Journal articles: 'Picture-writing. [from old catalog]' – Grafiati (2024)

Abstract:

The article is devoted to Cyrillic handwritten books of the XIII–XIX centuries, created in the Romanian principalities, and stored today in the manuscript collections of the Russian State Library. The uniqueness of the writing system, functioning in the principalities (Wallachia, Moldavia, Transylvania) since their political formation, is that it was a Cyrillic script based on the old Slavic language with a predominant Roman-speaking population. In course of the writing system’ development in the principalities, there was a transition from the Slavic font to the Latin one; the intermediate result of this transition was the creation of monuments written in Romanian language with Cyrillic script. The main stages of this process are considered by reference to the specific examples of unique handwritten books and their fragments that have become objects for collecting by scientists, antiquaries, and Old Believers, whose book collections have formed the basis of the handwritten collections of the Russian State Library. They are the oldest Cyrillic manuscripts and their fragments dated to the XII–XIV centuries, found on the territory of Romania, Slavic manuscripts, produced mainly in monasteries of principalities in the XV–XVII centuries, translations of individual words into the Romanian language in the rewritten Slavic texts in the XVI century; the glosses and comments in Romanian on the margins of Slavic manuscripts in the XVI–XVIII centuries; numerous notes in the Romanian language in the manuscripts of the XVI–XVIII centuries, made by owners and readers; translations of literary monuments, including bilingual (Slavic–Romanian) and trilingual (Slavic–Latin–Romanian) versions in the XVI–XVIII centuries; Romanian–Slavic and Slavic–Romanian dictionaries in the XVII–XVIII centuries; letters and their copies in the Romanian language (sureties) in the XVI–XIX centuries. The article is an intermediate outcome of studying and describing Cyrillic Romanian handwritten books in the collections of the Russian State Library, which will result in the publication of a hard–copy catalog.

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The purpose of the article is to identify the “author’s prints” of Ilya Ilf and Evgeny Petrov in the novels “Dvenadtsat’ stul’ev” (“The twelve chairs”) and “Zolotoy telenok” (“Golden calf”) through highlighting the both writers’ contribution to the fusion of inspiration and jokes. A detailed comparison of Petrov’s “pre-Ilf” and Ilf’s “pre-Petrov” works with their co-written texts demonstrates that the co-authors definitely used accumulated literary material in creating the novels: the “common cauldron” contained their previous plots and images. The article is based on a textual analysis of Ilf’s and Petrov’s stories and feuilletons published in the Moscow press before they started writing together, as well as the texts written in the process of creating the dilogy. In previous research on the Ilf and Petrov’s work, the links between their early texts and the co-written dilogy were either unsystematically presented, or tried to track the path of the “literary evolution” of Ilf and Pertov, who had been gradually honing their idiostyle and writing technique. It was often done without following rigid structure and not representing proper arguments. The article offers a classification of identified borrowings and references from Ilf and Petrov’s early texts. It contains systematized examples of various types and scales – from a single detail to a large fragment of the narrative. The catalog of “auto-references” confirms the regular character of borrowings: during the creation of “Dvenadtsat’ stul’ev” (“The twelve chairs”) and “Zolotoy telenok” (“Golden calf”), coauthors often used “previously formulated” phrase and motifs from works, which had been written separately. However, passages from feuilletons, as a rule, were transferred by writers to new novels not mechanically: in the novels “old” images were selected and developed by both authors.

Abstract:

Pictures use in an educational setting fits the idiom: old but gold. There have been plenty of studies revealing how good the use of pictures in the classrooms is. Pictures have been long known to have the ability to help motivate, demonstrate, and instruct the students during a learning process. This study is a sort of complement to the phenomenon as it focuses on researching the use of pictures in a classroom. Specifically, it aims at finding out the effectiveness of the use of picture cues in teaching writing.The study belongs to experimental research involving two groups of experiment and control. The eighth-grade students of a private junior high school in Central Java Indonesia are chosen as the subject of the research during 2017/2018 academic year. Employing a sample population technique, the study involves a total number of 56 students who are equally divided into 28 students as the experimental group and 28 students as the control group. The experimental group is taught using picture cues while the control group is taught without picture cues. Pre-test and post-test are used as techniques to collect the data. As for the data analysis technique, it’s done quantitatively applying both descriptive and inferential statistics.The result of the research shows that there is a significant difference in the students’ writing ability between those taught using picture cues and those who are not. This can be seen from the difference in the mean score between them. The result of the pre-test shows that at the beginning, both experimental and control groups have slightly different ability in writing with the mean scores 51.32 and 47.86 respectively. Meanwhile, the result of the post-test indicates an obvious difference between them in which the experimental group gains 65.75 as its mean score and the control group gets 59.14. Furthermore, the application of Independent t-test calculation results in a score of 0.000, which is lower than 0.05. This means that the use of picture cues is effective. Based on these results, it can be concluded that the use of picture cues is effective to teach writing to students.

Abstract:

<p><strong>Abstract.</strong> In about 1375, Jewish cartographers from Palma (de Mallorca), Cresques Abraham and his son Jehudà, have produced an outstanding work of the Majorcan cartographic school of the fourteenth century, the Catalan Atlas. The atlas contained the latest information on Africa, Asia, and China, therefore it was considered to be the most complete picture of geographical knowledge as it stood in the later Middle Ages. There was also some up-to-date information. One of the most important innovations has concerned the port of Hormuz in the Persian Gulf and its shift from the mainland (Old Hormuz) to the island of Jerun (since then named Hormuz). My paper compares information about Hormuz in the Catalan Atlas with that in the original texts just before and after the relocation of the city and port.</p>

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The author of the article writes about the establishment of the National Library of Uzbekistan, which was opened in 1870. The article also contains bibliographic descriptions of published materials of various periodicals of 1920–1930 of the last century. It should be noted that published materials before 1930 were written in Arabic writing and then in later years until 1940 in latin. It is particularly noted that in 1921 part of the library passes to the old district of the city of Tashkent under the name «Eastern Library». Book funds were mainly in Russian, Arabic and Tatar, as well as in Farsi. Many works were devoted to the social development of the library, such as the replenishment of the book fund, the purchase of library equipment and technological equipment for the use of readers. And in the same year began to keep records of books on catalogue cards to find the right books.

Abstract:

The paper explores the potentiality of an experimental multianalytic protocol with appropriate methodology for determining the chemical and morphostructural characteristics of two old documents on parchment support. Such a protocol can authenticate and assess the state of conservation under the influence of environmental factors during storage and archival documentation, thus advancing preventive and prophylactic measures in “treasure” deposits such as the National Archives of Romania, where these documents are kept. The work methodology consisted of three stages. The first stage consists of visual observation for identifying deteriorations and degradations, alongside the selection of representatives’ areas from where micro-samples were collected. The second stage involves Scanning Electron Microscopy coupled by Energy Dispersive X-ray Spectrometry (SEM-EDX) analysis, for highlighting the morphology and determining the elemental composition; lastly, the Fourier-transform infrared (FTIR) analysis and correlation of results establish the chemical and morphostructural changes. The use of this gradual system of analyses allowed determining the differences between these two documents in terms of the materials used for producing them, their manufacturing technologies, the writing and ornamentation, and the overall state of conservation. The results provided the first accurate picture of the chemical nature and manufacturing of the two parchment documents by determining the main characteristics of the collagen and of the finishing, writing, and decoration materials, in view of the natural aging through the oxidative and gelatinization processes of the collagen. The SEM-EDX results revealed the morphological changes of the parchment that occurred at various levels in the collagen fibrous mesh and established the state of conservation of the support, writing, and decorations.

Abstract:

ABSTRACT Several recent studies have shown that the Vela OB2 region hosts a complex constellation of sub-populations with ages in the range 10 to 50 Myr. Such populations might represent the best example of the outcome of clustered star formation in giant molecular clouds (GMCs). We use Gaia DR2 data over an area of 40 deg radius around the open cluster Collinder 135 to extend the study of the stellar populations of the Vela OB2 region over an area of several hundreds of parsecs on sky. Detailed clustering algorithms combined with the exquisite astrometric quality of the Gaia catalogue allow us to detect a new cluster named BBJ 1 that shows the same age as NGC 2547 (30 to 35 Myr), but located at a distance of 260 pc from it. Deeper investigation of the region via clustering in 5D parameter space and in the colour–magnitude diagram allows us to detect a filamentary structure of stars that bridges the two clusters. Given the extent in space of such structure (260 pc) and the young age (∼35 Myr), we exclude that such population originates by the same mechanism responsible to create tidal streams around older clusters. Even if we miss a complete picture of the 3D motion of the studied stellar structure because of the lack of accurate radial velocity measurements, we propose that such structure represents the detection of a 35-Myr-old outcome of a mechanism of filamentary star formation in a GMC.

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The ‘death’ of the social history of medicine was predicated on two insights from postmodern thinking: first, that ‘the social’ was an essentialist category strategically fashioned in the course of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; and second, that the disciplines of medicine and history-writing grew up together, the one (medicine) seeking to objectify the body, the other (history-writing) seeking to objectify the past. Not surprisingly, in the face of these revelations, historians of medicine retreated from the critical and ‘big-picture’ perspectives they entertained in the 1970s and 1980s. Their political flame went out, and doing the same old thing increasingly looked more like an apology for, than a critical inquiry into, medicine and its humanist project. Unable to face the present, let alone the future, they retreated from both, suffering the same paralysis of will as other historians stymied by the intellectual movement of postmodernism. Ironically, this occurred (occurs) at a moment when ‘medicine’ – writ large to include the biosciences and biotechnology – could easily be said to be the most relevant and compelling subject for understanding contemporary life and politics (global, local, and individual) and, as such, the place to justify the practice of history-writing as a whole. God knows, legitimacy has never been more urgent. But how can this be effected? Political action seems more likely than prayer. But let us begin by reviewing the nature of the problem that demands this response.

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AbstractMost of the galaxies in the local universe are located in groups, in particular in small groups, and most of the transformations suffered by galaxies located in today's clusters are likely to have occurred in groups at higher redshifts. Understanding the formation and evolution of groups is essential to understand the whole picture of structures and galaxy build-up. Using multi-band photometry we studied the intragroup light component (IGL) observed in compact groups of galaxies in a subsample of Hickson's catalogue, an efficient tool for determining its stage of dynamical evolution and for mapping its gravitational potential. Applying the OV_WAV package, a wavelet based technique, we can identify the IGL independently of the main contaminating effects. The fractions of IGL detected range from 11% to 46%, with one group with no IGL detected. The colors are consistent with those for old stellar populations and the mean surface brightnesses range from 24.8 to 28.4 B mag arcsec−2. Using the IGL, along with other dynamical evolution indicators, we could establish an evolutionary sequence for our sample.

