Literatura académica sobre el tema "Palés Matos"

Abstract Rogers, P. J., Huveneers, C., Page, B., Hamer, D. J., Goldsworthy, S. D., Mitchell, J. G., and Seuront, L. 2012. A quantitative comparison of the diets of sympatric pelagic sharks in gulf and shelf ecosystems off southern Australia. – ICES Journal of Marine Science, 69: . Predator–prey dynamics represent an important determinant in the functioning of marine ecosystems. This study provides the first quantitative investigation of the diets of sympatric pelagic shark species in gulf and shelf waters off southern Australia. Stomachs of 417 sharks collected from fishery catches between 2007 and 2011 were examined, including 250 bronze whalers, 52 shortfin makos, 49 dusky sharks, 39 smooth hammerheads, and 27 common threshers. Dusky sharks had the highest dietary diversity of the five species examined. We found overlap in the consumption of cephalopods, small pelagic teleosts, crustaceans, and benthic teleosts in bronze whalers, dusky sharks, and smooth hammerheads, and preliminary evidence of specialization in the highly migratory species, the common thresher and the shortfin mako. Findings were discussed and compared with previous studies in other temperate marine ecosystems. This study will significantly improve the understanding of the ecological roles of these top predators in the gulf and shelf habitats off southern Australia, and enhance the ecosystem models being developed for this unique bioregion.

<div>RES&Uacute;MEN&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>Este trabajo es un PE aplicado al &nbsp;paciente ADPG de la UCI del HGZ 24 utilizando el modelo de los 11 Patrones Funcionales de Marjory Gordon con fecha de valoraci&oacute;n del 2 de abril del 2013, con diagn&oacute;stico m&eacute;dico de cetoacidosis diab&eacute;tica, patolog&iacute;a de base Diabetes Mellitus I, 17 a&ntilde;os de evoluci&oacute;n, actualmente tratada con infusi&oacute;n de insulina glargina. T/A 130/81 mmHg, F.C 99/min., F.R 26/min., SO2 100%. Temp. 37&deg;C, glicemia capilar 40 mg/dl a las 08:00 y de 80 mg/dl a las 10:00. Valores de gasometr&iacute;a pH 7.20, HCO3 19 mol/1, PCO2 35 mmHg, PO2 66 mmHg. ADPG encamado, bajo sedaci&oacute;n con Propofol, Ramsay 4, riesgo alto de ca&iacute;das y &uacute;lceras por presi&oacute;n, inm&oacute;vil, mioclon&iacute;as faciales, ausencia de reflejos oculares, sonda nasog&aacute;strica para alimentaci&oacute;n y drenaje, ventilaci&oacute;n mec&aacute;nica asisto control. Piel seca y palidez, mucosas orales deshidratadas, fisura en labio inferior, lengua con ulceraci&oacute;n en porci&oacute;n distal debido a la c&aacute;nula endotraqueal. Cat&eacute;ter subclavio derecho, monitorizado por electrodos, edema en manos (+), hematoma en yema del dedo &iacute;ndice de MSD. Hipoactividad intestinal, sonda transuretral tipo Foley, &uacute;lcera en regi&oacute;n cox&iacute;gea estad&iacute;o II y en MsPs regi&oacute;n calc&aacute;nea en estadio II, presenta mioclon&iacute;as en extremidades, pie cavo izquierdo. Paciente en abandono por cuidador primario. Se diagnostic&oacute; con Riesgo de s&iacute;ndrome de desuso, identificamos capacidades del paciente se elabor&oacute; un plan con duraci&oacute;n de 4 d&iacute;as, entre las intervenciones ejecutadas estuvieron cuidados a paciente encamado, cuidado de las ulceras por presi&oacute;n principalmente, evaluando que nuestro objetivo se cumpli&oacute; en un 60%.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>ABSTRACT</div><div><br /></div><div>This work is a PAE applied to the patient ADPG of the UCI of HGZ 24 using the Marjory Gordon&rsquo;s 11 functional patterns model; assessment dated April 2, 2013 with a medical diagnosis of diabetic ketoacidosis, Diabetes Mellitus underlying pathology I, 17 years of evolution, currently treated with glargine insulin infusion. T / A 130/81 mmHg, HR 99/min., FR 26/min., SO2 100%. Temp. 37 &deg; C, capillary glucose 40 mg / dl at 0800 and 80 mg / dl at 10:00. Blood gas values ​​pH 7.20, HCO3 19 mol / 1, PCO2 35 mmHg, PO2 66 mmHg. ADPG bedridden, under sedation with Propofol, Ramsay 4, and high risk of falls and pressure ulcers, immobile facial myoclonus and absence of eye reflexes, nasogastric feeding and drainage, attend ventilation control. Dry and pale skin, oral mucosa dehydrated, cleft lip, tongue ulceration distal portion due to the endotracheal tube. Right subclavian catheter, monitored by electrodes, edema in hands (+), hematoma index fingertip MSD. Underactive bowel, Foley transurethral catheter type, coccygeal ulcer stage II and stage MSPs calcaneal region II, presents myoclonus in limbs, arched feet left. Patient abandoned by primary caregiver. Was diagnosed with disuse syndrome risk, we identified the patient&rsquo;s capability and elaborated a plan lasting four days, between interventions were executed bedridden patient cares, care of pressure ulcers mainly assessing our objective was met by 60 %.</div>

Vienas įdomiausių radinių, paminėtų pirmojoje Martos Sch­miedehelm disertacijoje, yra segė iš Lattenwalde’s. Šią segę tyrinėtoja skiria labai profiliuotoms segėms su atramine plokštele (Schmiedehelm, 1943, S. 96). Segė, anot M. Sch­miedehelm, buvo iš Eduardo Gisevijaus – garsaus Tilžės kolekcininko – rinkinio (Tamulynas, 2009, p. 9–11). Segės radimo aplinkybės tiksliau nežinomos. Emilis Hollack (1908, S. 81–82) užsimena apie anksty­vojo romėniškojo laikotarpio kapinyną, nedaug vėlesnį arba vienalaikį su Lattenwalde’s segės deponavimo laiku. Galbūt tai ir buvo kapinynas, kuriame ši segė buvo užkasta. Ją rei­kia sieti su vadinamąja Dollkeimo-Kovrovo arba Sembos-Notangos kultūra. M. Schmiedehelm kartotekoje yra Lattenwalde’s segės eskizas. Segę piešė ir H. Jankuhnas. Jo iliustracija yra pa­tikimesnė (1 pav.). Šie piešiniai rodo, kad buvo išlikusi tik segės viršutinė dalis, o kojelė ir užkaba yra susilydžiusios. Vis dėlto tai yra neabejotinai Almgreno IV grupės A 67-68 tipo labai profiliuota segė. Negalint segės konkrečiau skirti vienam arba kitam tipui, reikia apžvelgti abu. A 67-68 tipų segėms, rastoms europiniame Barbari­cume, skirta nemažai dėmesio. Segių yra gana daug. Kur kas mažiau duomenų turima apie šių tipų seges vakarų bal­tų kultūrinėje srityje (plg. Stadie, 1919, S. 397, Abb. 175; Almgren, 1923, S. 156; Nowakowski, 2007, s. 22–23; Mą-czyńska, 2001, S. 168, 173). M. Schmiedehelm 1943 m. disertacijoje šių tipų segių sąraše mini devynias seges iš Mozūrų paežeryno regiono (plg. Katalog, 2 pav.). Šią informaciją galima patikrinti, re­miantis kitais archyviniais šaltiniais. Tyrinėtoja pamini segę iš Zydroj Nowy, kapo Nr. 2. Kadangi kartotekoje išlikęs pie­šinys (3 pav.), galima šią segę sieti su Jezerine tipo segėmis ir išbraukti iš A67-68 tipo segių sąrašo. Du pastarųjų segių radiniai žinomi iš naujų P. Iwanickio tyrinėjimų Lisy vietovėje, taip pat iš Geldapės apylinkių. Pasak M. Schmiedehelm, iš Sembos teritorijos buvo žino­mos dvi segės: iš Dollkeimo (2:11 pav.) ir aptariamoji iš Lattenwalde’s (1 pav.). Dar vienas radinys žinomas iš Lietuvos, iš Adakavo (2:1 pav.). Taigi iš viso vakarų baltų kultūros regione žino­ma 14 segių. Stiliaus požiūriu ankstyviausias radinys yra Adakavo segė (2:1 pav.), skiriama A67 tipui, ir, pasak Stefano De-metzo, datuojama Augusto ir Tiberijaus laikotarpiu, o tai ati­tinka B1a periodą (Demetz, 1998, S. 140–143; 1999, S. 128, Taf. 35:1, 2). Visos likusios segės, sprendžiant iš archyvinių piešinių, yra tvirtos konstrukcijos, turi suplokštintą galvutę. Jas gali­ma sieti su A67b arba A68 tipais. Šios segės Romos imperi­joje pasirodė Tiberijaus valdymo laikotarpiu ir aptinkamos kartu su Klaudijaus ir Flavijų monetomis (Demetz, 1998, S. 143–144; 1999, S. 195). Wielbarko ir Przeworsko kul­tūrose segės datuojamos B1b periodu (Dąbrowska, 2003, s. 157). Segės yra vienos iš gausesnių, ankstyviausiai da­tuojamų radinių. Jeigu remtumės tik Mozūrų radiniais, tai šių segių chronologijai patikslinti duomenų nėra. Priešingai, A67-68 tipų segės, kaip importiniai daiktai, buvo ir yra lai­komos chronologijos rodikliais. Dėl to tenka rinktis Vidurio Europos Barbaricumo chronologiją – B1b–c periodą. Vakarų baltų srityje A67-68 tipo segės daugiausia žino­mos Bogaczewo kultūros paminkluose – Mozūrų paežeryno regione (1 žemėl.). Žiūrint į šių daiktų paplitimą matyti, kad segių aptikta palei liniją, einančią iš pietvakarių į šiaurės ry­tus, o tai leidžia teigti, jog jų patekimo į Mozūrus tarpinin­kai turėjo būti Przeworsko kultūros žmonės. Minėta A67-68 tipo segių paplitimo linija veda į šiandienės Geldapės apy­linkes. Čia pačioje mūsų eros pradžioje tikriausiai ėjo kelias, jungiantis Mozūrus su nadruvių sritimi ir toliau su Nemuno žemupio sritimi. Iš nadruvių srities pagal Prieglių tikriausiai buvo galima buvo patekti į Sembos pusiasalį. Kalbant apie seges iš Sembos ir Lietuvos, negalima atmesti galimybės, jog tai yra Wielbarko kultūros įtaka, nors labiausiai gundanti hipotezė yra apie Bogaczewo kultūros tarpininkavimą. Įdomu, kad Lietuvoje, be Adakavo segės, nėra kitų apta­riamo tipo segių radinių, tačiau yra panašiai datuojamų A69 tipo segių ir vadinamųjų Flügelfibeln, kurių daugiausia rasta Noricume ir Panonijoje (Michelbertas, 1992, p. 280–281, Abb. 1; 2001). Pastarųjų tipų segės Mozūrų paežeryne neži­nomos. Galbūt tai lėmė skirtinga Lietuvos ir Mozūrų radinių kilmė. A69 ir sparninės segės, rastos Lietuvoje, Latvijoje ir Semboje, yra neabejotinai importuotos iš Romos imperijos (Michelbertas, 2001). O štai A67b-68 tipų segės, aptiktos Mozūrų srityje, tikriausiai buvo gamintos barbarų meistrų. A67b-68 tipo segių radinius (1 žemėl.) galima palygin­ti su Jezerine’o tipo segių paplitimu (Nowakowski, 2009, S. 111–112, Abb. 5). Pastarosios segės yra keliomis dešim­timis metų ankstyvesnės (2 žemėl.). W. Nowakowskis dėl Jezerine’o tipo segių paplitimo iškėlė mintį apie Gintaro kelio Mozūrų-nadruvių atšaką, vedančią iš šiaurinių impe­rijos provincijų galbūt link Gotlando (Nowakowski, 1996 b; 2009). Galima pabrėžti, kad tuo pačiu laikotarpiu kaip Jezerine’o tipo seges, reikia datuoti A67 tipo segę iš Adakavo, kuri į dabartinę Lietuvos teritoriją greičiausiai pateko minėta Gintaro kelio Mozūrų-nadruvių atšaka. A67b-68 tipo segių paplitimo žemėlapio vaizdas yra ki­toks – matyti radinių Mozūruose ir labiau į šiaurę esančiose srityse. Radinių nebuvimą Nemuno žemupyje kompensuoja du radiniai šiaurinėje Sembos dalyje ir, būtent, Lattenwalde’ėje. A67b–68 tipo segių paplitimo žemėlapis kalba apie žmonių aktyvumą I amžiaus antrojoje pusėje. Toks vaizdas yra prieš paplintant prūsų serijos akinėms segėms (plg. Nowakows­ki, 1996 a, Anhang B, Karte 3) ir šiek tiek vėlesnis, paplitus Jezerine’o tipo segėms, kurių nerasta Semboje. Tai yra vadi­namasis Dollkeimo-Kovrovo kultūros O periodas, paliudytas šio kapinyno medžiagos ir radinių Kuršių nerijoje. Žiūrint į to laikotarpio ar šiek tiek vėlesnį pagrindinės akinių segių serijos paplitimo horizontą, matyti, kad Sem­boje yra jau daugiau radinių, tačiau jie visi koncentruojasi šiauriniame pakraštyje netoli Dollkeimo vietovės. Mozūrų radiniai paplitę kaip ir A67-68 tipo segės (plg. Nowakowski, 1995, s. 27) (3 žemėl.). Primenant karo metu dingusias seges iš Lattenwalde’s ir Dollkeimo, galima kalbėti ne tik apie naujų A67b–68 tipo se­gių mokslinėje apyvartoje pasirodymą. Svarbu tai, kad galima liudyti žmonių aktyvumą šiame regione jau pačiame anksty­viausiame Sembos romėniškojo laikotarpio kultūros formavi­mosi etape (Dollkeimo-Kovrovo kultūros O periodas). Turint omenyje minėtų segių radinius galima teigti, kad šios kultūros pradžia buvo būtent Dollkeimo apylinkėse ir susijusi su pato­gaus išėjimo į jūrą iš Kuršių įlankos kontrole. Galima kalbėti ir apie Gintaro kelio Mozūrų-nadruvių atšakos pabaigą. Su šia atšaka galbūt galima sieti tik seges A67b. Stilistiniu požiūriu jos yra ankstyvesnės už A68 tipo seges. Tačiau radiniai neleidžia teigti, jog A67b tipo segės, aptiktos Mozūruose, priklauso ankstyvesniam chronolo­giniam laikotarpiui. Dėl to A67b ir A68 tipai aptarti kartu. Pradedant šių segių chronologiniu horizontu, galima kalbėti apie Mozūrų–Sembos kelio variantą, kuriuo tikriausiai buvo gabenamas gintaras į Romos imperiją.