Abstract:

This study was an attempt to compare and contrast the frequency of the use of cohesive devices in<br />independent and integrated essays written by 95 upper-intermediate Iranian EFL learners to find out<br />about any possible changes in the type and frequency of using cohesive devices due to the nature of the<br />writing task. The participants were native speakers of Farsi between 18 to 30 years old, studying<br />English as a foreign language in an English language center in Yazd, Iran. The sample included 58<br />female and 37 male students. They were asked to compose an integrated argumentative essay after<br />reading a text and listening to a lecture on the same topic as it is designed in TOEFL iBT® writing test.<br />The participants first completed an independent task which had a prompt to write about and then<br />completed an integrated writing task with a two-week interval between the writing sessions. The tasks<br />were taken from the TOEFL iBT® writing task. Results indicated that there was a significant difference<br />in the use of almost all types of cohesive devices between the two conditions with the independent task<br />producing essays with lower cohesive device counts. The results revealed that in terms of textual<br />cohesion, the participants preferred using anaphoric references to cataphoric references while<br />substitution and ellipsis in both independent and integrated sample writings were rarely used. The<br />students were also found to be better at using references and lexical cohesion in their integrated<br />writings than in their independent essays. Finally, it can be concluded that the integrated writing task<br />has positive effects on the students’ use of cohesive devices. The results of this study provide evidence<br />on the effect of test method on writing performance and may advocate the use of integrated writing<br />tasks to provide a better picture of students' writing abilities.

Abstract:

Since the Korean language has two distinct writing systems, phonogram (Hangul) and ideogram (Hanja: Chinese characters), alexia can present with dissociative disturbances in reading between the two systems. A 74-year-old right-handed man presented with a prominent reading impairment in Hangul with agraphia of both Hangul and Hanja after a left posterior occipital- parietal lesion. He could not recognize single syllable words and nonwords in Hangul, and visual errors were predominant in both Hanja reading and the Korean Boston Naming Test. In addition, he had difficulties in visuoperceptual tests including Judgment of Line Orientation, Hierarchical Navon figures, and complex picture scanning. These findings are consistent with the hypothesis that Hangul reading impairment results from a general visual perceptual deficit. However, this assumption cannot explain why performance on visually complex Hanja was better than performance on visually simple Hanja in our patient. In addition, the patient did not demonstrate higher accuracy on Hanja characters with fewer strokes than on words with more strokes. Thus, we speculate that the left posterior occipital area may be specialized for Hangul letter identification in this patient. This case demonstrates that Hangul-Hanja reading dissociation impairment can occur after occipital-parietal lesions.

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Abstract The production of the play by Bulgarian playwright Yordan Radichkov An Attempt at Flying (premiered on 22 March 1980 at the Pavol Orzságh Hviezdoslav Theatre) is one of the most successful plays in the history of Slovak National Theatre Drama. The text-metaphor of the old age longing of mankind to fly and to recognize the unrecognizable, even for just a moment, offers on the axis of “magical realism” or grotesque realism”, in the words of the author, a humanistic picture of life and ideas in which the characters live their everyday life, they start a magical fantasy game and express many truths of the life. This article draws attention to the production of director Pavel Haspra through analysis of the play’s text, the production script and the TV recording of one of the last stage performances. Altogether over six years (from March 1980 to June 1987), 148 performances took place, both domestic and Czech critics writing about the extraordinary acting of all the participants. One cannot omit the significance and theatrical contribution of Vladimir Suchánek’s scenography vision with several symbolic and metaphorical dimensions (a hay cart hanging in the air, through which the villagers, who longed for just a moment of freedom, fulfilled their dreams).

Abstract:

Norwid’s concept of Literary Originality in the Light of the History of Poetics The article presents Norwid’s concept of literary originality with reference to selected terms from the European theory of poetry. Norwid’s reflections about writing function predominantly within the confines of his philosophical concepts, which were mostly inspired by the philosophy of Plato and Christian thought and were related to his vision of God, the world, man, and artist. One can discover, however, a rich set of terms coming from traditional poetics in the works of the author of Quidam. Norwid’s thinking about originality is firmly rooted in tradition and links diverse inspirations and threads in a distinctive way. As such it shows telling paradoxes by containing unequivocal objection to imitating nature and exemplary works. At the same time, it underscores Norwid’s reliance on the old masters, advocates for the freedom and authenticity of artists, and highlights the role of the form in the creative process. While not dismissing the contradictory categories of ‘obscurity’ and fragmentariness, Norwid also pays attention to the value of artistic perfection. His concepts do not form a closed system of aesthetic views. Instead, they constitute an elastic catalogue of indications whose employment requires combined work of the imagination, intellect, and emotions as well as the alertness of one’s conscience and spiritual energy. Norwid believed that the primary duty of art was expressing the truth about the world.

Abstract:

As I was writing this introduction, Guinea-Bissau was rocked by yet another “political crisis.” On the night of March 1 and 2, 2009, the army chief of staff, General Batista Tagme Na Waie, and the president of Guinea-Bissau, João Bernardino “Nino” Vieira, were killed in the space of a few hours. As was to be expected, articles mushroomed in the international press in the following days, sporting headlines that we have long since become accustomed to, such as “Guinea-Bissau Collapse Deepens after Leader Killed” (Pitman 2009) or “Guinea-Bissau Threatens Return to Bad Old Days in Africa” (George 2009). An article by the Economist Intelligence Unit was entitled—with a literary touch reminiscent of Conrad's Heart of Darkness—“Edge of the Abyss.” These days Guinea-Bissau, particularly since the 1998–99 civil war, seems to be the poster child for all the negativity generally attributed to African countries, an overlapping of political, economic, and humanitarian crises, in blatant confirmation of the picture of “shadowy Africa” that James Ferguson pinpoints as one of the features of international discourse on Africa today (2006:15,190).Despite these clichéd articles (identical in tone to those that have appeared during the various crises that have characterized the last decade of Guinea-Bissau's history) and pessimistic forecasts from international experts, these violent events have not triggered any real political or civil turmoil. The following morning the capital city, Bissau, was calm. The army leaders declared that they had no intention of intervening in the upcoming elections.

Abstract:

This article aims to identify ways of verbalization of the image of the Motherland in S.A. Yesenin’s poems and to analyze the possible individual author's features of including of these elements into the text by the author. The feeling of Motherland is at the heart of the worldview of S.A. Yesenin, Motherland is the source from which he draws strength. Yesenin and Russia - the relation of these words is indissoluble. Such an attitude to Motherland could not fail to find realization in the poet's work, and we see that S.A. Yesenin's poems are filled with love for Motherland - for Russia, for Ryazan. The purpose of the proposed research is an attempt to consider with the help of which lexemes the author verbalizes the image of Motherland in his work. After the analysis we came to following conclusions: for explication of the image of motherland poet uses lexemes homeland, Russia. The lexeme motherland is used by the author in this spelling, without using a capital letter. Such a spelling, in connection with traditions, denotes the homeland as the place of birth, and not the country as a whole. We believe that the use of the lexeme motherland in the variant of writing with a small letter is due to the division of Motherland into large and small in the poet's picture of the world; for S.A. Yesenin motherland is Russia, to which so much attention is paid in poet's works. As an individual author's features of the verbalization of the image of motherland we can also note the use of the lexeme Rus ’ which was used to designate the territory of the Old Russian state. We believe that this use is associated with the poet's desire for imagery, typical of the representatives of the imagism movement, to which S.A. Yesenin belonged. Also for the verbalization of the image of the motherland author uses the lexemes Raseya, Rasseya; in addition, when analyzing the texts of poems, it is possible to distinguish all sorts of descriptive turns that explicate the image of the motherland in the picture of the world of S.A. Yesenin.

Abstract:

Everything has been changing all the time in our world. It concerns language and literature as well. New traditions are being formed, and old ones die. Literary activity (creativity) could not avoid such changes: flexible natural form (shape) came instead of classical writing, instead of classical writing, great and sentimental, inherent to French literature. Bokacho`s Style and perfectionism in language mean following the rules of language standard, starting from XIII century and finishing XVIII. Padre Grande was criticized too for glorification of Toskana literary language and humiliation of local dialects. Outstanding personality of Dzhuzeppe Parini appears in early period of defining his positions, ignoring linguistic polemics, avoiding different extremes and exaggerations. Parini demonstrates society in ironic style, old such as “batrachomyomachia” – ironic “Illiada”, Moskeida” – Orlando`s statements: epical forms reflect plebeian picture of the world. Irony – is a kind of obsolete society, which didn`t understand its decline. Obsolete does its best to pretend modern, the more proud is the style, the poorer it is. This is the essence of Parini`s conception incarnated in his literary work “Giorno”(Day) which is based on irony, deep and sad. There are no doubts, that after the research and discuss about Parini, after publications of the translation in Spanish, not only ceased, but gained great interest of literary researches. It is clear, that some mistakes in translations were done, but we are not judges. The most important is basic content which is presented in the introduction of A. Prieto. Analyzing translator`s mistakes from Italian language of original text into Spanish we have to focus on key phrase of Maris Isabel Honsales-Fernandes, that Spanish has not a lot in common with Italian. It is evident especially in translation of lexical units, where the translator did mistakes, that demonstrates not appropriate level of Italian language knowledge. We can call this phenomenon “amici falsi del traduttore”, ignorance of particular lexis and meaning that lexical unit can have in both languages. This ignorance led to misunderstanding even to ugliness and curvature of original text. The translator Marselo Arroyita-Chauresi, who is a poet himself, is much more to be desired. He has tried to follow the text of original in some cases. But he was not successful in his attempts. You can just imagine Spanish translation to be translated into language of original even being of 200 years old, which we could receive. Not a proper level of the Italian language and misunderstanding of some words, which in Spanish and Italian sound the same way. Translator`s work – hard labour which needs flawless knowledge of the language of original not to loose while translating artistic value or even to deface author`s concept. It just verifies common known truth: not to ignore even the slightest peculiarities of the text of original. The translator has to know lexis and a grammar perfectly, be able to use translator`s transformations in order to avoid such phenomena as failed translation and misrepresentation of the content of the text, especially if it is a poetry.