BackgroundMelanoma has high response rate to immune checkpoint inhibitors. KIT, a driver mutation in melanoma seen in ~10% of the patients.1 However, the role of the KIT mutation in immune microenvironment of melanoma is not well established yet. Here we report a case with KIT mutation and a likely impaired B cell activity with poor response to Immune-checkpoint inhibitor therapy (ICI). We also describe the overall survival of melanoma depending on KIT mutation and MS4A1/CD20 expression, which encodes CD20, B-lymphocyte-specific membrane protein that plays a role in the development, differentiation, and activation of B-lymphocytes.2MethodsA case with poor response to ICI with KIT mutation and monoclonal B cell lymphocytosis was identified. Clinical and molecular characteristics of melanoma in TCGA was analyzed using cBioPortal web page. TCGA data were analyzed to determine KIT mutation status and MS4A1/CD20 expression in melanoma cohort. Samples in the upper 33 percentile of MS4A1 expression were identified as high expression, and the lower 33 percentile were identified as low expression. Mantel-Cox method was used for overall survival (OS) comparison between the cohorts.Results69-year-old male with initial diagnosis of stage III-B melanoma of the left thumb with local recurrence in the resection site and then lung metastases. Patient was then started on nivolumab/ipilimumab with rapid progression on immunotherapy. He was found to have KIT mutation (exon 13K642EMT), and started on imatinib, but he continued to have progression. He was switched to temozolomide with no response. He also had history of leukopenia, pre-dating the metastatic melanoma and was diagnosed with monoclonal B cell lymphocytosis. With the hypothesis that the patient‘s dysfunctional B cells may have impaired ability of ICI and poor prognosis; we analyzed TCGA database for KIT mutation and MS4A1/CD20 expression- which was used as marker for B cell activity. KIT mutation was seen in 10 of 147 patients with high MS4A1/CD20 expression, and 10 of 135 patients with low MS4A1/CD20 expression. Overall survival was 15 months for the patients with KIT mutation and low MS4A1/CD20 expression, and significantly lower when compared with other groups despite low number of patients. (P<0.0001) (figure 1).Abstract 525 Figure 1KIT mutation and MS41A/CD20 expression - overall survivalLow MS41A/CD20 expression with concurrent KIT mutation is associated with poor overall survivalConclusionsB cells have significant role in immune response to tumor. Lower expression of MS4A1/CD20 is known to be associated with poor prognosis in melanoma and other solid tumors.3 We demonstrated that a concurrent KIT mutation in melanoma with lower expression of MS4A1/CD20 contributes to poor prognosis in melanoma. Therefore, this small subset of aggressive tumors may need combination strategies involving targeting driver pathways with a kinase and immune checkpoint inhibitor.Referencesde Mendonça UB, Cernea CR, Matos LL, de Araujo Lima RR. Analysis of KIT gene mutations in patients with melanoma of the head and neck mucosa: a retrospective clinical report. Oncotarget 2018 May 1;9(33):22886.Tedder TF, Boyd AW, Freedman AS, Nadler LM, Schlossman S. The B cell surface molecule B1 is functionally linked with B cell activation and differentiation. The Journal of Immunology 1985 Aug 1;135(2):973–9.Liu Y, Wang L, Lo KW, Lui VW. Omics-wide quantitative B-cell infiltration analyses identify GPR18 for human cancer prognosis with superiority over CD20. Communications biology 2020 May 12;3(1):1–1.

Introdução: A osteoartrose é definida como uma patologia de aspecto crônico-degenerativa que agride a cartilagem articular, gerando dor, edema, rigidez matinal, redução da amplitude de movimento e influenciando diretamente na capacidade funcional e em aspectos da qualidade de vida. Objetivo: Investigar o perfil sociodemográfico e o impacto da osteoartrose de joelho na capacidade funcional e qualidade de vida dos pacientes residentes da Cidade de Serra Talhada - PE. Material e método: Trata-se de um estudo descritivo, de corte transversal e natureza quantitativa, que foi realizado na rede municipal de fisioterapia na cidade de Serra Talhada em Pernambuco. Foram empregados os seguintes instrumentos: questionário sociodemográfico, a escala visual analógica para mensurar a dor, o Western Ontario McMaster Universities Osteoarthritis Index para avaliar a capacidade funcional e o Short-Form 36 para analisar a qualidade de vida. Resultado: A amostra foi composta por 26 indivíduos com média de idade de 63,4 anos, constituída de 80,7% de mulheres e 19,3% de homens. As atividades com maior limitação física foram calçar meias e subir escadas e as menos afetadas foram caminhar e fazer compras. Os aspectos de qualidade de vida mais acometidos foram a capacidade funcional e o estado geral de saúde. Conclusão: Foi verificado que indivíduos com osteoartrose de joelho apresentam dor intensa nessa articulação, com limitação funcional para determinadas atividades cotidianas afetando diretamente alguns aspectos da qualidade de vida.Descritores: Osteoartrite; Joelho; Qualidade de Vida; Classificação Internacional de Funcionalidade, Incapacidade e Saúde.ReferênciasXavier APS. Acupuntura em pacientes com osteoartrite de joelho. [monografia]. Montes Claros: Faculdade de Educação, Ciência e Tecnologia; 2007Vasconcelos KSS, Dias JMD. 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Avaliação da funcionalidade em idosos com osteoartrose de joelho [monografia] Bragança Paulista: Curso de Fisioterapia, Universidade São Francisco - USF; 2007.Hootman JM, Macera CA, Ham SA, Helmick CG, Sniezek JE. Physical activity levels among the general US adult population and in adults with and without arthritis. Arthritis Rheum. 2003;49(1):129-35.Steultjens MP, Dekker J, Bijlsma JW. Avoidance of activity and disability in patients with osteoarthritis of the knee: the mediating role of muscle strength. Arthritis Rheum. 2002; 46(7):1784-88.Messier SP, Gutekunst DJ, Davis C, DeVita P. Weight loss reduces knee-joint loads in overweight and obese older adults with knee osteoarthritis. Arthritis Rheum. 2005;52(7):2026-32.Alves JC, Bassitt DP. Qualidade de vida e capacidade funcional de idosas com osteoartrite de joelho. Einstein 2013;11(2):209-15.Sencovici L. Análise postural e atividade eletromiográfica em pacientes com osteoartrite de joelho [dissertação]. Faculdade de Medicina, Universidade de São Paulo (USP); 2009.Sharma L, Kapoor D, Issa S. Epidemiology of osteoarthritis: an update. Cur Opin Rheumatol. 2006; 18(2):147-56.Camanho GL. Tratamento da osteoartrose do joelho. Rev Bras Ortop. 2001; 36(5):135-40.Kellgren JH, Lawrence JS. Radiological assessment of osteoarthritis. Ann Rheum Dis 1957; 16:494-501.Alfredo PP. Eficácia da laserterapia de baixa intensidade associada a exercícios em pacientes com osteoartrose de joelho: estudo randomizado e duplo-cego [tese]. São Paulo: Faculdade de Medicina, Universidade de São Paulo - USP; 2011.Thumboo J, Chew LH, Lewin-Koh SC. Socioeconomic and psychosocial factors influence pain or physical function in Asian patients with knee or hip osteoarthritis. Ann Rheum Dis. 2002;61(11):1017-20.Camanho GL, Imamura M, Arendt-nielsen L. Gênese da dor na artrose. Rev Bras Ortop, 2011;1(46):7-14.Chapple C. Physiotherapy for osteoarthritis of the knee: predictors of outcome at one year [tese]: Nova Zelândia: Universidade de Otago; 2011.Hassan B, Mockett S, Doherty M. Static postural sway, proprioception, and maximal voluntary quadriceps contraction in patients with knee osteoarthritis and normal control subjects. Ann Rheum Dis. 2001;60(6):612-18.Watanabe H, Urabe K, Takahira N, Ikeda N, Fujita M, Obara S et al. Quality of life, knee function, and physical activity in Japanese elderly women with early-stage knee osteoarthritis. J Orthop Surg (Hong Kong). 2010;18(1):31-4.Silva ALP, Imoto DM, Croci AT. Estudo comparativo entre a aplicação de crioterapia, cinesioterapia e ondas curtas no tratamento da osteoartrite de joelho. Acta ortop bras. 2007; 15(4):204-9.Aǧlamiş B, Toraman NF, Yaman H. Change of quality of life due to exercise training in knee osteoarthritis: SF-36 and WOMAC. J Back Musculoskeletal Rehabil. 2009;22(1):43-5, 47-8.Imoto AM, Peccin MS, Trevisani VFM. Exercícios de fortalecimento de quadríceps são efetivos na melhora da dor, função e qualidade de vida de pacientes com osteoartrite do joelho. Acta Ortop Bras. 2012;20(3):174-79.Pedrinelli A, Garcez-Leme LE, Nobre RSA. O efeito da atividade física no aparelho locomotor do idoso. Rev bras ortoped. 2009;44(2):96-101.Majani G, Giardini A, Scotti A. Subjective impact of osteoarthritis flare-ups on patients' quality of life. Health Qual Life Outcomes. 2005;3:14.

GENERALIDADES DE LA REVISIÓN POR PARES La evaluación de la investigación científica es el paso crucial para la publicación en toda revista arbitrada, esta práctica data del siglo XVIII y fue en 1978 cuando surge la necesidad de unificar criterios en las revistas médicas para mejorar el desempeño en el manejo de sus publicaciones, acto que produjo la creación del Comité Internacional de Editores de Revistas Biomédicas por sus siglas en inglés (ICMJE), el cual en sus actualizaciones periódicas estandariza las normas de confección, redacción y presentación de manuscritos, para que sean guías respecto a publicaciones de manuscritos, así mismo se describe de manera detalla el rol del autor, editor, y revisor; a pesar de ello, cada revista biomédica tiene sus políticas internas y la forma de evaluación es distinta, sujeta a la conducta del evaluador o revisor, pero sin perder la esencia de lo establecido por el ICMJE(1,2). La búsqueda por lograr publicaciones científicas de calidad, alto impacto y con una máxima difusión, hace que toda revista científica establezca estándares estrictos tanto para el material que recibe y el proceso editorial de un artículo, seleccionando sólo a aquellos de mayor relevancia y con un perfil atractivo para investigadores y lectores(3). La evaluación de un artículo es un proceso dinámico que involucra autores, editores y revisores, inicia desde el momento en que el editor en jefe recibe la versión final de los autores, y finaliza con la decisión de los editores y revisores o con las críticas de los lectores si el trabajo ha sido publicado. En primera instancia, el equipo editorial coteja el escrito con las normas establecidas por la revista, evalúa si el objetivo del estudio es de su interés, se puntualizan situaciones de plagio y publicación redundante, a la par o posterior, el artículo es enviado a los revisores también conocidos evaluadores externos o árbitros(4). La revisión por pares es ejecutada por un investigador externo a la revista científica, quien es una persona prestigiosa ampliamente reconocida por sus contribuciones científicas en un determinado tema de investigación. Su actualización permanente y experticia en un área de la medicina hace de esta persona un revisor crítico con mejores oportunidades de identificar limitaciones o aportaciones en los estudios originales, errores metodológicos o de diseño, sugerir nuevo análisis o mejoras para complementar el estudio; además, debe mantener el anonimato de toda información sobre el artículo a terceros, no usar dicha información para beneficio propio y no debe tener conflictos de interés, ya que, si lo tuvieran deben abstenerse de participar en la revisión(1,3). Al aceptar ser revisor de una investigación científica, se adquiere un compromiso académico alto, por lo que el evaluador tiene que ser concreto, analítico, claro y preciso, con base científica e información actualizada, tratando en lo posible de buscar relevancia para la revista, importancia del estudio frente a la presencia de información nueva, adecuada gramática y sintaxis, correspondencia del título con el trabajo en general, pertinencia de resumen y palabras claves, objetivos claros, metodología explicada detalladamente, presentación clara de los resultados, presentación adecuada de tablas y figuras, si hay concordancia en la redacción de la discusión con los resultados, presencia u omisión de las limitaciones, recomendaciones y conclusiones en el artículo(5). La revisión por pares es única para cada revista científica y por todo aquello que implica faltar a la ética e integridad científica, la revisión puede ser abierta o anónima (revisión a ciegas), siendo esta última enmascarado sólo para el autor (simple ciego) o enmascarado para ambos (doble ciego)(4,5). Otra clasificación la establece en dos grupos, convencional que engloban a la simple-ciego y doble-ciego, y abierta con dos variante: la abierta por publicación donde se divulga la comunicación editorial una vez emitido el dictamen (clásica evaluación abierta) y la revisión de proceso abierto cuya forma interactiva transcurre en línea y se divulga según ocurre, esta última con variantes(2). Así mismo, bibliografía más actual clasifica esta revisión en dos variantes: A priori, en la cual se invita a realizar comentarios abiertos previos a la revisión formal cegada, o a posteriori, en la que los comentarios ocurren después del proceso por pares, en la que incluso se permite realizar cambios al artículo original y no solo comentarlo. La primera poco aceptada porque brinda la posibilidad de que todo artículo que ingrese a una revista sea evaluado por revisores y se pierde recursos en estudio no considerados para publicar, la segunda de mayor rigor, acepta comentarios no solamente del revisor y consejo editorial sino también de toda la comunidad científica, de manera que eleva la calidad de los manuscrito y el factor de impacto de la revista(6); sin embargo, la revisión triple ciega donde no solamente se desconocen las identidades entre los autores y revisores, sino también el equipo editorial desconoce la filiación de nombres de los autores y revisores, resulta atractiva para muchas revistas científicas(7). Frente a una diversidad de formas para optar por una revisión de pares, cada revista científica debe elegir la que más se ajuste a su política editorial, ya que, no hay evidencia científica que haya probado superioridad alguna de estas formas de revisión por pares(8). PROCESO DE REVISIÓN POR PARES EN CIMEL En la Revista Ciencia e Investigación Médica Estudiantil Latinoamericana (CIMEL), utilizamos la modalidad de doble ciego. La revisión empieza cuando recibimos un artículo a través de la plataforma electrónica de la revista (https://www.cimel.felsocem.net/index.php/CIMEL). Luego, secretaria en conjunto con el Editor en Jefe revisan si los artículos cumplen los objetivos y criterios básicos para la aceptación y el inicio del proceso editorial del manuscrito. De ser así, es asignada a los editores (académicos y científicos) quienes realizan cambios y/o mejoras en dicho documento, para su posterior envío a expertos externas a la revista(9). La selección de revisores se basa en una invitación formal vía correo electrónico a aquellos investigadores expertos en el tema de interés del artículo que podría publicarse o en base a una lista de revisores expertos en diversos temas y áreas de la medicina, la cual se obtuvo a partir de invitaciones hechas para revisión y que con el paso de los años se incrementa. La cantidad de revisores varía de revista en revista, pero como mínimo se requiere al menos dos. Secuencia de pasos de la evaluación por pares en CIMEL Cuando un artículo ya ha sido revisado y modificado por los editores académicos pasa a manos de los revisores científicos junto con una lista de 6 revisores afines al tema de interés del artículo que podría publicarse, quienes envían un correo electrónico formal, el primero es para la presentación del editor, envío de resumen y solicitud de apoyo de revisión, si el revisor acepta ser partícipe de la revisión, se envía un segundo correo con el artículo completo sin datos de filiación y una guía de evaluación según el tipo de artículo (artículo original, caso clínico, carta al editor, etc.) estableciendo un plazo de máximo 7 días para el reenvío del manuscrito con posibles modificaciones. Durante ese tiempo el editor mantiene una comunicación permanente con el revisor para estar alerta a la recepción de modificaciones o alargar plazos de tiempo por cualquier inconveniente que se presente. Cuando se obtiene la respuesta, el editor revisa la hoja de evaluación y el manuscrito enviado, ya que muchas veces, el revisor envía correcciones dentro del Word del artículo. La hoja de evaluación contiene una sección específica para cada tipo de artículo, una sección general con ítems de originalidad, sustentación de análisis, pertinencia a la revista, presentación, estilo y redacción para calificación según el criterio del revisor, y un apartado donde se incluye recomendaciones de publicación según el criterio del evaluador: 1)No publicable, 2) Publicable pero como otro tipo de artículo, 3) Publicable con resolución de observaciones mayores, 4) Publicable con resolución de observaciones menores y 5) Publicable sin modificaciones. Según las recomendaciones hechas por el revisor, el editor envía las observaciones al autor para que este las modifique y reenvíe el nuevo manuscrito, o en su defecto, junto con la Editor en Jefe, se rechaza el artículo. Después de los cambios realizados por el autor, el artículo es devuelto a aquellos revisores que aceptaron se le reenvíe el trabajo para verificar las modificaciones hechas o agregar nuevas recomendaciones según crean convenientes. Se espera la respuesta positiva (publicable con o sin modificaciones) de al menos 2 revisores, en caso que sólo haya una respuesta positiva y una negativa (no publicable), es necesaria la evaluación de un revisor más como mínimo para dictaminar un veredicto final de publicación o no. En la mayoría de los casos, la invitación enviada a los revisores no es aceptada o no se obtiene respuesta, es por ello, que la invitación se hace por lo menos a 6 revisores por vez, ya que, al cumplir un tiempo prudente después de la primera invitación (5 días como máximo), los editores generan una nueva lista de 6 revisores para proceder nuevamente a una invitación formal. Este proceso puede demorar un tiempo considerable, debido a que pueden generarse más de 3 listas de revisores y no obtener ninguna respuesta por parte de los revisores alargando mucho más el proceso editorial. Otro mecanismo usado, es acudir a la lista de revisores de la base de datos de la página virtual para solicitar apoyo a aquellos que ya fueron participes de revisiones previas, con quienes muchas veces la revisión del artículo se agiliza por su respuesta pronta, así como no recibir respuesta alguna, acudiendo nuevamente a generar invitaciones formales a nuevos revisores vía correo electrónico. El proceso de revisión por pares termina con el envío de certificado de agradecimiento al revisor por su participación en el proceso editorial y una invitación a formar parte de la base de datos de la revista CIMEL. CONSIDERACIONES FINALES La responsabilidad de velar por la calidad de evaluación respetando los altos estándares científicos recae en el editor, el revisor y el consejo editorial, es así que, debe existir un balance en la composición de los evaluadores. La posición del revisor en la evaluación en los artículos científicos de revistas biomédicas, va a depender de los conflictos de interés, la experticia del revisor y las políticas de cada revista. La evaluación es subjetiva bajo el criterio del editor y revisores, y el método convencional es el utilizado por excelencia en revistas biomédicas. Fuentes de financiamiento: Autofinanciado Declaración de conflictos de interés: David Jesús Brito Núñez se desempeña como editor de la revista CIMEL en el periodo 2017-2018. Carlos M. Moreno Arteaga fue editor y secretario de la Junta Editorial de la revista CIMEL durante el periodo 2016-2017. Actualmente, es editor en Jefe de la revista CIMEL 2017-2018. Correspondencia: Brito Núñez Jesús David Correo: jedabritox@gmail.com Recibido: 06/02/2018 Aceptado: 15/03/2018 REFERENCIAS BIBLIOGRÁFICAS ICMJE. Recommendations for the Conduct, Reporting, Editing, and Publication of Scholarly Work in Medical Journals [Internet]. 2017 [consulta: 2018, marzo 8]. Available in: http://www.icmje.org/icmje-recommendations.pdf. Rodriguez EG. La revisión editorial por pares: roles y procesos. Rev. Cuba. Inf. Cienc. Saud. 2013;24(2):160-175. Alfonso F. El proceso de ‘‘peer-review’’ en las Revistas Biomédicas: Cualidades de los Revisores de ‘‘Excelencia’’. Neurología. 2010;25(9):521-529. De Guevara Cervera ML, Hincapié J, Jackman J, Herrera O, Caballero Uribe CV. Revisión por pares: ¿Qué es y para qué sirve?. Rev Cient. Salud Uninorte. 2008;24(2): 258-272. González Salinas R, Quezada Ruíz C, Garza León MA. Revisión por pares: Mejorando la calidad de nuestros manuscritos. Rev Mex Oftalmol. 2017;91(3):109-111. Sepúlveda-Vildósola AC. Tres siglos después. . . ¿Es vigente el arbitraje por pares en las publicaciones científicas?. Inv Ed Med. 2015;4(16):236-241. Nassi-Caló L. Revisión por pares: modalidades, pros y contras [Internet]. SciELO en Perspectiva. 2015 [consulta: 2018 marzo 8];16:21. Disponible en: http://blog.scielo.org/es/2015/03/27/revision-por-pares-modalidades-pros-y-contras/ Chung KC, Shauver MJ, Malay S, Zhong L, Weinstein A, Rohrich RJ. Is doublé-blinded peer review necessary? The effect of blinding on review quality. Plast Reconstr Surg. 2015;136(6):1369-1377. Ruiz Maza JC, Ccasani Paile M. Gestión editorial de la revista CIMEL, dificultades e implementación de mejoras. CIMEL. 2017;22(1):2-5.

Stand-up is a global phenomenon. It is Australia’s most significant form of advocatorial theatre and a major platform for challenging stigma and prejudice. In the twenty-first century, Australian stand-up is transforming into a more culturally diverse form and extending the spectrum of material addressing human rights. Since the 1980s Australian stand-up routines have moved beyond the old colonial targets of England and America, and Indigenous comics such as Kevin Kopinyeri, Andy Saunders, and Shiralee Hood have gained an established following. Additionally, the turn to Asia is evident not just in trade agreements and the higher education market but also in cultural exchange and in the billing of emerging Asian stand-ups at mainstream events. The major cultural driver for stand-up is the Melbourne International Comedy Festival (MICF), Australia’s largest cultural event, now over 30 years old, and an important site for dissecting constructs of democracy and nationhood. As John McCallum has observed, popular humour in post-World War II Australia drew on widespread feelings of “displacement, migration and otherness—resonant topics in a country of transplanted people and a dispossessed indigenous population arguing over a distinct Australian identity” (205–06). This essay considers the traditional comic strategies of first and second generation immigrant stand-ups in Australia and compares them with the new wave of post 9/11 Asian-Australian and Middle-Eastern-Australian stand-ups whose personas and interrogations are shifting the paradigm. Self-identifying Muslim stand-ups challenge myths of dominant Australian identity in ways which many still find confronting. Furthermore, the theories of incongruity, superiority, and psychological release re-rehearsed in traditional humour studies, by figures such as Palmer (1994) and Morreall (2009), are predicated on models of humour which do not always serve live performance, especially stand-up with its relational dependence on audience interaction.Stand-ups who immigrated to Australia as children or whose parents immigrated and struggled against adversity are important symbols both of the Australian comedy industry and of a national self-understanding of migrant resilience and making good. Szubanski and Berger hail from earlier waves of European migrants in the 1950s and 1960s. Szubanski has written eloquently of her complex Irish-Polish heritage and documented how the “hand-me-down trinkets of family and trauma” and “the culture clash of competing responses to calamity” have been integral to the development of her comic success and the making of her Aussie characters (347). Rachel Berger, the child of Polish holocaust survivors, advertises and connects both identities on her LinkedIn page: “After 23 years as a stand-up comedian, growing up with Jewish guilt and refugee parents, Rachel Berger knows more about survival than any idiot attending tribal council on reality TV.”Anh Do, among Australia’s most famous immigrant stand-ups, identifies as one of the Vietnamese “boat people” and arrived as a toddler in 1976. Do’s tale of his family’s survival against the odds and his creation of a persona which constructs the grateful, happy immigrant clown is the staple of his very successful routine and increasingly problematic. It is a testament to the power of Do’s stand-up that many did not perceive the toll of the loss of his birth country; the grinding poverty; and the pain of his father’s alcoholism, violence, and survivor guilt until the publication of Do’s ironically titled memoir The Happiest Refugee. In fact, the memoir draws on many of the trauma narratives that are still part of his set. One of Do’s most legendary routines is the story of his family’s sea journey to Australia, told here on ABC1’s Talking Heads:There were forty of us on a nine metre fishing boat. On day four of the journey we spot another boat. As the boat gets closer we realise it’s a boatload of Thai pirates. Seven men with knives, machetes and guns get on our boat and they take everything. One of the pirates picks up the smallest child, he lifts up the baby and rips open the baby’s nappy and dollars fall out. And the pirate decides to spare the kid’s life. And that’s a good thing cos that’s my little brother Khoa Do who in 2005 became Young Australian of the Year. And we were saved on the fifth day by a big German merchant ship which took us to a refugee camp in Malaysia and we were there for around three months before Australia says, come to Australia. And we’re very glad that happened. So often we heard Mum and Dad say—what a great country. How good is this place? And the other thing—kids, as you grow up, do as much as you can to give back to this great country and to give back to others less fortunate.Do’s strategy is apparently one of genuflection and gratitude, an adoption of what McCallum refers to as an Australian post-war tradition of the comedy of inadequacy and embarrassment (210–14). Journalists certainly like to bill Do as the happy clown, framing articles about him with headlines like Rosemary Neill’s “Laughing through Adversity.” In fact, Do is direct about his gallows humour and his propensity to darkness: his humour, he says, is a means of countering racism, of “being able to win people over who might have been averse to being friends with an Asian bloke,” but Neill does not linger on this, nor on the revelation that Do felt stigmatised by his refugee origins and terrified and shamed by the crippling poverty of his childhood in Australia. In The Happiest Refugee, Do reveals that, for him, the credibility of his routines with predominantly white Australian audiences lies in the crafting of himself as an “Aussie comedian up there talking about his working-class childhood” (182). This is not the official narrative that is retold even if it is how Do has endeared himself to Australians, and ridding himself of the happy refugee label may yet prove difficult. Suren Jayemanne is well known for his subtle mockery of multiculturalist rhetoric. In his 2016 MICF show, Wu-Tang Clan Name Generator, Jayemanne played on the supposed contradiction of his Sri Lankan-Malaysian heritage against his teenage years in the wealthy suburb of Malvern in Melbourne, his private schooling, and his obsession with hip hop and black American culture. Jayemanne’s strategy is to gently confound his audiences, leading them slowly up a blind alley. He builds up a picture of how to identify Sri Lankan parents, supposedly Sri Lankan qualities such as an exceptional ability at maths, and Sri Lankan employment ambitions which he argues he fulfilled in becoming an accountant. He then undercuts his story by saying he has recently realised that his suburban background, his numerical abilities, his love of black music, and his rejection of accountancy in favour of comedy, in fact prove conclusively that he has, all along, been white. He also confesses that this is a bruising disappointment. Jayemanne exposes the emptiness of the conceits of white, brown, and black and of invented identity markers and plays on his audiences’ preconceptions through an old storyteller’s device, the shaggy dog story. The different constituencies in his audiences enjoy his trick equally, from quite different perspectives.Diana Nguyen, a second generation Vietnamese stand-up, was both traumatised and politicised by