Abstract:

The development of information technologies has formed a socio-economic request to reduce the age at which children can be introduced to programming. After 6 years’ efforts, the authors managed to develop and on a large scale introduce a one-year programming course for preschoolers, which is built on a metaphor of programmed control. During the course development, a set of basic programming concepts was selected and specified to be mastered by preschoolers aged 6+ in the activity-game form. This set of concepts goes back to Seymour Papert's ideas about teaching programming by writing programs that control moving objects using intuitive sets of commands. The main feature of the proposed system of concepts, allow at the initial stage of training to demonstrate and assimilate all the elements of the concept in the real, not in the virtual world. In the picture of the World, which we explain and demonstrate to children, only one function remains at the computer - the execution of the program it has memorized. Everything else happens in the real world. In the real world, an environment is created in which a real robot will move. In the real world, a program is created from tangible objects, which will then be "shown" to the computer so that it stores it in its memory and can then execute it at the command of a human. In the real world, obeying the signals of the computer, the robot performs the work stipulated by the program. This allows you to begin acquaintance with the programming of children from 4 years old, without working individually or collectively with electronic screens, which in today's Russia is prohibited by federal medical authorities in the educational process of children under 5 years old. The course is built on the text-free pictographic programming system PiktoMir developed by Russian Academy of Sciences. The methodological content of the course allows each preschooler to gain experience in the development and debugging of 120-150 simple programs by the end of the course. The final part of the article discusses the authors' plans for the development of a three-year textless programming course, methodologically and instrumentally connected with the primary school programming course.

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AbstractSince the 1993 publication, in this journal, of an article about Philips Wouwerman (1619-1668), little new information about the artist has emerged. There have been some shorter publications and recently a monograph with a catalogue raisonné of Wouwerman. The 1993 article discussed roughly two dozen dated works. In addition there are a few references to dated paintings in old sale catalogues. Among these was a Calvary, known to be dated 1651. This painting has recently been rediscovered (fig. i). It is in excellent condition and forms an important addition to the artist's known work, not only because it is dated, but also because its biblical subject is unusual for the artist. The crucifixion itself is given a relatively modest place in the composition. It is possible that an engraving by Lucas van Leyden inspired Wouwerman when he painted the scene. Stylistically the painting fits with Wouwerman's other works from around 1652. Certain aspects of the composition are reminiscent of his earlier work, but the rendering of landscape and figures, and the use of colour arc characteristic of his canvases from the period 1652-1654, for example Peasants making merry in front of an inn of 1653, now in Minneapolis (fig. 2) and the Peasant wedding in the Samuel Collection at the Mansion House, London. The painting was probably sold at auction in Amsterdam in 1709, together with two other New Testament scenes by Wouwerman, and a Crucifixion of 1661 by Karel du Jardin. Hofstede de Groot noted that the latter work and Wouwerman's Calvary were paintcd in response to a competition announced by the Count of Wassenaar, but this seems untenable. If both pieces were indeed painted for one collector, it seems more likely that this was Jacob Cromhout from Amsterdam. The rediscovery of the Calvary adds important information to our picture of Wouwerman and reminds us that he was not just a successful painter of horse scenes. It also provided a helpful reference point for the chronology of his mostly undated work.

Abstract:

Few Britons could resist the powerful rhetoric of Winston Churchill, whose words to the House of Commons in June 1940 (Churchill 1989) called upon all men, women, and children to do their utmost to serve the war effort. During the worst of the bombings, from 1940 to 1941, in what came to be known as “the blitz,” London and its populace were transformed. J. B. Priestly noted that “for once, [we] felt free, companionable, even—except while waiting for the explosions—lighthearted.” Fear, anxiety, the sense of struggle, or so the story goes, pulled Londoners together and united them in a sense of camaraderie that broke down centuries-old class barriers (Ziegler 1995, 165–166).Among the commonly accepted myths of the British participation in the Second World War was this one—perpetuated by British authorities and some later historians—that all classes and all people were united in common cause against the enemy. While true on some levels, the picture of an island nation joined in communal sacrifice during the “People's War” masks the underlying societal anxieties that muffled differences of opinion and threatened those who did not adopt accepted notions of patriotism. Vera Brittain, writing at a key point during the world conflict, noted that the Nazi invasions of Europe “produced a rising clamour against unpopular minorities throughout England,” and that “both government and people are temporarily seized by a panic of suspicion” (Brittain 1941, 33). In his examination of the twentieth-century manifestations of British nationalism, Patrick Wright, for one, noted that exclusionary impulses, emerging under the threat of foreign invasion, were linked to subtle but prevalent patterns of anti-Semitism prior to and during the war years (Wright 1985).

Abstract:

Resumo: A coletânea, Descendo a Rua da Bahia (2017), torna público escritos íntimos de Carlos Drummond de Andrade e Pedro Nava, que se encontram no Arquivo Museu de Literatura Brasileira (AMLB), da Fundação Casa de Rui Barbosa. São 63 documentos, datados de 1926 a 1983, onde os dois autores falam de si, dos amigos, dos projetos de vida, além de fornecerem ao leitor uma descrição da realidade sócio-política do Brasil da época. As cartas, os cartões, os bilhetes e outros documentos testemunham uma amizade que teve início quando Nava, médico recém-formado, escrevia de Belo Horizonte ao Carlos, residente em Itabira do Mato Dentro. Amizade que se fez sólida e que não se dissolveu com o passar dos anos. Para promover uma convivência mais íntima com o material encontrado, a correspondência é contextualizada por notas e enriquecida por fotos. Traz ainda crônicas, discursos e poemas que atestam a afinidade literária que existia entre eles e, sobretudo, a afeição profunda, à prova de qualquer desatino.Palavras-chave: Carlos Drummond de Andrade; Pedro Nava; correspondência; arquivos.Abstract:The collection Descendo a Rua da Bahia (2017) unveils the private writings of Carlos Drummond de Andrade and Pedro Nava. These writings can be found at the Arquivo Museu de Literatura Brasileira (AMLB) of Fundação Casa de Rui Barbosa. There are 63 documents, from 1926 to 1983, in which both writers portray themselves, their friends and life projects. While doing so, they provide a picture of the socio-political reality of the country at that time. The letters, the postcards, the notes and other documents published attest an old friendship, which started when Nava, a newly graduated doctor from Belo Horizonte, was writing to Carlos, who lived in Itabira do Mato Dentro. In order to closely approach the material, notes and photographs help to provide a context for the analysis of such correspondence. It also contains narratives, speeches and poems that attest their literary affinity and the deep affection that existed between them, regardless of any madness.Keywords: Carlos Drummond de Andrade; Pedro Nava; correspondence; archives.

Abstract:

Such was George Orwell's vision of suburban life in his 1939 novel Coming Up for Air – a vision of mindless, middle-class consumerism teetering always on the edge of financial ruin – a domestic life-in-death. Over the course of the twentieth century, suburbia has become the topos of bourgeois complacency, the locus of psychic decline. Strange, then, to think that at the end of the nineteenth century, two of Europe's Decadent writers – Max Beerbohm and Joris-Karl Huysmans – could find in the suburbs of London and Paris an aesthetic retreat from the snares of bourgeois urban life. In 1884, Huysmans published Against Nature, the paragon of fin-de-siècle Decadent fiction which recounts the movement of the syphilitic aristocrat, Duc Jean Floressas des Esseintes, from the centre of Paris to the suburban village of Fontenay-aux-Roses where he constructs his anti-bourgeois aesthetic hermitage. Over ten years later, in 1896, Beerbohm published his satirical essay “Diminuendo,” in which the twenty-four-year-old writer announces his retirement from the literary world and his subsequent retreat to a quiet life of aesthetic contemplation in a London suburb. Needless to say, these suburban havens are a far cry from Orwell's sordid account of pre-war suburbia's obsession with false teeth and life insurance. Though only a little over fifty years separate Against Nature and Coming Up for Air, the suburbs of Huysmans and Orwell seem worlds apart. No one could imagine Des Esseintes's leather-bound study in the “Hesperides Estates,” and it seems unthinkable to picture Beerbohm locking himself away in a library amidst the cacophony of squealing infants and nagging housewives. The suburbs seem the least likely place in which the Decadent or dandy might thrive, and yet in Against Nature and “Diminuendo,” Huysmans and Beerbohm depict the suburbs as the last refuge of the man of taste. How could this be? What are these fin-de-siècle suburbs of London and Paris, and what do they signify in Huysmans's and Beerbohm's writing? These are the central questions I pose in this study of the Decadents’ retreat from urban life.

Abstract:

AbstractA portrait of a young girl with a flute, painted by the Amsterdam artist Dirck Dircksz. Santvoort, has been in the Cleveland Museum of Art since 1975 (fig.1). An inscription on the back of the unsigned painting states that the portrayed child is 'Elisabeth Spiegel'. The museum catalogue relates this painting with two other portraits of children: another unsigned one of a girl with fruit (fig. 3) and a signed painting, dated 1639, of a girl with a dog and a mirror (fig. 2). A fourth work can be added to these three, a picture of a child with a bird perched on her hand, in the National Gallery in London (fig. 4). Contrary to previous assumptions that it was painted in 1630 or 1631, it can now be dated in 1639. The choice of attributes suggest, as was recently intimated by Peter Sutton, that these portraits belong to a series of the Five Senses, the Cleveland painting representing Hearing, and the girls with fruit, the dog and mirror, and the bird picturing Taste, Sight and Touch. The fifth sense, Smell, is probably symbolized in a painting in the museum in Rodez (fig. 5), showing a girl dressed as a shepherdess with a wreath of flowers. Parallels of all depictions of the Senses arc to be found in series of prints and paintings from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Pictures of the Senses in portraits are fairly rare, and were of course only painted when a series of exactly five portraits was required, for instance by a family with five children. An investigation of the Spiegel family confirms the identification given here, yielding the information that in 1638/1639 Elbert Dircksz. Spiegel and Petronella Rocters had five daughters. The portrayed children are Rebecca (fig. 3), Elisabeth (fig. I), Petronella (fig. 5), Margaretha (fig. 2) and Geertruyt Spiegel (fig. 4), born respectively in 1625, 1628, 1630, 1631 and 1635. Evidence that the descendants of the sisters portrayed by Santvoort upheld the tradition of the Five Senses theme in the late seventeenth century is supplied bv an old inventory of a series of portraits of five children from the Slicher family. The respective mothers of their parents, Elbert Slicher and Catharina dc Hochepied, were Elisabeth and Geertruyt Spiegel.