Pauline Hanson when she was a teenager. Hanson described Nguyen’s community in Dandenong as “yellow Asian people” (Filmer). Nguyen’s career as a community development worker combating racism relates directly to her activity as a stand-up: migrant stories are integral to Australian history and Nguyen hypothesises that the “Australian psyche of being invaded or taken over” has reignited over the question of Islamic fundamentalism and expresses her concern to Filmer about the Muslim youths under her care.Nguyen’s alarm about the elision of Islamic radicalism with Muslim culture drives an agenda that has led the new generation of self-identified Muslim stand-ups since 9/11. This post 9/11 world is described by Wajahat as gorged with “exaggerated fear, hatred, and hostility toward Islam and Muslim [. . . ] and perpetuated by negative discrimination and the marginalisation and exclusion of Muslims from social, political, and civic life in western societies.” In Australia, Aamer Rahman, Muhamed Elleissi, Khaled Khalafalla, and Nazeem Hussain typify this newer, more assertive form of second generation immigrant stand-up—they identify as Muslim (whether religious or not), as brown, and as Australian. They might be said to symbolise a logical response to Ghassan Hage’s famous White Nation (1998), which argues that a white supremacism underlies the mindset of the white elite in Australia. Their positioning is more nuanced than previous generations of stand-up. Nazeem Hussain’s routines mark a transformation in Australian stand-up, as Waleed Aly has argued: “ethnic comedy” has hitherto been about the parading of stereotypes for comfortable, mainstream consumption, about “minstrel characters” [. . .] but Hussain interrogates his audiences in every direction—and aggravates Muslims too. Hussain’s is the world of post 9/11 Australian Muslims. It’s about more than ethnic stereotyping. It’s about being a consistent target of political opportunism, where everyone from the Prime Minister to the Foreign Minister to an otherwise washed-up backbencher with a view on burqas has you in their sights, where bombs detonate in Western capitals and unrelated nations are invaded.Understandably, a prevalent theme among the new wave of Muslim comics, and not just in Australia, is the focus on the reading of Muslims as manifestly linked with Islamic State (IS). Jokes about mistaken identity, plane crashes, suicide bombing, and the Koran feature prominently. English-Pakistani Muslim, Shazia Mirza, gained comedy notoriety in the UK in the wake of 9/11 by introducing her routine with the words: “My name’s Shazia Mirza. At least that’s what it says on my pilot’s licence” (Bedell). Stand-ups Negin Farsad, Ahmed Ahmed, and Dean Obeidalla are all also activists challenging prevailing myths about Islam, skin colour and terrorism in America. Egyptian-American Ahmed Ahmed acquired prominence for telling audiences in the infamous Axis of Evil Comedy Tour about how his life had changed much for the worse since 9/11. Ahmed Ahmed was the alias used by one of Osama Bin Laden’s devotees and his life became on ongoing struggle with anti-terrorism officials doing security checks (he was once incarcerated) and with the FBI who were certain that the comedian was among their most wanted terrorists. Similarly, Obeidalla, an Italian-Palestinian-Muslim, notes in his TEDx talk that “If you have a Muslim name, you are probably immune to identity theft.” His narration of a very sudden experience of becoming an object of persecution and of others’ paranoia is symptomatic of a shared understanding of a post 9/11 world among many Muslim comics: “On September 10th 2001 I went to bed as a white American and I woke up an Arab,” says Obeidalla, still dazed from the seismic shift in his life.Hussain and Khalafalla demonstrate a new sophistication and directness in their stand-up, and tackle their majority white audiences head-on. There is no hint of the apologetic or deferential stance performed by Anh Do. Many of the jokes in their routines target controversial or taboo issues, which up until recently were shunned in Australian political debate, or are absent or misrepresented in mainstream media. An Egyptian-Australian born in Saudi Arabia, Khaled Khalafalla arrived on the comedy scene in 2011, was runner-up in RAW, Australia’s most prestigious open mic competition, and in 2013 won the best of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival for Devious. Khalafalla’s shows focus on racist stereotypes and identity and he uses a range of Middle Eastern and Indian accents to broach IS recruitment, Muslim cousin marriages, and plane crashes. His 2016 MICF show, Jerk, was a confident and abrasive routine exploring relationships, drug use, the extreme racism of Reclaim Australia rallies, controversial visa checks by Border Force’s Operation Fortitude, and Islamophobia. Within the first minute of his routine, he criticises white people in the audience for their woeful refusal to master Middle Eastern names, calling out to the “brown woman” in the audience for support, before lining up a series of jokes about the (mis)pronunciation of his name. Khalafalla derives his power on stage by what Oliver Double calls “uncovering.” Double contends that “one of the most subversive things stand-up can do is to uncover the unmentionable,” subjects which are difficult or impossible to discuss in everyday conversation or the broadcast media (292). For instance, in Jerk Khalafalla discusses the “whole hating halal movement” in Australia as a metaphor for exposing brutal prejudice: Let me break it down for you. Halal is not voodoo. It’s just a blessing that Muslims do for some things, food amongst other things. But, it’s also a magical spell that turns some people into fuckwits when they see it. Sometimes people think it’s a thing that can get stuck to your t-shirt . . . like ‘Oh fuck, I got halal on me’ [Australian accent]. I saw a guy the other day and he was like Fuck halal, it funds terrorism. And I was like, let me show you the true meaning of Islam. I took a lamb chop out of my pocket and threw it in his face. And, he was like Ah, what was that? A lamb chop. Oh, I fucking love lamb chops. And, I say you fool, it’s halal and he burst into flames.In effect, Khalafalla delivers a contemptuous attack on the white members of his audience, but at the same time his joke relies on those same audience members presuming that they are morally and intellectually superior to the individual who is the butt of the joke. Khalafalla’s considerable charm is a help in this tricky send-up. In 2015 the Australian Department of Defence recognised his symbolic power and invited him to join the Afghanistan Task Force to entertain the troops by providing what Doran describes as “home-grown Australian laughs” (7). On stage in Australia, Khalafalla constructs a persona which is an outsider to the dominant majority and challenges the persecution of Muslim communities. Ironically, on the NATO base, Khalafalla’s act was perceived as representing a diverse but united Australia. McCallum has pointed to such contradictions, moments where white Australia has shown itself to be a “culture which at first authenticates emigrant experience and later abrogates it in times of defiant nationalism” (207). Nazeem Hussain, born in Australia to Sri Lankan parents, is even more confrontational. His stand-up is born of his belief that “comedy protects us from the world around us” and is “an evolutionary defence mechanism” (8–9). His ground-breaking comedy career is embedded in his work as an anti-racism activist and asylum seeker supporter and shaped by his second-generation migrant experiences, law studies, community youth work, and early mentorship by American Muslim comic trio Allah Made Me Funny. He is well-known for his pioneering television successes Legally Brown and Salam Café. In his stand-up, Hussain often dwells witheringly on the failings and peculiarities of white people’s attempts to interact with him. Like all his routines, his sell-out show Fear of the Brown Planet, performed with Aamer Rahman from 2004–2008, explored casual, pathologised racism. Hussain deliberately over-uses the term “white people” in his routines as a provocation and deploys a reverse racism against his majority white audiences, knowing that many will be squirming. “White people ask me how can Muslims have fun if they don’t drink? Muslims have fun! Of course we have fun! You’ve seen us on the news.” For Hussain stand-up is “fundamentally an art of protest,” to be used as “a tool by communities and people with ideas that challenge and provoke the status quo with a spirit of counterculture” (Low 1–3). His larger project is to humanise Muslims to white Australians so that “they see us firstly as human beings” (1–3). Hussain’s 2016 MICF show, Hussain in the Membrane, both satirised media hype and hysterical racism and pushed for a better understanding of the complex problems Muslim communities face in Australia. His show also connected issues to older colonial traditions of racism. In a memorable and beautifully crafted tirade, Hussain inveighed against the 2015 Bendigo riots which occurred after local Muslims lodged an application to Bendigo council to build a mosque in the sleepy Victorian town. [YELLING in an exaggerated Australian accent] No we don’t want Muslims! NO we don’t want Muslims—to come invade Bendigo by application to the local council! That is the most bureaucratic invasion of all times. No place in history has been invaded by lodging an application to a local council. Can you see ISIS running around chasing town planners? Of course not, Muslims like to wait 6–8 months to invade! That’s a polite way to invade. What if white people invaded that way? What a better world we’d be living in. If white people invaded Australia that way, we’d be able to celebrate Australia Day on the same day without so much blood on our hands. What if Captain Cook came to Australia and said [in a British accent] Awe we would like to apply to invade this great land and here is our application. [In an Australian accent] Awe sorry, mate, rejected, but we’ll give you Bendigo.As Waleed Aly sees it, the Australian cultural majority is still “unused to hearing minorities speak with such assertiveness.” Hussain exposes “a binary world where there’s whiteness, and then otherness. Where white people are individuals and non-white people (a singular group) are not” (Aly). Hussain certainly speaks as an insider and goes so far as recognising his coloniser’s guilt in relation to indigenous Australians (Tan). Aly well remembers the hate mail he and Hussain received when they worked on Salam Café: “The message was clear. We were outsiders and should behave as such. We were not real Australians. We should know our place, as supplicants, celebrating the nation’s unblemished virtue.” Khalafalla, Rahman, Elleissi, and Hussain make clear that the new wave of comics identify as Muslim and Australian (which they would argue many in the audiences receive as a provocation). They have zero tolerance of racism, their comedy is intimately connected with their political activism, and they have an unapologetically Australian identity. No longer is it a question of whether the white cultural majority in Australia will anoint them as worthy and acceptable citizens, it is a question of whether the audiences can rise to the moral standards of the stand-ups. The power has been switched. For Hussain laughter is about connection: “that person laughs because they appreciate the point and whether or not they accept what was said was valid isn’t important. What matters is, they’ve understood” (Low 5). ReferencesAhmed, Ahmed. “When It Comes to Laughter, We Are All Alike.” TedXDoha (2010). 16 June 2016 <http://tedxtalks.ted.com/video/TEDxDoha-Ahmed-Ahmed-When-it-Co>.Aly, Waleed. “Comment.” Sydney Morning Herald 24 Sep. 2013."Anh Do". Talking Heads with Peter Thompson. ABC1. 4 Oct. 2010. Radio.Bedell, Geraldine. “Veiled Humour.” The Guardian (2003). 8 Aug. 2016 <https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2003/apr/20/comedy.artsfeatures?CMP=Share_iOSApp_Other>.Berger, Rachel. LinkedIn [Profile page]. 14 June 2016 <http://www.linkedin.com/company/rachel-berger>.Do, Anh. The Happiest Refugee. Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 2010. Doran, Mark. "Service with a Smile: Entertainers Give Troops a Taste of Home.” Air Force 57.21 (2015). 12 June 2016 <http://www.defence.gov.au/Publications/NewsPapers/Raaf/editions/5721/5721.pdf>.Double, Oliver. Getting the Joke: The Inner Workings of Stand-Up Comedy. 2nd ed. London: Bloomsbury, 2014.Filmer, Natalie. "For Dandenong Comedian and Actress Diana Nguyen The Colour Yellow has a Strong Meaning.” The Herald Sun 3 Sep. 2013.Hage, Ghassan. White Nation: Fantasies of a White Supremacy in a Multicultural Age. Sydney: Pluto Press, 1998.Hussain, Nazeem. Hussain in the Membrane. Melbourne International Comedy Festival, 2016.———. "The Funny Side of 30.” Spectrum. The Age 12 Mar. 2016.Khalafalla, Khaled. Jerk. Melbourne International Comedy Festival, 2016.Low, Lian. "Fear of a Brown Planet: Fight the Power with Laughter.” Peril: Asian Australian Arts and Culture (2011). 12 June 2016 <http://peril.com.au/back-editions/edition10/fear-of-a-brown-planet-fight-the-power-with-laughter>. McCallum, John. "Cringe and Strut: Comedy and National Identity in Post-War Australia.” Because I Tell a Joke or Two: Comedy, Politics and Social Difference. Ed. Stephen Wagg. New York: Routledge, 1998. Morreall, John. Comic Relief. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009.Neill, Rosemary. "Laughing through Adversity.” The Australian 28 Aug. 2010.Obeidalla, Dean. "Using Stand-Up to Counter Islamophobia.” TedXEast (2012). 16 June 2016 <http://tedxtalks.ted.com/video/TEDxEast-Dean-Obeidalla-Using-S;TEDxEast>.Palmer, Jerry. Taking Humour Seriously. London: Routledge, 1994. Szubanski, Magda. Reckoning. Melbourne: Text Publishing, 2015. Tan, Monica. "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! Allahu Akbar! Nazeem Hussain's Bogan-Muslim Army.” The Guardian 29 Feb. 2016. "Uncle Sam.” Salam Café (2008). 11 June 2016 <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SeQPAJt6caU>.Wajahat, Ali, et al. "Fear Inc.: The Roots of the Islamophobia Network in America.” Center for American Progress (2011). 11 June 2016 <https://www.americanprogress.org/issues/religion/report/2011/08/26/10165/fear-inc>.