Abstract:

Uitgangspunt van deze bijdrage vormt een schilderijtje dat de jonge Hugo Claus vervaardigde in 1945, minder dan een jaar nadat hij met zijn familie zijn thuisstad Kortrijk was ontvlucht om aan de straatrepressie te ontkomen. Net zoals in vele andere schilderijen en gedichten van eerst geradicaliseerde en vervolgens gedesillusioneerde Vlaams-nationalisten die in de directe nasleep van de repressie tot stand kwamen, wordt in dit traditioneel-rurale tafereel een eeuwig vruchtbaar Vlaanderen opgeroepen dat – zo wordt in deze bijdrage betoogd – als een symbolische compensatie functioneert voor het uitblijven van een eigen natie. Pas in 1952, wanneer hij zijn Oostakkerse gedichten (1955) begint te schrijven, onderneemt Claus voor het eerst een volwaardige, zij het nog vrij intuïtieve poging om dergelijke discursieve landschappen en de politieke gevaren ervan op losse schroeven te zetten. Om tot een goed begrip van deze gedichten te komen, wordt in deze bijdrage daarom eerst een beeld geschetst van de beladen literaire en schilderkundige traditie waarin het wezenlijk-Vlaamse landschap een topos vormt en waartegen Claus zich later zal verzetten. Inzichten uit de internationale theorievorming rond landschap dienen daarbij als inspiratie voor een discours-analytische lezing van zowel deze traditie als Claus’ kritiek erop.__________ ‘Black hay, burned ricks [Zwart hooi, verbrande oppers]’. Hugo Claus and the dangers of an essentially Flemish landscape The starting point of this paper is a painting made by the sixteen-year old Hugo Claus in 1945, less than a year after he and his family had fled from their hometown Kortrijk in order to escape from the postwar street violence. As in so many other paintings and poems depicted by radicalised Flemish nationalists who became disillusioned after the war, this traditionalrural picture evokes a perpetually fertile Flanders which – as is argued in this paper – functions as a symbolic compensation for the enduring absence of a proper nation. It is only in 1952, when he starts writing his De Oostakkerse gedichten (1952), that Claus attempts to perturb such discursive landscapes and their inherent political dangers in a fully-fledged, yet rather intuitive, manner. To favour a good understanding of these poems, this paper first elaborates on the image of the controversial literary and painterly tradition criticised by Claus in which the essential-Flemish landscape functions as a topos. Observations from international landscape theories serve as a guideline for a discourse-analytic lecture of this tradition and Claus’s critique.

Abstract:

Uitgangspunt van deze bijdrage vormt een schilderijtje dat de jonge Hugo Claus vervaardigde in 1945, minder dan een jaar nadat hij met zijn familie zijn thuisstad Kortrijk was ontvlucht om aan de straatrepressie te ontkomen. Net zoals in vele andere schilderijen en gedichten van eerst geradicaliseerde en vervolgens gedesillusioneerde Vlaams-nationalisten die in de directe nasleep van de repressie tot stand kwamen, wordt in dit traditioneel-rurale tafereel een eeuwig vruchtbaar Vlaanderen opgeroepen dat – zo wordt in deze bijdrage betoogd – als een symbolische compensatie functioneert voor het uitblijven van een eigen natie. Pas in 1952, wanneer hij zijn Oostakkerse gedichten (1955) begint te schrijven, onderneemt Claus voor het eerst een volwaardige, zij het nog vrij intuïtieve poging om dergelijke discursieve landschappen en de politieke gevaren ervan op losse schroeven te zetten. Om tot een goed begrip van deze gedichten te komen, wordt in deze bijdrage daarom eerst een beeld geschetst van de beladen literaire en schilderkundige traditie waarin het wezenlijk-Vlaamse landschap een topos vormt en waartegen Claus zich later zal verzetten. Inzichten uit de internationale theorievorming rond landschap dienen daarbij als inspiratie voor een discours-analytische lezing van zowel deze traditie als Claus’ kritiek erop.__________ ‘Black hay, burned ricks [Zwart hooi, verbrande oppers]’. Hugo Claus and the dangers of an essentially Flemish landscape The starting point of this paper is a painting made by the sixteen-year old Hugo Claus in 1945, less than a year after he and his family had fled from their hometown Kortrijk in order to escape from the postwar street violence. As in so many other paintings and poems depicted by radicalised Flemish nationalists who became disillusioned after the war, this traditionalrural picture evokes a perpetually fertile Flanders which – as is argued in this paper – functions as a symbolic compensation for the enduring absence of a proper nation. It is only in 1952, when he starts writing his De Oostakkerse gedichten (1952), that Claus attempts to perturb such discursive landscapes and their inherent political dangers in a fully-fledged, yet rather intuitive, manner. To favour a good understanding of these poems, this paper first elaborates on the image of the controversial literary and painterly tradition criticised by Claus in which the essential-Flemish landscape functions as a topos. Observations from international landscape theories serve as a guideline for a discourse-analytic lecture of this tradition and Claus’s critique.

Abstract:

Setting problems. The Ukrainian Irmologions represent to our contemporaries the musical and analytical knowledge common in the medieval Ukraine. In line with study of the Ukrainian musical-theoretical heritage, it is important to understand what problems our distant predecessors were solving and how they solved them. Relevance of the study. Studying written sources of the formation of Ukrainian science on music, today turn mainly to the first handwritten treatises, "Grammar of Music" by M. Diletsky. However, the traditions of analytical comprehension of music developed in Ukraine a little earlier and were reflected in writing in Irmologions. It is time to analyze this stage in the evolution of Ukrainian scientific and musical thought. Analysis of recent researches and publications. P. Matsenko noted the analytical abilities of the printers of that time, which were similar to the experience of the Irmologionists' scribes. M. Antonovych noticed different principles of styling in handwritten and printed Irmoologions, etc. O. Tsalay-Yakymenko approached the topic of the beginnings of the Ukrainian musical and theore-tical thought mainly in the direction of musical pedagogy. The Catalogue of the notolinium Irmologions by Yu. Yasinovsky made it possible to a separate special study of musical and analytical knowledgeof their authors-copyists. The purpose of this article. The purpose of the proposed study is the most complete and comprehensive characteristic of the medieval stage of development of the Ukrainian musical and theoretical thought with its worldview, spiritual, aesthetic and musical-stylistic traditions, views and norms. Summary of the research. The Ukrainian Irmoloy is a multi-genre song collection, skillfully composed of various (local and borrowed) songs. At the same time, these books contain all kinds of additional information that is carried in the margins of the text by glosses and interpolations. They show not only the acquired singing experience, but also the established system of the corresponding analytical knowledge. Thus, the songs were selected according to local traditions, local preferences, customs of local schools, aesthetic tastes of their scribes. The scribes were well versed in the origin of the songs that lived in their environment. Some of them pointed out the linguistic translation of the song, which, together with its musical translation from nonlinear notation to new linear notes, contributed to the spread of foreign musical material in the repertoire of local singers. The knowledge of genres is evidenced by "scars", "registers" – lists of material contained in Irmologion. The scribes were quite literate people: they combined the activities of professional musicians and skilled copyistseditors-creators of music Irmologions. Appendices to the main text – "Alphabets" – were brief summaries of initial information on the elementary theory of music. Results and their significance. The versatile activity of secular scribes-singers took place meaningfully, on the basis of certain knowledge and practical experience. Particularly noticeable is the knowledge of theological practice, genre diversity, developed musical thinking and hearing, which contributed to the rapid spread of the norms of the European tonal-harmonic system, and also figurative imagination and natural symbolic thinking, which ensured the unmistakable translation of the old Kyiv backdrop writing into a standardized noto-linear notation. Performing skills "gave the right" to edit the musical text according to their tastes and training in the environment of a particular creative school. The study of the note-linear irmoloys as indicators of early fixation of analytical comprehension of the ancient Ukrainian liturgical creativity proves that it was born long before the appearance of its first written evidence.

Abstract:

In this article, Anatolia tattoo tradition and art are examinated of Tunceli culture. Tattoo is accepted the first father of writing is defined to aim of decoration or giving message and to paint specific cultural figures to the body and lower part of skin surface. Tattoo is one of subject of social sciences especially sociology and antropology, tattoo is dating back to old periods of history, and it is seen in all societies as a cultural object. The tattoo is also a colorful elemen of Anatolian civilization. As a sociological context of tattoo is used to show an occupation group as a ‘mark’, social statute or tribe and tariqat of a person’s society. However, there is a belief such as Anatolian tattoo motifs protect to people from illness and the evi leye and these motifs bring beauty and bravery.Anatolia tattoo art is a general expression of composition of different local specifics. Tunceli region is the most specific city in Turkey with its geographical density of ‘Alevi’ and ‘Kurd’ identities. More than 90% population in Tunceli, societies are formed from tribes and these tribes are different from general society. According to this information, the aim of this research is to describe Tunceli tattoo art, which is estimated specific, and to determine its similarities and differences from Anatolia tattoo art. At the same time, this information are quality to assist in Anatolia tattoo art literature.Datas in Article are gotten after face-to-face interviews, which are prepared by researches via their developed standart question form, and 15 people (who had tattooes on their body) in 2010 in Tunceli. Tunceli tatoo art sample pictures are presented in Article’s addition part (with approval of source people).The general result from the research is: (1) Tunceli tattoos are not Picture; they are ideogram form of Picture. (2) Tunceli tattoo technique is not more different from East and South-East Anatolia regions. (3) Ethnic or religious figures are not dominant in Tunceli tattoos. (4) Tribe’s figurs also are not dominant in Tunceli tattoos. (5) According to this, Tunceli tattoos can be evaluated a kind of figur in Anatolia tattoo tradition. (6) In Sociological, interest of traditional tattoo art is decreased in Tunceli and ‘tattoo desgins’ concerning Western Culture become widespread.According to this reason, the suggest of researchers is Tunceli and Anatolia tattoo art should become brand value via scientific researches and add to global relation networks. ÖzetMakalede Tunceli kültürüne ait Anadolu dövme geleneği ve sanatı incelenmiştir. Yazının ilk atası kabul edilen dövme, süsleme veya mesaj verme amacıyla, belirli kültürel figürlerin, bedene; derinin alt yüzeyine nakşedilmesidir. Dövme, tarihin eski dönemlerine dayanan ve tüm toplumlarda görülen kültürel objedir. Dövme Anadolu medeniyetinin de renkli bir unsuru olagelmiştir. Dövme “damga” olarak kimi zaman bir meslek grubunu, sosyal statüyü veya aşiret ve tarikat gibi kişinin bağlı bulunduğu topluluğu belirtmek amacıyla kullanılmıştır. Aynı zamanda Anadolu dövme motiflerinin kişiyi hastalıklardan, nazardan koruduğuna; güzellik ve yiğitlik getirdiğine inanılmaktadır.Anadolu’da dövme sanatı farklı yöresel özgüllüklerinin bileşimi olan genel bir form ortaya çıkarır. Bunlardan Tunceli yöresi, “Alevi” ve “Kürt” kimliklerin coğrafi yoğunluğu bakımından, Türkiye’nin en özgün ili konumundadır. Tunceli’de yaşayan nüfusun büyük çoğunluğu, toplumun genelinden farklılaşan aşiret düzenindeki topluluklardan oluşmaktadır. Buna göre makalede Tunceli dövme sanatını betimlemek ve Anadolu dövme sanatından benzer ve farklı özelliklerini tespit etmek istenmiştir. Burada ortaya konan bilgiler Anadolu dövme sanatı literatürüne katkı yapabilecek niteliktedir.Makalede sunulan veriler Ağustos 2010 tarihine aittir. Tunceli kent merkezinde kartopu örnekleme tekniğine göre tespit edilen (ve bedeninde dövme bulunan) 15 kişi ile standart soru formu aracıyla yüz yüze görüşülmüştür. Tunceli dövme sanatı örneklerini gösteren fotoğraflar (kaynak kişilerin onayı ile) makalenin ekinde sunulmuştur.Araştırmanın genel bulgusu şöyle ifade edilebilir: (1) Tunceli dövmeleri resim değil, resmin düşünce yazısına (ideograma) dönüşmüş şekilleridir. (2) Tunceli dövme tekniği Doğu ve Güney Doğu Anadolu Bölgelerinkinden çok farklı değildir. (3) Tunceli dövmelerinde etnik veya dinsel figürler başat değildir. (4) Tunceli dövmelerinde aşiret figürleri de başat değildir. (5) Buna göre, Tunceli dövmeleri, Anadolu dövme geleneği içerisinde motif çeşitlerinden birisi olarak değerlendirebilir. (6) Sosyolojik bilgi olmak üzere, Tunceli’de geleneksel dövme sanatına ilgi azalmıştır ve fakat Batı kültürünün “tattoo designs”leri yaygınlaşmaktadır.Araştırmada ortaya konan bulguya göre kaybolmaya yüz tutan Tunceli (ve genel olarak Anadolu) dövme sanatının sürdürülebilmesi için bilimsel araştırmalara gereksinim vardır. Dışarıya verdiği göç nedeniyle ekonomik ve sosyal sermayesini hızla kaybeden Tunceli (vb yerleşimler) çeşitli projelerle marka kent haline gelebiler. Tunceli’nin markalaşma sürecinde geleneksel dövme sanatı önemli rol oynayacaktır.

Abstract:

AbstractThe Leiden artist Hieronymus van der Mij is only known today as a portrait painter, e.g. from the twelve portraits in the Lakenhal in Leiden, one in the Rijksmuseum and the series of professors done for Leiden University. He also owed his fame in his own day primarily to his portraits, but as Jan van Gool pointed out in 1750 (Note I), he also had a penchant for painting 'antique and modern cabinet pictures'. The main reason why these have been forgotten is that over the years they have slipped almost unnoticed into the oeuvre of Willem van Mieris, not seldom with false signatures to boot. This article presents a short survey of the history and genre pieces discovered up to now as a basis for further research. A list of works known from descriptions in old sale catalogues, but not yet traced, is appended after the catalogue. Hieronymus van de Mij (1687-1761) was the son of the bronze caster Philip van der Mij. In February 1710 he was enrolled in the Leiden Album Studiosorum. He was a pupil of Willem van Mieris, the leading Leiden painter of the day, becoming a member of the Guild of St. Luke in 1724 and for some time serving as supervisor at the Leiden Academy. During his life he made a collection of prints, which was sold at his house after his death (Note 2). The history of his Diogenes' Drinking Bowl (Cat. No. 1, Fig. 1) is an example of the fate that befell most of his history and genre paintings. It came up as a work by him at sales in 1774 and 1783 (Note 3), but around 150 years later, on 23 April 1932, it was sold in Antwerp as a Willem van Mieris. It came up again under this name in Brussels on 3 March 1936 and finally appeared yet again in 1983 as by Frans van Mieris the Elder. It is not too surprising that it was attributed to Willem van Mieris, for the landscape and figures are entirely in his style, but closer inspection reveals awkwardness in the drawing and much more minute detailing than is to be found in Willem van Mieris' work, while the fine, drauglatsmanlike style makes a rather harder impression than Van Mieris' softer, more painterly manner. The same characteristics appear in a scene with The Young Bacchus (Cat. No. 2, Fig.2), which was sold in Cologne in 1938 as by Willem van Mieris and which may be the same as a picture of the same subject seen by Hofstede de Groot in Moscow, which was signed and dated 1716. The Bacchus is an advance on the Diogenes in that it is more broadly conceived and the drawing is firmer and more sure. A signed grisaille overdoor in the Lakenhal, showing an Allegory on Overseas Trade (Cat. No.3) Fig.3), is van der Mij's only surviving decorative painting. It again shows a rather hard linear style, especially by comparison with the much softer and more atmospheric grisailles by Jacob de Wit. A chimneypiece painting of the same subject sold at Zoeterwoude on 25 June 1784 may have come from the same house (Note 5). Genre paintings play an important part in Van der Mij's oeuvre. The earliest dated example, a Family Group at Buckingham Palace (Cat. No.4, Fig. 4), is one of his best works. It was also thought to be a Willem van Mieris until cleaning revealed Van der Mij's signature and the date 1728 (Note 6). It again shows his great dependence on his teacher and also his closeness to his contemporary and fellow-pupil Frans van Mieris the Younger, whose name was also linked with this picture in the past (Note 7). A closely related work with a nursing mother (Cat. No.5, Fig.5), which in 1942 was in the Bentink Collection at Kasteel Weldam and bore the signature of Willem van Mieris and the date 1735, must date from the 1730's) as must a painting of a Woman Holding a Beer Glass in Johannesburg (Cat. No. 6, Fig.15), which is wrongly attributed to Frans van Mieris the Younger. Another work wrongly attributed to the latter (Cat. No. 7, Fig. 6) is revealed as a Van der Mij by the stereotyped faces of the women, the glances and the gestures. A work signed by Van der Mij in full, which came up for sale in Amsterdam in 1950 (Cat. No. 8, Fig.3), is probably meant as a Four Ages of Man. The date is given in the sale catalogue as 1708, but must actually be 1738. Although the influence of Willem van Mieris is still detectable in the old woman, the two younger ones reflect the elegant style of the French painters of the first half of the 18th century. Two scenes in a sewing workroom sold in the same sale as by Willem van Mieris (Cat. Nos. 9 and 10, Figs. 8 andg) are clearly by the same hand as a signed Fruitseller and Young Man (Cat. No. 11, Fig. 16), which was in the hands of Katz at Dieren in 1962. The Leiden tradition, initiated by Gerard Dou, of having the spectator look through a window crops up in a rather unusual form in two pendants in a private collection in Bergamo (Cat. Nos. 12 and 13, Figs. 10 and 11) and in a more conventional and thus possibly happier manner in a signed and dated panel of 1757 sold in Munich in 1899 (Cat. No. 14, Fig. 17) and a Poulterer's Shop (Cat. No. 15, Fig. 12) at Kasteel Singraven at Denekamp, which is very close to it in style (and again bears a false signature of Willem van Mieris). Finally, there are two more genre scenes in landscapes: a Young Woman Feeding Grapes to a Parrot (Cat. No. 16, Fig.13) in a private collection in Sweden, an early work comparable to a painting of 1706 by Willem van Mieris in Dresden (Fig. 14, Note 9), and a Young Couple in a Lanelscape (Cat. No. 17, Fig. 17), which belongs to a later period and is somewhat further removed from Van Mieris, although it was nonetheless attributed to him in a sale of 1906 (Note 10).

Abstract:

Whilst Edward Gibbon's Memoirs of My Life comprise a notoriously complex document of autobiographical artifice, there is no reason to question the honesty of its revelation of his attitudes to geography and its relationship to the historian's craft. Writing of his boyhood before going up to Oxford, Gibbon commented that his vague and multifarious reading could not teach me to think, to write, or to act; and the only principle, that darted a ray of light into the indigested chaos, was an early and rational application of the order of time and place. The maps of Cellarius and Wells imprinted in my mind the picture of ancient geography: from Stranchius I imbibed the elements of chronology: the Tables of Helvicus and Anderson, the Annals of Usher [sic] and Prideaux, distinguished the connection of events . . . This seems a fairly direct comment on Gibbon's attitude to geography as a historian in that it is confirmed by various of his working documents and commonplace book comments not aimed at posterity and by the practice embodied in his great work that was thus targeted, the Decline and Fall. Taking Gibbon's private documents, the first manuscript we have in his English Essays, for example, is a tabulated chronology from circa 1751 when Gibbon was fourteen years old, which begins with the creation of the world in 6000 BC and runs up to 1590 BC, this being exactly the sort of material which could be commonplaced from the likes of Ussher and Prideaux. Matching this attention to chronology is a concern with geography, and indeed the two are coupled together as in his comment in the Memoirs. Thus in his Index Expurgatoris (1768–9), Gibbon berates Sallust as “no very correct historian” on the grounds that his chronology is not credible and that “notwithstanding his laboured description of Africa, nothing can be more confused than his Geography without either division of provinces or fixing of towns”. In this regard, Gibbon the author of the Decline and Fall was a “correct” historian, in that he was careful to frame each arena in which historical events were narrated in the light of a prefatory description of the geography of the location under discussion. This is most readily apparent in the second half of the opening chapter of the work, where Gibbon proceeds on what his “Table of Contents” calls a “View of the Provinces of the Roman Empire”, starting in the West with Spain and then proceeding clockwise to reach Africa on the other side of the Pillars of Hercules, a pattern of geographical description directly mirroring ancient practice in Strabo's Geography and Pomponius Mela's De Situ Orbis. But this practice of prefacing a historical account with geographical description repeats itself at various points in the work, as when, approaching the end of his grand narrative, Gibbon reaches the impact of “Mahomet, with sword in one hand and the Koran in the other” on “the causes of the decline and fall of the Eastern empire”. Before discussing the birth of Islam, Gibbon treats his readers to a discussion of the geography of Arabia, beginning with its size and shape before moving on to its soils, climate and physical–geographic subdivisions.