Probably the most (in)famous Australian teenager of recent times, now-17-year-old Kim Duthie—better known as the “St Kilda Schoolgirl”—first came to public attention when she posted naked pictures of two prominent St Kilda Australian Football League (AFL) players on Facebook. She claimed to be seeking revenge on the players’ teammate for getting her pregnant. This turned out to be a lie. Duthie also claimed that 47-year-old football manager Ricky Nixon gave her drugs and had sex with her. She then said this was a lie, then that she lied about lying. That she lied at least twice is clear, and in doing so, she arguably reinforced the pervasive myth that women are prone to lie about rape and sexual abuse. Precisely what occurred, and why Duthie posted the naked photographs will probably never be known. However, it seems clear that Duthie felt herself wronged. Can she therefore be held entirely to blame for the way she went about seeking redress from a group of men with infinitely more power than she—socially, financially and (in terms of the priority given to elite football in Australian society) culturally? The many judgements passed on Duthie’s behaviour in the media highlight the crucial, seldom-discussed issue of how problematic behaviour on the part of women might reinforce patriarchal norms. This is a particularly sensitive issue in the context of a spate of alleged sexual assaults committed by elite Australian footballers over the past decade. Given that representations of alleged rape cases in the media and elsewhere so often position women as blameworthy for their own mistreatment and abuse, the question of whether or not women can and should be held accountable in certain situations is particularly fraught. By exploring media representations of one of these complex scenarios, we consider how the issue of “complicity” might be understood in a rape culture. In doing so, we employ Auschwitz survivor Primo Levi’s highly influential concept of the “grey zone,” which signifies a complex and ambiguous realm that challenges both judgement and representation. Primo Levi’s “Grey Zone,” Patriarchy and the Problem of Judgement In his essay titled “The Grey Zone” (published in 1986), Levi is chiefly concerned with Jewish prisoners in the Nazi-controlled camps and ghettos who obtained “privileged” positions in order to prolong their survival. Reflecting on the inherently complex power relations in such extreme settings, Levi positions the “grey zone” as a metaphor for moral ambiguity: a realm with “ill-defined outlines which both separate and join the two camps of masters and servants. [The ‘grey zone’] possesses an incredibly complicated internal structure, and contains within itself enough to confuse our need to judge” (27). According to Levi, an examination of the scenarios and experiences that gave rise to the “grey zone” requires a rejection of the black-and-white binary opposition(s) of “friend” and “enemy,” “good” and “evil.” While Levi unequivocally holds the perpetrators of the Holocaust responsible for their actions, he warns that one should suspend judgement of victims who were entrapped in situations of moral ambiguity and “compromise.” However, recent scholarship on the representation of “privileged” Jews in Levi’s writings and elsewhere has identified a “paradox of judgement”: namely, that even if moral judgements of victims in extreme situations should be suspended, such judgements are inherent in the act of representation, and are therefore inevitable (see Brown). While the historical specificity of Levi’s reflections must be kept in mind, the corruptive influences of power at the core of the “grey zone”—along with the associated problems of judgement and representation—are clearly far more prevalent in human nature and experience than the Holocaust alone. Levi’s “grey zone” has been appropriated by scholars in the fields of Holocaust studies (Petropoulos and Roth xv-xviii), philosophy (Todorov 262), law (Luban 161–76), history (Cole 248–49), theology (Roth 53–54), and popular culture (Cheyette 226–38). Significantly, Claudia Card (The Atrocity Paradigm, “Groping through Gray Zones” 3–26) has recently applied Levi’s concept to the field of feminist philosophy. Indeed, Levi’s questioning of whether or not one can—or should—pass judgement on the behaviour of Holocaust victims has considerable relevance to the divisive issue of how women’s involvement in/with patriarchy is represented in the media. Expanding or intentionally departing from Levi’s ideas, many recent interpretations of the “grey zone” often misunderstand the historical specificity of Levi’s reflections. For instance, while applying Levi’s concept to the effects of patriarchy and domestic violence on women, Lynne Arnault makes the problematic statement that “in order to establish the cruelty and seriousness of male violence against women as women, feminists must demonstrate that the experiences of victims of incest, rape, and battering are comparable to those of war veterans, prisoners of war, political prisoners, and concentration camp inmates” (183, n.9). It is important to stress here that it is not our intention to make direct parallels between the Holocaust and patriarchy, or between “privileged” Jews and women (potentially) implicated in a rape culture, but to explore the complexity of power relations in society, what behaviour eventuates from these, and—most crucial to our discussion here—how such behaviour is handled in the mass media. Aware of the problem of making controversial (and unnecessary) comparisons, Card (“Women, Evil, and Gray Zones” 515) rightly stresses that her aim is “not to compare suffering or even degrees of evil but to note patterns in the moral complexity of choices and judgments of responsibility.” Card uses the notion of the “Stockholm Syndrome,” citing numerous examples of women identifying with their torturers after having been abused or held hostage over a prolonged period of time—most (in)famously, Patricia Hearst. While the medical establishment has responded to cases of women “suffering” from “Stockholm Syndrome” by absolving them from any moral responsibility, Card writes that “we may have a morally gray area in some cases, where there is real danger of becoming complicit in evildoing and where the captive’s responsibility is better described as problematic than as nonexistent” (“Women, Evil, and Gray Zones” 511). Like Levi, Card emphasises that issues of individual agency and moral responsibility are far from clear-cut. At the same time, a full awareness of the oppressive environment—in the context that this paper is concerned with, a patriarchal social system—must be accounted for. Importantly, the examples Card uses differ significantly from the issue of whether or not some women can be considered “complicit” in a rape culture; nevertheless, similar obstacles to understanding problematic situations exist here, too. In the context of a rape culture, can women become, to use Card’s phrase, “instruments of oppression”? And if so, how is their controversial behaviour to be understood and represented? Crucially, Levi’s reflections on the “grey zone” were primarily motivated by his concern that most historical and filmic representations “trivialised” the complexity of victim experiences by passing simplistic judgements. Likewise, the representation of sexual assault cases in the Australian mass media has often left much to be desired. Representing Sexual Assault: Australian Football and the Media A growing literature has critiqued the sexual culture of elite football in Australia—one in which women are reportedly treated with disdain, positioned as objects to be used and discarded. At least 20 distinct cases, involving more than 55 players and staff, have been reported in the media, with the majority of these incidents involving multiple players. Reports indicate that such group sexual encounters are commonplace for footballers, and the women who participate in sexual practices are commonly judged, even in the sports scholarship, as “groupies” and “sluts” who are therefore responsible for anything that happens to them, including rape (Waterhouse-Watson, “Playing Defence” 114–15; “(Un)reasonable Doubt”). When the issue of footballers and sexual assault was first debated in the Australian media in 2004, football insiders from both Australian rules and rugby league told the media of a culture of group sex and sexual behaviour that is degrading to women, even when consensual (Barry; Khadem and Nancarrow 4; Smith 1; Weidler 4). The sexual “culture” is marked by a discourse of abuse and objectification, in which women are cast as “meat” or a “bun.” Group sex is also increasingly referred to as “chop up,” which codes the practice itself as an act of violence. It has been argued elsewhere that footballers treating women as sexual objects is effectively condoned through the mass media (Waterhouse-Watson, “All Women Are Sluts” passim). The “Code of Silence” episode of ABC television program Four Corners, which reignited the debate in 2009, was even more explicit in portraying footballers’ sexual practices as abusive, presenting rape testimony from three women, including “Clare,” who remains traumatised following a “group sex” incident with rugby league players in 2002. Clare testifies that she went to a hotel room with prominent National Rugby League (NRL) players Matthew Johns and Brett Firman. She says that she had sex with Johns and Firman, although the experience was unpleasant and they treated her “like a piece of meat.” Subsequently, a dozen players and staff members from the team then entered the room, uninvited, some through the bathroom window, expecting sex with Clare. Neither Johns nor Firman has denied that this was the case. Clare went to the police five days later, saying that professional rugby players had raped her, although no charges were ever laid. The program further includes psychiatrists’ reports, and statements from the police officer in charge of the case, detailing the severe trauma that Clare suffered as a result of what the footballers called “sex.” If, as “Code of Silence” suggests, footballers’ practices of group sex are abusive, whether the woman consents or not, then it follows that such a “gang-bang culture” may in turn foster a rape culture, in which rape is more likely than in other contexts. And yet, many women insist that they enjoy group sex with footballers (Barry; Drill 86), complicating issues of consent and the degradation of women. Feminist rape scholarship documents the repetitive way in which complainants are deemed to have “invited” or “caused” the rape through their behaviour towards the accused or the way they were dressed: defence lawyers, judges (Larcombe 100; Lees 85; Young 442–65) and even talk show hosts, ostensibly aiming to expose the problem of rape (Alcoff and Gray 261–64), employ these tactics to undermine a victim’s credibility and excuse the accused perpetrator. Nevertheless, although no woman can be in any way held responsible for any man committing sexual assault, or other abuse, it must be acknowledged that women who become in some way implicated in a rape culture also assist in maintaining that culture, highlighting a “grey zone” of moral ambiguity. How, then, should these women, who in some cases even actively promote behaviour that is intrinsic to this culture, be perceived and represented? Charmyne Palavi, who appeared on “Code of Silence,” is a prime example of such a “grey zone” figure. While she stated that she was raped by a prominent footballer, Palavi also described her continuing practice of setting up footballers and women for casual sex through her Facebook page, and pursuing such encounters herself. This raises several problems of judgement and representation, and the issue of women’s sexual freedom. On the one hand, Palavi (and all other women) should be entitled to engage in any consensual (legal) sexual behaviour that they choose. But on the other, when footballers’ frequent casual sex is part of a culture of sexual abuse, there is a danger of them becoming complicit in, to use Card’s term, “evildoing.” Further, when telling her story on “Code of Silence,” Palavi hints that there is an element of increased risk in these situations. When describing her sexual encounters with footballers, which she states are “on her terms,” she begins, “It’s consensual for a start. I’m not drunk or on drugs and it’s in, [it] has an element of class to it. Do you know what I mean?” (emphasis added). If it is necessary to define sex “on her terms” as consensual, this implies that sometimes casual “sex” with footballers is not consensual, or that there is an increased likelihood of rape. She also claims to have heard about several incidents in which footballers she knows sexually abused and denigrated, if not actually raped, other women. Such an awareness of what may happen clearly does not make Palavi a perpetrator of abuse, but neither can her actions (such as “setting up” women with footballers using Facebook) be considered entirely separate. While one may argue, following Levi’s reflections, that judgement of a “grey zone” figure such as Palavi should be suspended, it is significant that Four Corners’s representation of Palavi makes implicit and simplistic moral judgements. The introduction to Palavi follows the story of “Caroline,” who states that first-grade rugby player Dane Tilse broke into her university dormitory room and sexually assaulted her while she slept. Caroline indicates that Tilse left when he “picked up that [she] was really stressed.” Following this story, the program’s reporter and narrator Sarah Ferguson introduces Palavi with, “If some young footballers mistakenly think all women want to have sex with them, Charmyne Palavi is one who doesn’t necessarily discourage the idea.” As has been argued elsewhere (Waterhouse-Watson, “Framing the Victim”), this implies that Palavi is partly responsible for players holding this mistaken view. By implication, she therefore encouraged Tilse to assume that Caroline would want to have sex with him. Footage is then shown of Palavi and her friends “applying the finishing touches”—bronzing their legs—before going to meet footballers at a local hotel. The lighting is dim and the hand-held camerawork rough. These techniques portray the women as artificial and “cheap,” techniques that are also employed in a remarkably similar fashion in the documentary Footy Chicks (Barry), which follows three women who seek out sex with footballers. In response to Ferguson’s question, “What’s the appeal of those boys though?” Palavi repeats several times that she likes footballers mainly because of their bodies. This, along with the program’s focus on the women as instigators of sex, positions Palavi as something of a predator (she was widely referred to as a “cougar” following the program). In judging her “promiscuity” as immoral, the program implies she is partly responsible for her own rape, as well as acts of what can be termed, at the very least, sexual abuse of other women. The problematic representation of Palavi raises the complex question of how her “grey zone” behaviour should be depicted without passing trivialising judgements. This issue is particularly fraught when Four Corners follows the representation of Palavi’s “nightlife” with her accounts of footballers’ acts of sexual assault and abuse, including testimony that a well-known player raped Palavi herself. While Ferguson does not explicitly question the veracity of Palavi’s claim of rape, her portrayal is nevertheless largely unsympathetic, and the way the segment is edited appears to imply that she is blameworthy. Ferguson recounts that Palavi “says she was able to put [being raped] out of her mind, and it certainly didn’t stop her pursuing other football players.” This might be interpreted a positive statement about Palavi’s ability to move on from a rape; however, the tone of Ferguson’s authoritative voiceover is disapproving, which instead implies negative judgement. As the program makes clear, Palavi continues to organise sexual encounters between women and players, despite her knowledge of the “dangers,” both to herself and other women. Palavi’s awareness of the prevalence of incidents of sexual assault or abuse makes her position a problematic one. Yet her controversial role within the sexual culture of elite Australian football is complicated even further by the fact that she herself is disempowered (and her own allegation of being raped delegitimised) by the simplistic ideas about “assault” and “consent” that dominate social discourse. Despite this ambiguity, Four Corners constructs Palavi as more of a perpetrator of abuse than a victim—not even a victim who is “morally compromised.” Although we argue that careful consideration must be given to the issue of whether moral judgements should be applied to “grey zone” figures like Palavi, the “solution” is far from simple. No language (or image) is neutral or value-free, and judgements are inevitable in any act of representation. In his essay on the “grey zone,” Levi raises the crucial point that the many (mis)understandings of figures of moral ambiguity and “compromise” partly arise from the fact that the testimony and perspectives of these figures themselves is often the last to be heard—if at all (50). Nevertheless, an article Palavi published in Sydney tabloid The Daily Telegraph (19) demonstrates that such testimony can also be problematic and only complicate matters further. Palavi’s account begins: If you believed Four Corners, I’m supposed to be the NRL’s biggest groupie, a wannabe WAG who dresses up, heads out to clubs and hunts down players to have sex with… what annoys me about these tags and the way I was portrayed on that show is the idea I prey on them like some of the starstruck women I’ve seen out there. (emphasis added) Palavi clearly rejects the way Four Corners constructed her as a predator; however, rather than rejecting this stereotype outright, she reinscribes it, projecting it onto other “starstruck” women. Throughout her article, Palavi reiterates (other) women’s allegedly predatory behaviour, continually portraying the footballers as passive and the women as active. For example, she claims that players “like being contacted by girls,” whereas “the girls use the information the players put on their [social media profiles] to track them down.” Palavi’s narrative confirms this construction of men as victims of women’s predatory actions, lamenting the sacking of Johns following “Code of Silence” as “disgusting.” In the context of alleged sexual assault, the “predatory woman” stereotype is used in place of the raped woman in order to imply that sexual assault did not occur; hence Palavi’s problematic discourse arguably reinforces sexist attitudes. But can Palavi be considered complicit in validating this damaging stereotype? Can she be blamed for working within patriarchal systems of representation, of which she has also been a victim? The preceding analysis shows judgement to be inherent in the act of representation. The paucity of language is particularly acute when dealing with such extreme situations. Indeed, the language used to explore this issue in the present article cannot escape terminology that is loaded with meaning(s), which quotation marks can perhaps only qualify so far. Conclusion This paper does not claim to provide definitive answers to such complex dilemmas, but rather to highlight problems in addressing the sensitive issues of ambiguity and “complicity” in women’s interactions with patriarchal systems, and how these are represented in the mass media. Like the controversial behaviour of teenager Kim Duthie described earlier, Palavi’s position throws the problems of judgement and representation into disarray. 