Abstract:

Background:In many countries, JAK-inhibitors (JAKi) have only recently been approved as treatment for patients with rheumatoid arthritis (RA).Objectives:To evaluate the effectiveness of JAKi compared to bDMARDs in RA patients in the real-world population in an international collaboration of registers (the “JAK-pot” collaboration).Methods:Patients initiating either JAKi, TNFi, IL-6i or abatacept (ABA) during a time period when JAKi were available in each country (19 registers, Table) were included. We compared the effectiveness of JAKi and bDMARDs in terms of retention using crude and adjusted survival analysis. Missing covariates were imputed using multiple imputation.Results:Among 25521 included patients, 6063 initiated a JAKi, 13879 a TNFi, 2348 ABA, and 3231 an IL-6i. Patients were on average 55 years old, with a mean disease duration 10 years, mostly seropositive (67%), female (77%) and with moderate disease activity at treatment initiation. The main reason of stopping treatment was ineffectiveness (49%), followed by adverse events (21%). Patients on JAKi were treated more often as monotherapy, had higher CRP and disease activity at baseline and had experienced more previous ts/bDMARDs. Crude median retention was 1.4 (95% CI 1.2-1.5) years for JAKi, 1.6 (1.6-1.7) for TNFi, 1.5 (1.3-1.7) for IL6i and 1.1 (1.0-1.3) for ABA. After adjustment, the hazard ratio (HR) for discontinuation tended to be lower for JAKi (HR 0.86 (0.65-1.13)) compared to TNFi, but comparable for ABA (1.02 (0.94-1.10)) and IL6i (0.99 (0.88-1.10)) (Figure 1). HRs differed notably between countries (Figure 2).Table 1.RegistersCountry, registerNJAKi, n (%)Austria, BIOREG*Belgium, TARDIS62882113 (33.6)Canada, RHUMADATA528114 (21.6)Czech Republic, ATTRA374253 (67.6)Denmark, DANBIO4721506 (10.7)Finland, ROB-FIN807234 (29.0)Germany, RABBIT*Italy, GISEA757250 (33.0)Israel, I-RECORD40094 (23.5)Netherlands, METEOR16424 (0.2)Norway, NOR-DMARD50799 (19.5)Portugal, REUMA.PT79744 (5.5)Romania, RRBR593328 (55.3)Russia, ARBITER526483 (91.8)Slovenia, BIORX.SI583146 (25.0)Spain, BIOBADASER781139 (17.8)Switzerland, SCQM2956796 (26.9)Turkey, TURKBIO2150397 (18.5)UK, BSRBR111163 (5.7)*Registers planning to participate in future studies but not included yetConclusion:The adjusted overall drug retention of JAKi tended to be higher than for TNFi, with large variation between countries. Other measures of effectiveness, such as the evaluation of CDAI remission and low disease activity are planned to shape a more comprehensive picture of JAKi effectiveness in the real world.Disclosure of Interests:Kim Lauper: None declared, Denis Mongin: None declared, Sytske Anne Bergstra: None declared, Denis Choquette Grant/research support from: Rhumadata is supported by grants from Pfizer, Amgen, Abbvie, Gylead, BMS, Novartis, Sandoz, eli Lilly,, Consultant of: Pfizer, Amgen, Abbvie, Gylead, BMS, Novartis, Sandoz, eli Lilly,, Speakers bureau: Pfizer, Amgen, Abbvie, Gylead, BMS, Novartis, Sandoz, eli Lilly,, Catalin Codreanu Consultant of: Speaker and consulting fees from AbbVie, Accord Healthcare, Alfasigma, Egis, Eli Lilly, Ewopharma, Genesis, Mylan, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, Sandoz, UCB, Speakers bureau: Speaker and consulting fees from AbbVie, Accord Healthcare, Alfasigma, Egis, Eli Lilly, Ewopharma, Genesis, Mylan, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, Sandoz, UCB, Diederik De co*ck: None declared, Lene Dreyer: None declared, Ori Elkayam Speakers bureau: AbbVie, BMS, Pfizer, Roche, Sanofi-Aventis, Novartis, Jansen, Kimme Hyrich Grant/research support from: Pfizer, UCB, BMS, Speakers bureau: Abbvie, Florenzo Iannone Consultant of: Speaker and consulting fees from AbbVie, Eli Lilly, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, Sanofi, UCB, MSD, Speakers bureau: Speaker and consulting fees from AbbVie, Eli Lilly, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, Sanofi, UCB, MSD, Nevsun Inanc: None declared, Eirik kristianslund: None declared, Tore K. Kvien Grant/research support from: Received grants from Abbvie, Hospira/Pfizer, MSD and Roche (not relevant for this abstract)., Consultant of: Have received personal fees from Abbvie, Biogen, BMS, Celltrion, Eli Lily, Hospira/Pfizer, MSD, Novartis, Orion Pharma, Roche, Sandoz, UCB, Sanofi and Mylan (not relevant for this abstract)., Paid instructor for: Have received personal fees from Abbvie, Biogen, BMS, Celltrion, Eli Lily, Hospira/Pfizer, MSD, Novartis, Orion Pharma, Roche, Sandoz, UCB, Sanofi and Mylan (not relevant for this abstract)., Speakers bureau: Have received personal fees from Abbvie, Biogen, BMS, Celltrion, Eli Lily, Hospira/Pfizer, MSD, Novartis, Orion Pharma, Roche, Sandoz, UCB, Sanofi and Mylan (not relevant for this abstract)., Burkhard Leeb Grant/research support from: chairman of BioReg, Consultant of: AbbVie, Pfizer, Roche, Lilly, Grünenthal, Gebro,, Paid instructor for: Lilly, Biogen, Speakers bureau: Biogen, Lilly, Pfizer, Grünenthal, Astropharma,, Galina Lukina Speakers bureau: Novartis, Pfizer, UCB, Abbvie, Biocad, MSD, Roche, Dan Nordström Consultant of: Abbvie, Celgene, Lilly, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche and UCB., Speakers bureau: Abbvie, Celgene, Lilly, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche and UCB., Karel Pavelka Consultant of: Abbvie, MSD, BMS, Egis, Roche, UCB, Medac, Pfizer, Biogen, Speakers bureau: Abbvie, MSD, BMS, Egis, Roche, UCB, Medac, Pfizer, Biogen, Manuel Pombo-Suarez Consultant of: Janssen, Lilly, MSD and Sanofi., Speakers bureau: Janssen, Lilly, MSD and Sanofi., Ziga Rotar Consultant of: Speaker and consulting fees from Abbvie, Amgen, Biogen, Eli Lilly, Medis, MSD, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, Sanofi., Speakers bureau: Speaker and consulting fees from Abbvie, Amgen, Biogen, Eli Lilly, Medis, MSD, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, Sanofi., Maria Jose Santos Speakers bureau: Novartis and Pfizer, Anja Strangfeld Speakers bureau: AbbVie, BMS, Pfizer, Roche, Sanofi-Aventis, Delphine Courvoisier: None declared, Axel Finckh Grant/research support from: Pfizer: Unrestricted research grant, Eli-Lilly: Unrestricted research grant, Consultant of: Sanofi, AB2BIO, Abbvie, Pfizer, MSD, Speakers bureau: Sanofi, Pfizer, Roche, Thermo Fisher Scientific

Abstract:

AbstractAry Scheffer (1795-1858) is so generally included in the French School (Note 2)- unsurprisingly, since his career was confined almost entirely to Paris - that the fact that he was born and partly trained in the Netherlands is often overlooked. Yet throughout his life he kept in touch with Dutch colleagues and drew part of his inspiration from Dutch traditions. These Dutch aspects are the subject of this article. The Amsterdam City Academy, 1806-9 Ary Scheffer was enrolled at the Amsterdam Academy on 25 October 1806, his parents falsifying his date of birth in order to get him admitted at the age of eleven (fifteen was the oficial age) . He started in the third class and in order to qualify for the second he had to be one of the winners in the prize drawing contest. Candidates in this were required to submit six drawings made during the months January to March. Although no-one was supposed to enter until he had been at the Academy for four years, Ary Scheffer competed in both 1808 and 1809. Some of his signed drawings are preserved in Dordrecht. (Figs. 1-5 and 7), along with others not made for the contest. These last in particular are interesting not only because they reveal his first prowess, but also because they give some idea of the Academy practice of his day. Although the training at the Academy broadly followed the same lines as that customary in France, Italy and elsewhere (Note 4), our knowledge of its precise content is very patchy, since there was no set curriculum and no separate teachers for each subject. Two of Scheffer's drawings (Figs. 2 and 3) contain extensive notes, which amount to a more or less complete doctrine of proportion. It is not known who his teacher was or what sources were used, but the proportions do not agree with those in Van der Passe's handbook, which came into vogue in the 18th century, or with those of the canon of a Leonardo, Dürer or Lebrun. One gets the impression that what are given here are the exact measurements of a concrete example. Scheffer's drawings show him gradually mastering the rudiments of art. In earlier examples the hatching is sometimes too hasty (Fig. 4) or too rigidly parallel (Fig.5), while his knowledge of anatomy is still inadequate and his observation not careful enough. But right from the start he shows flair and as early as 1807 he made a clever drawing of a relatively complex group (Fig. 6) , while the difficult figure of Marsyas was already well captured in 1808 and clearly evinces his growing knowledge o f anatomy, proportion , foreshortening and the effects of light (Fig. 7). The same development can be observed in his portrait drawings. That of Gerardus Vrolik (1775-1859, Fig.8), a professor at the Atheneum Illustre (the future university) and Scheffer' s teacher, with whom he always kept in touch (Note 6), is still not entirely convincing, but a portrait of 1809, thought to be of his mother (Fig.9, Note 7), shows him working much more systematically. It is not known when he left the Academy, but from the summer of 1809 we find him in France, where he was to live with only a few breaks from 1811 to his death. The first paintings and the Amsterdam exhibitions of 1808 and 1810 Ary Scheffer's earliest known history painting, Hannibal Swearing to Avenge his Brother Hasdrubal's Death (Fig. 10) Notes 8-10) was shown at the first exhibition of living masters in Amsterdam in 1808. Although there was every reason for giving this subject a Neo-Classical treatment, the chiaroscuro, earthy colours and free brushwork show Scheffer opting for the old Dutch tradition rather than the modern French style. This was doubtless on the prompting of his parents,for a comment in a letter from his mother in 1810 (Note 12) indicates that she shared the reservations of the Dutch in general about French Neo-Classicism. (Note 11). As the work of a twelve to thirteen year old, the painting naturally leaves something to be desired: the composition is too crowded and unbalanced and the anatomy of the secondary figures rudimentary. In a watercolour Scheffer made of the same subject, probably in the 1820's, he introduced much more space between the figures (Fig. 11, Note 13). Two portraits are known from this early period. The first, of Johanna Maria Verbeek (Fig. 12, Note 14), was done when the two youngsters were aged twelve. It again shows all the characteristics of an early work, being schematic in its simplicity, with some rather awkward details and inadequate plasticity. On the other hand the hair and earrings are fluently rendered, the colours harmonious and the picture has an undeniable charm. At the second exhibition of works by living masters in 1810, Ary Scheffer showed a 'portrait of a painter' (Fig. 13), who was undoubtedly his uncle Arnoldus Lamme, who also had work in the exhibition as did Scheffer's recently deceased father Johan-Bernard and his mother Cornelia Scheffer-Lamme, an indication of the stimulating surroundings in which he grew up. The work attracted general attention (Note 16) and it does, indeed, show a remarkable amount of progress, the plasticity, effects of light, brushwork and colour all revealing skill and care in their execution. The simple, bourgeois character of the portrait not only fits in with the Dutch tradition which Scheffer had learned from both his parents in Amsterdam, but also has points in common with the recent developments in France, which he could have got to know during his spell in Lille from autumn 1809 onwards. A Dutchman in Paris Empire and Restoration, 1811-30 In Amsterdam Scheffer had also been laught by his mother, a miniature painter, and his father, a portrait and history painter (Note 17). After his father's death in June 1809, his mother, who not only had a great influence on his artistic career, but also gave his Calvinism and a great love of literature (Note 18), wanted him to finish his training in Paris. After getting the promise of a royal grant from Louis Napoleon for this (Note 19) and while waiting for it to materialize, she sent the boy to Lille to perfect his French as well as further his artistic training. In 1811 Scheffer settled in Paris without a royal grant or any hope of one. He may possibly have studied for a short time under Prudhon (Note 20) , but in the autumn of 1811 he was officially contracted as a pupil of Guérin, one of the leading artists of the school of David, under whom he mastered the formulas of NeD-Classicism, witness his Orpheus and Eurydice (Fïg.14), shown in the Salon of 1814. During his first ten years in Paris Scheffer also painted many genre pieces in order, so he said, to earn a living for himself and his mother. Guérin's prophecy that he would make a great career as a history painter (Note 21) soon came true, but not in the way Guérin thought it would, Scheffer participating in the revolution initiated by his friends and fellow-pupils, Géricault and Delacroix, which resulted in the rise of the Romantic Movement. It was not very difficult for him to break with Neo-Classicism, for with his Dutch background he felt no great affinity with it (Note 22). This development is ilustrated by his Gaston de Foix Dying on the Battlefield After his Victory at Ravenna, shown at the Salon of 1824, and The Women of Souli Throwing Themselves into the Abyss (Fig.15), shown at that of 1827-8. The last years of the Restoration and the July Monarchy. Influence of Rembrandt and the Dutch masters In 1829, when he seemed to have become completely assimilated in France and had won wide renown, Scheffer took the remarkable step of returning to the Netherlands to study the methods of Rembrandt and other Dutch old masters (Note 23) . A new orientation in his work is already apparent in the Women of Souli, which is more harmonious and considered in colour than the Gaston dc Foix (Note 24). This is linked on the one hand to developments in France, where numbers of young painters had abandoned extreme Romanticism to find the 'juste milieu', and on the other to Scheffer's Dutch background. Dutch critics were just as wary of French Romanticism as they had been of Neo-Classicism, urging their own painters to revive the traditions of the Golden Age and praising the French painters of the 'juste milieu'. It is notable how many critics commented on the influence of Rembrandt on Scheffer's works, e.g. his Faust, Marguérite, Tempête and portrait of Talleyrand at the Salon of 1851 (Note 26). The last two of these date from 1828 and show that the reorientation and the interest in Rembrandt predate and were the reasons for the return to the Netherlands in 1829. In 1834 Gustave Planche called Le Larmoyeur (Fig. 16) a pastiche of Rembrandt and A. Barbier made a comparable comment on Le Roi de Thule in 1839 (Note 27). However, as Paul Mantz already noted in 1850 (Note 28), Scheffer certainly did not fully adopt Rembrandt's relief and mystic light. His approach was rather an eclectic one and he also often imbued his work with a characteristically 19th-century melancholy. He himself wrote after another visit to the Netherlands in 1849 that he felt he had touched a chord which others had not attempted (Note 29) . Contacts with Dutch artists and writers Scheffer's links with the Netherlands come out equally or even more strongly in the many contacts he maintained there. As early as 1811-12 Sminck-Pitloo visited him on his way to Rome (Note 30), to be followed in the 1820's by J.C. Schotel (Note 31), while after 1830 as his fame increased, so the contacts also became more numerous. He was sought after by and corresponded with various art dealers (Note 33) and also a large number of Dutch painters, who visited him in Paris or came to study under him (Note 32) Numerous poems were published on paintings by him from 1838 onwards, while Jan Wap and Alexander Ver Huell wrote at length about their visits to him (Note 34) and a 'Scheffer Album' was compiled in 1859. Thus he clearly played a significant role in the artistic life of the Netherlands. International orientation As the son of a Dutch mother and a German father, Scheffer had an international orientation right from the start. Contemporary critics and later writers have pointed out the influences from English portrait painting and German religious painting detectable in his work (Note 35). Extracts from various unpublished letters quoted here reveal how acutely aware he was of what was likely to go down well not only in the Netherlands, but also in a country like England, where he enjoyed great fame (Notes 36-9) . July Monarchy and Second Empire. The last decades While most French artists of his generation seemed to have found their definitive style under the July Monarchy, Scheffer continued to search for new forms of expression. In the 1830's, at the same time as he painted his Rembrandtesque works, he also produced his famous Francesca da Rimini (Fig. 17), which is closer to the 'juste milieu' in its dark colours and linear accents. In the 1840's he used a simple and mainly bright palette without any picturesque effects, e.g. in his SS. Augustine and Monica and The Sorrows of the Earth (Note 41), but even this was not his last word. In an incident that must have occurred around 1857 he cried out on coming across some of his earlier works that he had made a mistake since then and wasted his time (Note 42) and in his Calvin of 1858 (Fig. 18) he resumed his former soft chiaroscuro and warm tones. It is characteristic of him that in that same year he painted a last version of The Sorrows of the Earth in the light palette of the 1840's. Despite the difficulty involved in the precise assessment of influences on a painter with such a complex background, it is clear that even in his later period, when his work scored its greatest successes in France, England and Germany, Scheffer always had a strong bond with the Netherlands and that he not only contributed to the artistic life there, but always retained a feeling for the traditions of his first fatherland. Appendix An appendix is devoted to a study of the head of an old man in Dordrecht, which is catalogued as a copy of a 17th-century painting in the style of Rembrandt done by Ary Scheffer at the age of twelve (Fig.19, Note 43). This cannot be correct, as it is much better than the other works by the twelve-year-old painter. Moreover, no mention is made of it in the catalogue of the retrospective exhibition held in Paris in 1859, where the Hannibal is given as his earliest work (Note 44). It was clearly unknown then, as it is not mentioned in any of the obituaries of 1858 and 1859 either. The earliest reference to it occurs in the list made bv Scheffer's daughter in 1897 of the works she was to bequeath to the Dordrecht museum. A clue to its identification may be a closely similar drawing by Cornelia Scheffer-Lamme (Fig. 20, Note 46), which is probably a copy after the head of the old man. She is known to have made copies after contemporary and 17th-century masters. The portrait might thus be attributable to Johan-Bernard Scheffer, for his wife often made copies of his works and he is known from sale catalogues to have painted various portraits of old men (Note 47, cf. Fig.21). Ary Scheffer also knew this. In 1839 his uncle Arnoldus Lamme wrote to him that he would look out for such a work at a sale (Note 48). It may be that he succeeded in finding one and that this portrait came into the possession of the Scheffer family in that way, but Johan-Bernard's work is too little known for us to be certain about this.