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The academic journal is obsolete. In a world where there are more titles than ever, this is a comment on their form – especially the print journal – rather than their quantity. Now that you can get everything online, it doesn’t really matter what journal a paper appears in; certainly it doesn’t matter what’s in the same issue. The experience of a journal is rapidly obsolescing, for both editors and readers. I’m obviously not the first person to notice this (see, for instance, "Scholarly Communication"; "Transforming Scholarly Communication"; Houghton; Policy Perspectives; Teute), but I do have a personal stake in the process. For if the journal is obsolete then it follows that the editor is obsolete, and I am the editor of the International Journal of Cultural Studies. I founded the IJCS and have been sole editor ever since. Next year will see the fiftieth issue. So far, I have been responsible for over 280 published articles – over 2.25 million words of other people’s scholarship … and counting. We won’t say anything about the words that did not get published, except that the IJCS rejection rate is currently 87 per cent. Perhaps the first point that needs to be made, then, is that obsolescence does not imply lack of success. By any standard the IJCS is a successful journal, and getting more so. It has recently been assessed as a top-rating A* journal in the Australian Research Council’s journal rankings for ERA (Excellence in Research for Australia), the newly activated research assessment exercise. (In case you’re wondering, M/C Journal is rated B.) The ARC says of the ranking exercise: ‘The lists are a result of consultations with the sector and rigorous review by leading researchers and the ARC.’ The ARC definition of an A* journal is given as: Typically an A* journal would be one of the best in its field or subfield in which to publish and would typically cover the entire field/ subfield. Virtually all papers they publish will be of very high quality. These are journals where most of the work is important (it will really shape the field) and where researchers boast about getting accepted.Acceptance rates would typically be low and the editorial board would be dominated by field leaders, including many from top institutions. (Appendix I, p. 21; and see p. 4.)Talking of boasting, I love to prate about the excellent people we’ve published in the IJCS. We have introduced new talent to the field, and we have published new work by some of its pioneers – including Richard Hoggart and Stuart Hall. We’ve also published – among many others – Sara Ahmed, Mohammad Amouzadeh, Tony Bennett, Goran Bolin, Charlotte Brunsdon, William Boddy, Nico Carpentier, Stephen Coleman, Nick Couldry, Sean Cubitt, Michael Curtin, Daniel Dayan, Ben Dibley, Stephanie Hemelryk Donald, John Frow, Elfriede Fursich, Christine Geraghty, Mark Gibson, Paul Gilroy, Faye Ginsberg, Jonathan Gray, Lawrence Grossberg, Judith Halberstam, Hanno Hardt, Gay Hawkins, Joke Hermes, Su Holmes, Desmond Hui, Fred Inglis, Henry Jenkins, Deborah Jermyn, Ariel Heryanto, Elihu Katz, Senator Rod Kemp (Australian government minister), Youna Kim, Agnes Ku, Richard E. Lee, Jeff Lewis, David Lodge (the novelist), Knut Lundby, Eric Ma, Anna McCarthy, Divya McMillin, Antonio Menendez-Alarcon, Toby Miller, Joe Moran, Chris Norris, John Quiggin, Chris Rojek, Jane Roscoe, Jeffrey Sconce, Lynn Spigel, John Storey, Su Tong, the late Sako Takeshi, Sue Turnbull, Graeme Turner, William Uricchio, José van Dijck, Georgette Wang, Jing Wang, Elizabeth Wilson, Janice Winship, Handel Wright, Wu Jing, Wu Qidi (Chinese Vice-Minister of Education), Emilie Yueh-Yu Yeh, Robert Young and Zhao Bin. As this partial list makes clear, as well as publishing the top ‘hegemons’ we also publish work pointing in new directions, including papers from neighbouring disciplines such as anthropology, area studies, economics, education, feminism, history, literary studies, philosophy, political science, and sociology. We have sought to represent neglected regions, especially Chinese cultural studies, which has grown strongly during the past decade. And for quite a few up-and-coming scholars we’ve been the proud host of their first international publication. The IJCS was first published in 1998, already well into the internet era, but it was print-only at that time. Since then, all content, from volume 1:1 onwards, has been digitised and is available online (although vol 1:2 is unaccountably missing). The publishers, Sage Publications Ltd, London, have steadily added online functionality, so that now libraries can get the journal in various packages, including offering this title among many others in online-only bundles, and individuals can purchase single articles online. Thus, in addition to institutional and individual subscriptions, which remain the core business of the journal, income is derived by the publisher from multi-site licensing, incremental consortial sales income, single- and back-issue sales (print), pay-per-view, and deep back file sales (electronic). So what’s obsolete about it? In that boasting paragraph of mine (above), about what wonderful authors we’ve published, lies one of the seeds of obsolescence. For now that it is available online, ‘users’ (no longer ‘readers’!) can search for what they want and ignore the journal as such altogether. This is presumably how most active researchers experience any journal – they are looking for articles (or less: quotations; data; references) relevant to a given topic, literature review, thesis etc. They encounter a journal online through its ‘content’ rather than its ‘form.’ The latter is irrelevant to them, and may as well not exist. The Cover Some losses are associated with this change. First is the loss of the front cover. Now you, dear reader, scrolling through this article online, might well complain, why all the fuss about covers? Internet-generation journals don’t have covers, so all of the work that goes into them to establish the brand, the identity and even the ‘affect’ of a journal is now, well, obsolete. So let me just remind you of what’s at stake. Editors, designers and publishers all take a good deal of trouble over covers, since they are the point of intersection of editorial, design and marketing priorities. Thus, the IJCS cover contains the only ‘content’ of the journal for which we pay a fee to designers and photographers (usually the publisher pays, but in one case I did). Like any other cover, ours has three main elements: title, colour and image. Thought goes into every detail. Title I won’t say anything about the journal’s title as such, except that it was the result of protracted discussions (I suggested Terra Nullius at one point, but Sage weren’t having any of that). The present concern is with how a title looks on a cover. Our title-typeface is Frutiger. Originally designed by Adrian Frutiger for Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, it is suitably international, being used for the corporate identity of the UK National Health Service, Telefónica O2, the Royal Navy, the London School of Economics , the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, the Conservative Party of Canada, Banco Bradesco of Brazil, the Finnish Defence Forces and on road signs in Switzerland (Wikipedia, "Frutiger"). Frutiger is legible, informal, and reads well in small copy. Sage’s designer and I corresponded on which of the words in our cumbersome name were most important, agreeing that ‘international’ combined with ‘cultural’ is the USP (Unique Selling Point) of the journal, so they should be picked out (in bold small-caps) from the rest of the title, which the designer presented in a variety of Frutiger fonts (regular, italic, and reversed – white on black), presumably to signify the dynamism and diversity of our content. The word ‘studies’ appears on a lozenge-shaped cartouche that is also used as a design element throughout the journal, for bullet points, titles and keywords. Colour We used to change this every two years, but since volume 7 it has stabilised with the distinctive Pantone 247, ‘new fuchsia.’ This colour arose from my own environment at QUT, where it was chosen (by me) for the new Creative Industries Faculty’s academic gowns and hoods, and thence as a detailing colour for the otherwise monochrome Creative Industries Precinct buildings. There’s a lot of it around my office, including on the wall and the furniture. New Fuchsia is – we are frequently told – a somewhat ‘girly’ colour, especially when contrasted with the Business Faculty’s blue or Law’s silver; its similarity to the Girlfriend/Dolly palette does introduce a mild ‘politics of prestige’ element, since it is determinedly pop culture, feminised, and non-canonical. Image Right at the start, the IJCS set out to signal its difference from other journals. At that time, all Sage journals had calligraphic colours – but I was insistent that we needed a photograph (I have ‘form’ in this respect: in 1985 I changed the cover of the Australian Journal of Cultural Studies from a line drawing (albeit by Sydney Nolan) to a photograph; and I co-designed the photo-cover of Cultural Studies in 1987). For IJCS I knew which photo I wanted, and Sage went along with the choice. I explained it in the launch issue’s editorial (Hartley, "Editorial"). That original picture, a goanna on a cattle grid in the outback, by Australian photographer Grant Hobson, lasted ten years. Since volume 11 – in time for our second decade – the goanna has been replaced with a picture by Italian-based photographer Patrick Nicholas, called ‘Reality’ (Hartley, "Cover Narrative"). We have also used two other photos as cover images, once each. They are: Daniel Meadows’s 1974 ‘Karen & Barbara’ (Hartley, "Who"); and a 1962 portrait of Richard Hoggart from the National Portrait Gallery in London (Owen & Hartley 2007). The choice of picture has involved intense – sometimes very tense – negotiations with Sage. Most recently, they were adamant the Daniel Meadows picture, which I wanted to use as the long-term replacement of the goanna, was too ‘English’ and they would not accept it. We exchanged rather sharp words before compromising. There’s no need to rehearse the dispute here; the point is that both sides, publisher and editor, felt that vital interests were at stake in the choice of a cover-image. Was it too obscure; too Australian; too English; too provocative (the current cover features, albeit in the deep background, a TV screen-shot of a topless Italian game-show contestant)? Running Order Beyond the cover, the next obsolete feature of a journal is the running order of articles. Obviously what goes in the journal is contingent upon what has been submitted and what is ready at a given time, so this is a creative role within a very limited context, which is what makes it pleasurable. Out of a limited number of available papers, a choice must be made about which one goes first, what order the other papers should follow, and which ones must be held over to the next issue. The first priority is to choose the lead article: like the ‘first face’ in a fashion show (if you don’t know what I mean by that, see FTV.com. It sets the look, the tone, and the standard for the issue. I always choose articles I like for this slot. It sends a message to the field – look at this! Next comes the running order. We have about six articles per issue. It is important to maintain the IJCS’s international mix, so I check for the country of origin, or failing that (since so many articles come from Anglosphere countries like the USA, UK and Australia), the location of the analysis. Attention also has to be paid to the gender balance among authors, and to the mix of senior and emergent scholars. Sometimes a weak article needs to be ‘hammocked’ between two good ones (these are relative terms – everything published in the IJCS is of a high scholarly standard). And we need to think about disciplinary mix, so as not to let the journal stray too far towards one particular methodological domain. Running order is thus a statement about the field – the disciplinary domain – rather than about an individual paper. It is a proposition about how different voices connect together in some sort of disciplinary syntax. One might even claim that the combination of cover and running order is a last vestige of collegiate collectivism in an era of competitive academic individualism. Now all that matters is the individual paper and author; the ‘currency’ is tenure, promotion and research metrics, not relations among peers. The running order is obsolete. Special Issues An extreme version of running order is the special issue. The IJCS has regularly published these; they are devoted to field-shaping initiatives, as follows: Title Editor(s) Issue Date Radiocracy: Radio, Development and Democracy Amanda Hopkinson, Jo Tacchi 3.2 2000 Television and Cultural Studies Graeme Turner 4.4 2001 Cultural Studies and Education Karl Maton, Handel Wright 5.4 2002 Re-Imagining Communities Sara Ahmed, Anne-Marie Fortier 6.3 2003 The New Economy, Creativity and Consumption John Hartley 7.1 2004 Creative Industries and Innovation in China Michael Keane, John Hartley 9.3 2006 The Uses of Richard Hoggart Sue Owen, John Hartley 10.1 2007 A Cultural History of Celebrity Liz Barry 11.3 2008 Caribbean Media Worlds Anna Pertierra, Heather Horst 12.2 2009 Co-Creative Labour Mark Deuze, John Banks 12.5 2009 It’s obvious that special issues have a place in disciplinary innovation – they can draw attention in a timely manner to new problems, neglected regions, or innovative approaches, and thus they advance the field. They are indispensible. But because of online publication, readers are not held to the ‘project’ of a special issue and can pick and choose whatever they want. And because of the peculiarities of research assessment exercises, editing special issues doesn’t count as research output. The incentive to do them is to that extent reduced, and some universities are quite heavy-handed about letting academics ‘waste’ time on activities that don’t produce ‘metrics.’ The special issue is therefore threatened with obsolescence too. Refereeing In many top-rating journals, the human side of refereeing is becoming obsolete. Increasingly this labour-intensive chore is automated and the labour is technologically outsourced from editors and publishers to authors and referees. You have to log on to some website and follow prompts in order to contribute both papers and the assessment of papers; interactions with editors are minimal. At the IJCS the process is still handled by humans – namely, journal administrator Tina Horton and me. We spend a lot of time checking how papers are faring, from trying to find the right referees through to getting the comments and then the author’s revisions completed in time for a paper to be scheduled into an issue. The volume of email correspondence is considerable. We get to know authors and referees. So we maintain a sense of an interactive and conversational community, albeit by correspondence rather than face to face. Doubtless, sooner or later, there will be a depersonalised Text Management System. But in the meantime we cling to the romantic notion that we are involved in refereeing for the sake of the field, for raising the standard of scholarship, for building a globally dispersed virtual college of cultural studies, and for giving everyone – from unfavoured countries and neglected regions to famous professors in old-money universities – the same chance to get their research published. In fact, these are largely delusional ideals, for as everyone knows, refereeing is part of the political economy of publicly-funded research. It’s about academic credentials, tenure and promotion for the individual, and about measurable research metrics for the academic organisation or funding agency (Hartley, "Death"). The IJCS has no choice but to participate: we do what is required to qualify as a ‘double-blind refereed journal’ because that is the only way to maintain repute, and thence the flow of submissions, not to mention subscriptions, without which there would be no journal. As with journals themselves, which proliferate even as the print form becomes obsolete, so refereeing is burgeoning as a practice. It’s almost an industry, even though the currency is not money but time: part gift-economy; part attention-economy; partly the payment of dues to the suzerain funding agencies. But refereeing is becoming obsolete in the sense of gathering an ‘imagined community’ of people one might expect to know personally around a particular enterprise. The process of dispersal and anonymisation of the field is exacerbated by blind refereeing, which we do because we must. This is suited to a scientific domain of objective knowledge, but everyone knows it’s not quite like that in the ‘new humanities’. The agency and identity of the researcher is often a salient fact in the research. The embedded positionality of the author, their reflexiveness about their own context and room-for-manoeuvre, and the radical contextuality of knowledge itself – these are all more or less axiomatic in cultural studies, but they’re not easily served by ‘double-blind’ refereeing. When refereeing is depersonalised to the extent that is now rife (especially in journals owned by international commercial publishers), it is hard to maintain a sense of contextualised productivity in the knowledge domain, much less a ‘common cause’ to which both author and referee wish to contribute. Even though refereeing can still be seen as altruistic, it is in the service of something much more general (‘scholarship’) and much more particular (‘my career’) than the kind of reviewing that wants to share and improve a particular intellectual enterprise. It is this mid-range altruism – something that might once have been identified as a politics of knowledge – that’s becoming obsolete, along with the printed journals that were the banner and rallying point for the cause. If I were to start a new journal (such as cultural-science.org), I would prefer ‘open refereeing’: uploading papers on an open site, subjecting them to peer-review and criticism, and archiving revised versions once they have received enough votes and comments. In other words I’d like to see refereeing shifted from the ‘supply’ or production side of a journal to the ‘demand’ or readership side. But of course, ‘demand’ for ‘blind’ refereeing doesn’t come from readers; it comes from the funding agencies. The Reading Experience Finally, the experience of reading a journal is obsolete. Two aspects of this seem worthy of note. First, reading is ‘out of time’ – it no longer needs to conform to the rhythms of scholarly publication, which are in any case speeding up. Scholarship is no longer seasonal, as it has been since the Middle Ages (with university terms organised around agricultural and ecclesiastical rhythms). Once you have a paper’s DOI number, you can read it any time, 24/7. It is no longer necessary even to wait for publication. With some journals in our field (e.g. Journalism Studies), assuming your Library subscribes, you can access papers as soon as they’re uploaded on the journal’s website, before the published edition is printed. Soon this will be the norm, just as it is for the top science journals, where timely publication, and thereby the ability to claim first discovery, is the basis of intellectual property rights. The IJCS doesn’t (yet) offer this service, but its frequency is speeding up. It was launched in 1998 with three issues a year. It went quarterly in 2001 and remained a quarterly for eight years. It has recently increased to six issues a year. That too causes changes in the reading experience. The excited ripping open of the package is less of a thrill the more often it arrives. Indeed, how many subscribers will admit that sometimes they don’t even open the envelope? Second, reading is ‘out of place’ – you never have to see the journal in which a paper appears, so you can avoid contact with anything that you haven’t already decided to read. This is more significant than might first appear, because it is affecting journalism in general, not just academic journals. As we move from the broadcast to the broadband era, communicative usage is shifting too, from ‘mass’ communication to customisation. This is a mixed blessing. One of the pleasures of old-style newspapers and the TV news was that you’d come across stories you did not expect to find. Indeed, an important attribute of the industrial form of journalism is its success in getting whole populations to read or watch stories about things they aren’t interested in, or things like wars and crises that they’d rather not know about at all. That historic textual achievement is in jeopardy in the broadband era, because ‘the public’ no longer needs to gather around any particular masthead or bulletin to get their news. With Web 2.0 affordances, you can exercise much more choice over what you attend to. This is great from the point of view of maximising individual choice, but sub-optimal in relation to what I’ve called ‘population-gathering’, especially the gathering of communities of interest around ‘tales of the unexpected’ – novelty or anomalies. Obsolete: Collegiality, Trust and Innovation? The individuation of reading choices may stimulate prejudice, because prejudice (literally, ‘pre-judging’) is built in when you decide only to access news feeds about familiar topics, stories or people in which you’re already interested. That sort of thing may encourage narrow-mindedness. It is certainly an impediment to chance discovery, unplanned juxtaposition, unstructured curiosity and thence, perhaps, to innovation itself. This is a worry for citizenship in general, but it is also an issue for academic ‘knowledge professionals,’ in our ever-narrower disciplinary silos. An in-close specialist focus on one’s own area of expertise need no longer be troubled by the concerns of the person in the next office, never mind the next department. Now, we don’t even have to meet on the page. One of the advantages of whole journals, then, is that each issue encourages ‘macro’ as well as ‘micro’ perspectives, and opens reading up to surprises. This willingness to ‘take things on trust’ describes a ‘we’ community – a community of trust. Trust too is obsolete in these days of performance evaluation. We’re assessed by an anonymous system that’s managed by people we’ll never meet. If the ‘population-gathering’ aspects of print journals are indeed obsolete, this may reduce collegiate trust and fellow-feeling, increase individualist competitiveness, and inhibit innovation. In the face of that prospect, I’m going to keep on thinking about covers, running orders, referees and reading until the role of editor is obsolete too. ReferencesHartley, John. "'Cover Narrative': From Nightmare to Reality." International Journal of Cultural Studies 11.2 (2005): 131-137. ———. "Death of the Book?" Symposium of the National Scholarly Communication Forum & Australian Academy of the Humanities, Sydney Maritime Museum, 2005. 26 Apr. 2009 ‹http://www.humanities.org.au/Resources/Downloads/NSCF/RoundTables1-17/PDF/Hartley.pdf›. ———. "Editorial: With Goanna." International Journal of Cultural Studies 1.1 (1998): 5-10. ———. "'Who Are You Going to Believe – Me or Your Own Eyes?' New Decade; New Directions." International Journal of Cultural Studies 11.1 (2008): 5-14. Houghton, John. "Economics of Scholarly Communication: A Discussion Paper." Center for Strategic Economic Studies, Victoria University, 2000. 26 Apr. 2009 ‹http://www.caul.edu.au/cisc/EconomicsScholarlyCommunication.pdf›. Owen, Sue, and John Hartley, eds. The Uses of Richard Hoggart. International Journal of Cultural Studies (special issue), 10.1 (2007). Policy Perspectives: To Publish and Perish. (Special issue cosponsored by the Association of Research Libraries, Association of American Universities and the Pew Higher Education Roundtable) 7.4 (1998). 26 Apr. 2009 ‹http://www.arl.org/scomm/pew/pewrept.html›. "Scholarly Communication: Crisis and Revolution." University of California Berkeley Library. N.d. 26 Apr. 2009 ‹http://www.lib.berkeley.edu/Collections/crisis.html›. Teute, F. J. "To Publish or Perish: Who Are the Dinosaurs in Scholarly Publishing?" Journal of Scholarly Publishing 32.2 (2001). 26 Apr. 2009 ‹http://www.utpjournals.com/product/jsp/322/perish5.html›."Transforming Scholarly Communication." University of Houston Library. 2005. 26 Apr. 2009 ‹http://info.lib.uh.edu/scomm/transforming.htm›.

‘Complex(ity)’ is currently fashionable in the humanities. Fashions come and go, but in this article I argue that the interest in complexity connects with something deeper, an intellectual revolution that began before complexity became trendy, and will continue after the spotlight passes on. Yet to make this case, and understand and advance this revolution, we need a better take on ‘complexity’. ‘Complex’ is of course complex. In common use it refers to something ‘composed of many interrelated parts’, or problems ‘so complicated or intricate as to be hard to deal with’. I will call this popular meaning, with its positive and negative values, complexity-1. In science it has a more negative sense, complexity-2, referring to the presenting complexity of problems, which science will strip down to underlying simplicity. But recently it has developed positive meanings in both science and humanities. Complexity-3 marks a revolutionarily more positive attitude to complexity in science that does seek to be reductive. Humanities-style complexity-4, which acknowledges and celebrates the inherent complexity of texts and meanings, is basic in contemporary Media and Cultural studies (MaC for short). The underlying root of complex is plico bend or fold, plus con- together, via complector grasp (something), encompass an idea, or person. The double of ‘complex’ is ‘simple’, from Latin simplex, which less obviously also comes from plico, plus semel once, at the same time. ‘Simple’ and ‘complex’ are closer than people think: only a fold or two apart. A key idea is that these elements are interdependent, parts of a single underlying form. ‘Simple(x)’ is another modality of ‘complex’, dialectically related, different in degree not kind, not absolutely opposite. The idea of ‘holding together’ is stronger in Latin complex, the idea of difficulty more prominent in modern usage, yet the term still includes both. The concept ‘complex’ is untenable apart from ‘simple’. This figure maps the basic structures in ‘complexity’. This complexity contains both positive and negative values, science and non-science, academic and popular meanings, with folds/differences and relationships so dynamically related that no aspect is totally independent. This complex field is the minimum context in which to explore claims about a ‘complexity revolution’. Complexity in Science and Humanities In spite of the apparent similarities between Complexity-3 (sciences) and 4 (humanities), in practice a gulf separates them, policed from both sides. If these sides do not talk to each other, as they often do not, the result is not a complex meaning for ‘complex’, but a semantic war-zone. These two forms of complexity connect and collide because they reach into a new space where discourses of science and non-science are interacting more than they have for many years. For many, in both academic communities, a strong, taken-for-granted mindset declares the difference between them is absolute. They assume that if ‘complexity’ exists in science, it must mean something completely different from what it means in humanities or everyday discourse, so different as to be incomprehensible or unusable by humanists. This terrified defence of the traditional gulf between sciences and humanities is not the clinching argument these critics think. On the contrary, it symptomises what needs to be challenged, via the concept complex. One influential critic of this split was Lord Snow, who talked of ‘two cultures’. Writing in class-conscious post-war Britain he regretted the ignorance of humanities-trained ruling elites about basic science, and scientists’ ignorance of humanities. No-one then or now doubts there is a problem. Most MaC students have a science-light education, and feel vulnerable to critiques which say they do not need to know any science or maths, including complexity science, and could not understand it anyway. To understand how this has happened I go back to the 17th century rise of ‘modern science’. The Royal Society then included the poet Dryden as well as the scientist Newton, but already the fissure between science and humanities was emerging in the elite, re-enforcing existing gaps between both these and technology. The three forms of knowledge and their communities continued to develop over the next 400 years, producing the education system which formed most of us, the structure of academic knowledges in which culture, technology and science form distinct fields. Complexity has been implicated in this three-way split. Influenced by Newton’s wonderful achievement, explaining so much (movements of earthly and heavenly bodies) with so little (three elegant laws of motion, one brief formula), science defined itself as a reductive practice, in which complexity was a challenge. Simplicity was the sign of a successful solution, altering the older reciprocity between simplicity and complexity. The paradox was ignored that proof involved highly complex mathematics, as anyone who reads Newton knows. What science held onto was the outcome, a simplicity then retrospectively attributed to the universe itself, as its true nature. Simplicity became a core quality in the ontology of science, with complexity-2 the imperfection which challenged and provoked science to eliminate it. Humanities remained a refuge for a complexity ontology, in which both problems and solutions were irreducibly complex. Because of the dominance of science as a form of knowing, the social sciences developed a reductivist approach opposing traditional humanities. They also waged bitter struggles against anti-reductionists who emerged in what was called ‘social theory’. Complexity-4 in humanities is often associated with ‘post-structuralism’, as in Derrida, who emphasises the irreducible complexity of every text and process of meaning, or ‘postmodernism’, as in Lyotard’s controversial, influential polemic. Lyotard attempted to take the pulse of contemporary Western thought. Among trends he noted were new forms of science, new relationships between science and humanities, and a new kind of logic pervading all branches of knowledge. Not all Lyotard’s claims have worn well, but his claim that something really important is happening in the relationship between kinds and institutions of knowledge, especially between sciences and humanities, is worth serious attention. Even classic sociologists like Durkheim recognised that the modern world is highly complex. Contemporary sociologists agree that ‘globalisation’ introduces new levels of complexity in its root sense, interconnections on a scale never seen before. Urry argues that the hyper-complexity of the global world requires a complexity approach, combining complexity-3 and 4. Lyotard’s ‘postmodernism’ has too much baggage, including dogmatic hostility to science. Humanities complexity-4 has lost touch with the sceptical side of popular complexity-1, and lacks a dialectic relationship with simplicity. ‘Complexity’, incorporating Complexity-1 and 3, popular and scientific, made more complex by incorporating humanities complexity-4, may prove a better concept for thinking creatively and productively about these momentous changes. Only complex complexity in the approach, flexible and interdisciplinary, can comprehend these highly complex new objects of knowledge. Complexity and the New Condition of Science Some important changes in the way science is done are driven not from above, by new theories or discoveries, but by new developments in social contexts. Gibbons and Nowottny identify new forms of knowledge and practice, which they call ‘mode-2 knowledge’, emerging alongside older forms. Mode-1 is traditional academic knowledge, based in universities, organised in disciplines, relating to real-life problems at one remove, as experts to clients or consultants to employers. Mode-2 is orientated to real life problems, interdisciplinary and collaborative, producing provisional, emergent knowledge. Gibbons and Nowottny do not reference postmodernism but are looking at Lyotard’s trends as they were emerging in practice 10 years later. They do not emphasise complexity, but the new objects of knowledge they address are fluid, dynamic and highly complex. They emphasise a new scale of interdisciplinarity, in collaborations between academics across all disciplines, in science, technology, social sciences and humanities, though they do not see a strong role for humanities. This approach confronts and welcomes irreducible complexity in object and methods. It takes for granted that real-life problems will always be too complex (with too many factors, interrelated in too many ways) to be reduced to the sort of problem that isolated disciplines could handle. The complexity of objects requires equivalent complexity in responses; teamwork, using networks, drawing on relevant knowledge wherever it is to be found. Lyotard famously and foolishly predicted the death of the ‘grand narrative’ of science, but Gibbons and Nowottny offer a more complex picture in which modes-1 and 2 will continue alongside each other in productive dialectic. The linear form of science Lyotard attacked is stronger than ever in some ways, as ‘Big Science’, which delivers wealth and prestige to disciplinary scientists, accessing huge funds to solve highly complex problems with a reductionist mindset. But governments also like the idea of mode-2 knowledge, under whatever name, and try to fund it despite resistance from powerful mode-1 academics. Moreover, non-reductionist science in practice has always been more common than the dominant ideology allowed, whether or not its exponents, some of them eminent scientists, chose to call it ‘complexity’ science. Quantum physics, called ‘the new physics’, consciously departed from the linear, reductionist assumptions of Newtonian physics to project an irreducibly complex picture of the quantum world. Different movements, labelled ‘catastrophe theory’, ‘chaos theory’ and ‘complexity science’, emerged, not a single coherent movement replacing the older reductionist model, but loosely linked by new attitudes to complexity. Instead of seeing chaos and complexity as problems to be removed by analysis, chaos and complexity play a more ambiguous role, as ontologically primary. Disorder and complexity are not later regrettable lapses from underlying essential simplicity and order, but potentially creative resources, to be understood and harnessed, not feared, controlled, eliminated. As a taste of exciting ideas on complexity, barred from humanities MaC students by the general prohibition on ‘consorting with the enemy’ (science), I will outline three ideas, originally developed in complexity-3, which can be described in ways requiring no specialist knowledge or vocabulary, beyond a Mode-2 openness to dynamic, interdisciplinary engagement. Fractals, a term coined by mathematician Benoit Mandelbrot, are so popular as striking shapes produced by computer-graphics, circulated on T-shirts, that they may seem superficial, unscientific, trendy. They exist at an intersection between science, media and culture, and their complexity includes transactions across that folded space. The name comes from Latin fractus, broken: irregular shapes like broken shards, which however have their own pattern. Mandelbrot claims that in nature, many such patterns partly repeat on different scales. When this happens, he says, objects on any one scale will have equivalent complexity. Part of this idea is contained in Blake’s famous line: ‘To see the world in a grain of sand’. The importance of the principle is that it fundamentally challenges reductiveness. Nor is it as unscientific as it may sound. Geologists indeed see grains of sand under a microscope as highly complex. In sociology, instead of individuals (literal meaning ‘cannot be divided’) being the minimally simple unit of analysis, individuals can be understood to be as complex (e.g. with multiple identities, linked with many other social beings) as groups, classes or nations. There is no level where complexity disappears. A second concept is ‘fuzzy logic’, invented by an engineer, Zadeh. The basic idea is not unlike the literary critic Empson’s ‘ambiguity’, the sometimes inexhaustible complexity of meanings in great literature. Zadeh’s contribution was to praise the inherent ambiguity and ambiguity of natural languages as a resource for scientists and engineers, making them better, not worse, for programming control systems. Across this apparently simple bridge have flowed many fuzzy machines, more effective than their over-precise brothers. Zadeh crystallised this wisdom in his ‘Principle of incompatibility’: As the complexity of a system increases, our ability to make precise and yet significant statements about its behaviour decreases until a threshold is reached beyond which precision and significance (or relevance) become almost mutually exclusive characteristics (28) Something along these lines is common wisdom in complexity-1. For instance, under the headline “Law is too complex for juries to understand, says judge” (Dick 4), the Chief Justice of Australia, Murray Gleeson, noted a paradox of complexity, that attempts to improve a system by increasing its complexity make it worse (meaningless or irrelevant, as Zadeh said). The system loses its complexity in another sense, that it no longer holds together. My third concept is the ‘Butterfly Effect’, a name coined by Lorenz. The butterfly was this scientist’s poetic fantasy, an imagined butterfly that flaps its wings somewhere on the Andes, and introduces a small change in the weather system that triggers a hurricane in Montana, or Beijing. This idea is another riff on the idea that complex situations are not reducible to component elements. Every cause is so complex that we can never know in advance just what factor will operate in a given situation, or what its effects might be across a highly complex system. Travels in Complexity I will now explore these issues with reference to a single example, or rather, a nested set of examples, each (as in fractal theory) equivalently complex, yet none identical at any scale. I was travelling in a train from Penrith to Sydney in New South Wales in early 2006 when I read a publicity text from NSW State Rail which asked me: ‘Did you know that delays at Sydenham affect trains to Parramatta? Or that a sick passenger on a train at Berowra can affect trains to Penrith?’ No, I did not know that. As a typical commuter I was impressed, and even more so as an untypical commuter who knows about complexity science. Without ostentatious reference to sources in popular science, NSW Rail was illustrating Lorenz’s ‘butterfly effect’. A sick passenger is prosaic, a realistic illustration of the basic point, that in a highly complex system, a small change in one part, so small that no-one could predict it would matter, can produce a massive, apparently unrelated change in another part. This text was part of a publicity campaign with a scientific complexity-3 subtext, which ran in a variety of forms, in their website, in notices in carriages, on the back of tickets. I will use a complexity framework to suggest different kinds of analysis and project which might interest MaC students, applicable to objects that may not refer to be complexity-3. The text does two distinct things. It describes a planning process, and is part of a publicity program. The first, simplifying movement of Mode-1 analysis would see this difference as projecting two separate objects for two different specialists: a transport expert for the planning, a MaC analyst for the publicity, including the image. Unfortunately, as Zadeh warned, in complex conditions simplification carries an explanatory cost, producing descriptions that are meaningless or irrelevant, even though common sense (complexity-1) says otherwise. What do MaC specialists know about rail systems? What do engineers know about publicity? But collaboration in a mode-2 framework does not need extensive specialist knowledge, only enough to communicate with others. MaC specialists have a fuzzy knowledge of their own and other areas of knowledge, attuned by Humanities complexity-4 to tolerate uncertainty. According to the butterfly principle it would be foolish to wish our University education had equipped us with the necessary other knowledges. We could never predict what precise items of knowledge would be handy from our formal and informal education. The complexity of most mode-2 problems is so great that we cannot predict in advance what we will need to know. MaC is already a complex field, in which ‘Media’ and ‘Culture’ are fuzzy terms which interact in different ways. Media and other organisations we might work with are often imbued with linear forms of thought (complexity-2), and want simple answers to simple questions about complex systems. For instance, MaC researchers might be asked as consultants to determine the effect of this message on typical commuters. That form of analysis is no longer respectable in complexity-4 MaC studies. Old-style (complexity-2) effects-research modelled Senders, Messages and Receivers to measure effects. Standard research methods of complexity-2 social sciences might test effects of the message by a survey instrument, with a large sample to allow statistically significant results. Using this, researchers could claim to know whether the publicity campaign had its desired effect on its targeted demographic: presumably inspiring confidence in NSW Rail. However, each of these elements is complex, and interactions between them, and others that don’t enter into the analysis, create further levels of complexity. To manage this complexity, MaC analysts often draw on Foucault’s authority to use ‘discourse’ to simplify analysis. This does not betray the principle of complexity. Complexity-4 needs a simplicity-complexity dialectic. In this case I propose a ‘complexity discourse’ to encapsulate the complex relations between Senders, Receivers and Messages into a single word, which can then be related to other such elements (e.g. ‘publicity discourse’). In this case complexity-3 can also be produced by attending to details of elements in the S-M-R chain, combining Derridean ‘deconstruction’ with expert knowledge of the situation. This Sender may be some combination of engineers and planners, managers who commissioned the advertisement, media professionals who carried it out. The message likewise loses its unity as its different parts decompose into separate messages, leaving the transaction a fraught, unpredictable encounter between multiple messages and many kinds of reader and sender. Alongside its celebration of complexity-3, this short text runs another message: ‘untangling our complex rail network’. This is complexity-2 from science and engineering, where complexity is only a problem to be removed. A fuller text on the web-site expands this second strand, using bullet points and other signals of a linear approach. In this text, there are 5 uses of ‘reliable’, 6 uses of words for problems of complexity (‘bottlenecks’, ‘delays’, ‘congestion’), and 6 uses of words for the new system (‘simpler’, ‘independent’). ‘Complex’ is used twice, both times negatively. In spite of the impression given by references to complexity-3, this text mostly has a reductionist attitude to complexity. Complexity is the enemy. Then there is the image. Each line is a different colour, and they loop in an attractive way, seeming to celebrate graceful complexity-2. Yet this part of the image is what is going to be eliminated by the new program’s complexity-2. The interesting complexity of the upper part of the image is what the text declares is the problem. What are commuters meant to think? And Railcorp? This media analysis identifies a fissure in the message, which reflects a fissure in the Sender-complex. It also throws up a problem in the culture that produced such interesting allusions to complexity science, but has linear, reductionist attitudes to complexity in its practice. We can ask: where does this cultural problem go, in the organisation, in the interconnected system and bureaucracy it manages? Is this culture implicated in the problems the program is meant to address? These questions are more productive if asked in a collaborative mode-2 framework, with an organisation open to such questions, with complex researchers able to move between different identities, as media analyst, cultural analyst, and commuter, interested in issues of organisation and logistics, engaged with complexity in all senses. I will continue my imaginary mode-2 collaboration with Railcorp by offering them another example of fractal analysis, looking at another instant, captured in a brief media text. On Wednesday 14 March, 2007, two weeks before a State government election, a very small cause triggered a systems failure in the Sydney network. A small carbon strip worth $44 which was not properly attached properly threw Sydney’s transport network into chaos on Wednesday night, causing thousands of commuters to be trapped in trains for hours. (Baker and Davies 7) This is an excellent example of a butterfly effect, but it is not labelled as such, nor regarded positively in this complexity-1 framework. ‘Chaos’ signifies something no-one wants in a transport system. This is popular not scientific reductionism. The article goes on to tell the story of one passenger, Mark MacCauley, a quadriplegic left without power or electricity in a train because the lift was not working. He rang City Rail, and was told that “someone would be in touch in 3 to 5 days” (Baker and Davies 7). He then rang emergency OOO, and was finally rescued by contractors “who happened to be installing a lift at North Sydney” (Baker and Davies 7). My new friends at NSW Rail would be very unhappy with this story. It would not help much to tell them that this is a standard ‘human interest’ article, nor that it is more complex than it looks. For instance, MacCauley is not typical of standard passengers who usually concern complexity-2 planners of rail networks. He is another butterfly, whose specific needs would be hard to predict or cater for. His rescue is similarly unpredictable. Who would have predicted that these contractors, with their specialist equipment, would be in the right place at the right time to rescue him? Complexity provided both problem and solution. The media’s double attitude to complexity, positive and negative, complexity-1 with a touch of complexity-3, is a resource which NSW Rail might learn to use, even though it is presented with such hostility here. One lesson of the complexity is that a tight, linear framing of systems and problems creates or exacerbates problems, and closes off possible solutions. In the problem, different systems didn’t connect: social and material systems, road and rail, which are all ‘media’ in McLuhan’s highly fuzzy sense. NSW Rail communication systems were cumbrously linear, slow (3 to 5 days) and narrow. In the solution, communication cut across institutional divisions, mediated by responsive, fuzzy complex humans. If the problem came from a highly complex system, the solution is a complex response on many fronts: planning, engineering, social and communication systems open to unpredictable input from other surrounding systems. As NSW Rail would have been well aware, the story responded to another context. The page was headed ‘Battle for NSW’, referring to an election in 2 weeks, in which this newspaper editorialised that the incumbent government should be thrown out. This political context is clearly part of the complexity of the newspaper message, which tries to link not just the carbon strip and ‘chaos’, but science and politics, this strip and the government’s credibility. Yet the government was returned with a substantial though reduced majority, not the swingeing defeat that might have been predicted by linear logic (rail chaos = electoral defeat) or by some interpretations of the butterfly effect. But complexity-3 does not say that every small cause produces catastrophic effects. On the contrary, it says that causal situations can be so complex that we can never be entirely sure what effects will follow from any given case. The political situation in all its complexity is an inseparable part of the minimal complex situation which NSW Rail must take into account as it considers how to reform its operations. It must make complexity in all its senses a friend and ally, not just a source of nasty surprises. My relationship with NSW Rail at the moment is purely imaginary, but illustrates positive and negative aspects of complexity as an organising principle for MaC researchers today. The unlimited complexity of Humanities’ complexity-4, Derridean and Foucauldian, can be liberating alongside the sometimes excessive scepticism of Complexity-2, but needs to keep in touch with the ambivalence of popular complexity-1. Complexity-3 connects with complexity-2 and 4 to hold the bundle together, in a more complex, cohesive, yet still unstable dynamic structure. It is this total sprawling, inchoate, contradictory (‘complex’) brand of complexity that I believe will play a key role in the up-coming intellectual revolution. But only time will tell. References Baker, Jordan, and Anne Davies. “Carbon Strip Caused Train Chaos.” Sydney Morning Herald 17 Mar. 2007: 7. Derrida, Jacques. Of Grammatology. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1976. Dick, Tim. “Law Is Now Too Complex for Juries to Understand, Says Judge.” Sydney Morning Herald 26 Mar. 2007: 4. Empson, William. Seven Types of Ambiguity. London: Chatto and Windus, 1930. Foucault, Michel. “The Order of Discourse.” In Archaeology of Knowledge, trans. A.M Sheridan Smith. London: Tavistock, 1972. Gibbons, Michael. The New Production of Knowledge. London: Sage, 1994. Lorenz, Edward. The Essence of Chaos. London: University College, 1993. Lyotard, Jean-Francois. The Postmodern Condition. Manchester: Manchester UP, 1984. McLuhan, Marshall. Understanding Media. London: Routledge, 1964. Mandelbrot, Benoit. “The Fractal Geometry of Nature.” In Nina Hall, ed. The New Scientist Guide to Chaos. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1963. Nowottny, Henry. Rethinking Science. London: Polity, 2001. Snow, Charles Percy. The Two Cultures and the Scientific Revolution. London: Faber 1959. Urry, John. Global Complexity. London: Sage, 2003. Zadeh, Lotfi Asker. “Outline of a New Approach to the Analysis of Complex Systems and Decision Processes.” ILEE Transactions on Systems, Man, and Cybernetics 3.1 (1973): 28-44. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Hodge, Bob. "The Complexity Revolution." M/C Journal 10.3 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0706/01-hodge.php>. APA Style Hodge, B. (Jun. 2007) "The Complexity Revolution," M/C Journal, 10(3). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0706/01-hodge.php>.

Chapter 3 examines the material poetics of relation that contribute to the Juan Luis Martínez-assembled 1970s artist’s book La nueva novela. It is constructed from such diverse parts as: visual maths problems in which, for example, a painting of Rimbaud and a military jacket minus a shoe, a boot and a sock equals suspenders, a spat and a sock; metal fishhooks taped to a page; riddles and circular problems of logic; other people’s poems; musical scores; drawings, for example, of a pipe split in half (titled ‘Meditations on René Magritte’ and dedicated to Foucault); among many other things. This chapter turns to Édouard Glissant’s ‘poetics of relation’ and Manuel DeLanda’s elaboration of ‘assemblage theory’. By bringing together these texts, which both draw from Deleuze and Guattari’s concept of the rhizome, this chapter demonstrates poetry’s condition of being is as a ‘multiplicity’, one that, as Martínez says, ‘operate[s] permanently in every direction’. By comparing how the book’s contents work to both bind it together as a whole and unbind it into a near-infinite network of pieces that can and do belong to other assemblages, this chapter makes a case for understanding books and their contents as bound by relations of exteriority.