Abstract:

Background. Choral work of American composers of the second half of the XX century is characterized by new qualities that have appeared because of not only musical but also non-musical factors generated by the system of cultural, historical and social conditions. Despite of a serious amount of scientific literature on the history of American music, the choral layer of American music remains partially unexplored, especially, in Ukrainian musical science, that bespeaks the science and practical novelty of the research results. The purpose of this study is to discover and to analyze the peculiarities of the historical formation and identity of American choral art of the second half of the twentieth century using the the works of famous American artists as examples. The research methodology is based on theoretical, historical and analytical methods, generalization and specification. Results. The general picture of the development of American composers’ practice in the genre of choral music is characterized by genre and style diversity. In our research we present portraits of iconic figures of American choral music in the period under consideration. So, the choral works of William Dawson (1899–1990), one of the most famous African-American composers, are characterized by the richness of the choral texture, intense sonority and demonstration of his great understanding of the vocal potential of the choir. Dawson was remembered, especially, for the numerous arrangements of spirituals, which do not lose their popularity. Aaron Copland (1899–1990), which was called “the Dean of American Composers”, was one of the founder of American music “classical” style, whose name associated with the America image in music. Despite the fact that the composer tends to atonalism, impressionism, jazz, constantly uses in his choral opuses sharp dissonant sounds and timbre contrasts, his choral works associated with folk traditions, written in a style that the composer himself called “vernacular”, which is characterized by a clearer and more melodic language. Among Copland’s famous choral works are “At The River”, “Four Motets”, “In the Beginning”, “Lark”, “The Promise of Living”; “Stomp Your Foot” (from “The Tender Land”), “Simple Gifts”, “Zion’s Walls” and others. Dominick Argento’s (1927–2019) style is close to the style of an Italian composer G. C. Menotti. Argento’s musical style, first of all, distinguishes the dominance of melody, so he is a leading composer in the genre of lyrical opera. Argento’s choral works are distinguished by a variety of performers’ stuff: from a cappella choral pieces – “A Nation of Cowslips”, “Easter Day” for mixed choir – to large-scale works accompanied by various instruments: “Apollo in Cambridge”, “Odi et Amo”, “Jonah and the Whale”, “Peter Quince at the Clavier”, “Te Deum”, “Tria Carmina Paschalia”, “Walden Pond”. For the choir and percussion, Argento created “Odi et Amo” (“I Hate and I Love”), 1981, based on the texts of the ancient Roman poet Catullus, which testifies to the sophistication of the composer’s literary taste and his skill in reproducing complex psychological states. The most famous from Argento’s spiritual compositions is “Te Deum” (1988), where the Latin text is combined with medieval English folk poetry, was recorded and nominated for a Grammy Award. Among the works of Samuel Barber’s (1910–1981) vocal and choral music were dominating. His cantata “Prayers of Kierkegaard”, based on the lyrics of four prayers by this Danish philosopher and theologian, for solo soprano, mixed choir and symphony orchestra is an example of an eclectic trend. Chapter I “Thou Who art unchangeable” traces the imitation of a traditional Gregorian male choral singing a cappella. Chapter II “Lord Jesus Christ, Who suffered all lifelong” for solo soprano accompanied by oboe solo is an example of minimalism. Chapter III “Father in Heaven, well we know that it is Thou” reflects the traditions of Russian choral writing. William Schumann (1910–1992) stands among the most honorable and prominent American composers. In 1943, he received the first Pulitzer Prize for Music for Cantata No 2 “A Free Song”, based on lyrics from the poems by Walt Whitman. In his choral works, Schumann emphasized the lyrics of American poetry. Norman Luboff (1917–1987), the founder and conductor of one of the leading American choirs in the 1950–1970s, is one of the great American musicians who dared to dedicate most of their lives to the popular media cultures of the time. Holiday albums of Christmas Songs with the Norman Luboff Choir have been bestselling for many years. In 1961, Norman Luboff Choir received the Grammy Award for Best Performance by a Chorus. Luboff’s productive work on folk song arrangements, which helped to preserve these popular melodies from generation to generation, is considered to be his main heritage. The choral work by Leonard Bernstein (1918–1990) – a great musician – composer, pianist, brilliant conductor – is represented by such works as “Chichester Psalms”, “Hashkiveinu”, “Kaddish” Symphony No 3)”,”The Lark (French & Latin Choruses)”, “Make Our Garden Grow (from Candide)”, “Mass”. “Chichester Psalms”, where the choir sings lyrics in Hebrew, became Bernstein’s most famous choral work and one of the most successfully performed choral masterpieces in America. An equally popular composition by Bernstein is “Mass: A Theater Piece for Singers, Players, and Dancers”, which was dedicated to the memory of John F. Kennedy, the stage drama written in the style of a musical about American youth in searching of the Lord. More than 200 singers, actors, dancers, musicians of two orchestras, three choirs are involved in the performance of “Mass”: a four-part mixed “street” choir, a four-part mixed academic choir and a two-part boys’ choir. The eclecticism of the music in the “Mass” shows the versatility of the composer’s work. The composer skillfully mixes Latin texts with English poetry, Broadway musical with rock, jazz and avant-garde music. Choral cycles by Conrad Susa (1935–2013), whose entire creative life was focused on vocal and dramatic music, are written along a story line or related thematically. Bright examples of his work are “Landscapes and Silly Songs” and “Hymns for the Amusem*nt of Children”; the last cycle is an fascinating staging of Christopher Smart’s poetry (the18 century). The composer’s music is based on a synthesis of tonal basis, baroque counterpoint, polyphony and many modern techniques and idioms drawn from popular music. The cycle “Songs of Innocence and of Experience”, created by a composer and a pianist William Bolcom (b. 1938) on the similar-titled poems by W. Blake, represents musical styles from romantic to modern, from country to rock. More than 200 vocalists take part in the performance of this work, in academic choruses (mixed, children’s choirs) and as soloists; as well as country, rock and folk singers, and the orchestral musicians. This composition successfully synthesizes an impressive range of musical styles: reggae, classical music, western, rock, opera and other styles. Morten Lauridsen (b. 1943) was named “American Choral Master” by the National Endowment for the Arts (2006). The musical language of Lauridsen’s compositions is very diverse: in his Latin sacred works, such as “Lux Aeterna” and “Motets”, he often refers to Gregorian chant, polyphonic techniques of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, and mixes them with modern sound. Lauridsen’s “Lux Aeterna” is a striking example of the organic synthesis of the old and the new traditions, or more precisely, the presentation of the old in a new way. At the same time, his other compositions, such as “Madrigali” and “Cuatro Canciones”, are chromatic or atonal, addressing us to the technique of the Renaissance and the style of postmodernism. Conclusions. Analysis of the choral work of American composers proves the idea of moving the meaningful centers of professional choral music, the gradual disappearance of the contrast, which had previously existed between consumer audiences, the convergence of positions of “third direction” music and professional choral music. In the context of globalization of society and media culture, genre and stylistic content, spiritual meanings of choral works gradually tend to acquire new features such as interaction of ancient and modern musical systems, traditional and new, modified folklore and pop. There is a tendency to use pop instruments or some stylistic components of jazz, such as rhythm and intonation formula, in choral compositions. Innovative processes, metamorphosis and transformations in modern American choral music reveal its integration specificity, which is defined by meta-language, which is formed basing on interaction and dialogue of different types of thinking and musical systems, expansion of the musical sound environment, enrichment of acoustic possibilities of choral music, globalization intentions. Thus, the actualization of new cultural dominants and the synthesis of various stylistic origins determine the specificity of American choral music.

Abstract:

Background. The political and cultural movement of the “Sixtiers” in XX century opened wide horizons for Ukrainian composers to search for a new artistic and imaginative sphere, for new means of expressiveness, stylistics, form etc. The aspirations of young Ukrainian composers for concert genre renewal are realized through a rethinking of reality, intellectual and philosophical searching and psychologism in creativity. One of the brightest creative assets of this time is the First Piano Concerto by Ivan Karabyts, the talented Ukrainian composer, the outstanding representative of Ukrainian musical art of the last third of the 20th century. Among the studies of the last five years, and also of all the scientific research of the 21st century, we, unfortunately, cannot find any scientific study devoted to one of the largest conceptual works of the early period of creativity by I. Karabyts, which is the First Piano Concerto, and, therefore, this research can be called a unique one in modern musicology. In 1983, H. Yermakova provided only the general description of the Concerto in her small monograph. The author says about emotional tension and explosiveness that are the main features of the Concerto. The objectives of this article is to identify the model of the First Piano Concerto as a typological structure in terms of the renewal of the concert genre in Ukraine in the 1960s, through the analysis of embodiment of stylistic patterns and intonational dramaturgy of the work. Research methodology is focused on the interrelation of specific ways of analysis: functional, structural, intonational, genre, stylistic. Results. The First Piano Concerto was created by the 23-year-old composer in 1968 and was dedicated to B.Liatoshynskyi, reflecting the Teacher’s professional pedagogical credo. The First Piano Concerto based on emotional and imaginative contrasts and becomes a clear expression of dramaturgy development. The work’s concept carries the traces of experiments used by the young composer, which is reflected on the use of serial writing, cinematic editing (kaleidoscopic change of the thematic material “on the dramatic circles” of the two-part cycle), dissonance harmony. One of the basic principle of thinking is polyphonic development: imitations, canons, counterpoints, fugato, the principle of “countermovements” of voices, chorals are widely used. The two-part Concerto vividly presents the early work of I. Karabyts, highlights his distinctly individual style. The monumental purpose of this cyclical composition and its conceptualism strikes with its depth reflecting the collision of good and evil, sublime and earthly The First Movement exposition represents the main themes alternation, which extends from the theme-epigraph and the main soloist part in the beginning; bridge and its episode of fugato, second theme and closing area are highlighted also. The compositional features analysis of developing part shows the composer’s desire for a certain emotional quality of the thematic material, the main figurative lines are revealed from the very beginning. Each of themes gets the development of its material and its progressive dynamization, which process being often interrupted at its peak. Meaningful is the Coda of the First Movement, which fully implements the idea of “black-and-white palette” of the cluster chords, which can be interpreted as the idea of dualism of the world picture, embodying, for example, in Eastern philosophy as the sacred symbol of “Yin-Yang”. It can be said that the main meaning of the Code is to identify and understand the fundamental model of being, which is constantly changing and complementary. The Interlude, as a link between the first and second movements of the Concerto is fully consistent with the idea of continuation of the process and justifies smooth transition from one state to another. The Finale of the Concerto after the impromptu Interlude perceives as a vivid sketch in folk spirit connected with the traditions of folk genre principles reproduction and emerges as proof of life extension. The texture of the basic material is presented in a toccata manner, due to the alternation of weak and strong micro- and macrobeats in both parts of pianist’s hands. The middle part of the Finale is created in three-part format. The main section sets a certain rhythmic pulse. The introduction of quintuple (5/8) is innovative. The middle section of the middle part represents the choral is bringing us back to medieval music origins. Conclusions. The composer’s style of early I. Karabyts is distinguished by the scale and integrity of the artistic concepts of works that is typical of the entire Ukrainian national school, the use of variant and polyphonic techniques for the development of thematism, the timbre-orchestral and texture diversity. The First Piano Concerto of the composer is endowed with rich thematicism and vivid contrast of images, marked by the activity of the dramatic process based on dialogicity, due to the general philosophical concept of the work – the confrontation of the spiritual and anti-spiritual. Along with the conflict line, the Concerto presents the sphere of contemplatively dreamy, sensual lyrics. The First Movement in the dramaturgy of the cycle reveals the philosophy of life, its deep spirituality in coexistence with the forces of evil that bring destruction, accompanying the hero’s life path from birth to death, with all its collisions and intentions. The Finale is the continuation of being, movement (it represents the toccata material). The composer creates a concertо of a conflict-dramatic type, the dramaturgy of which is realized as an interaction of dramatic, lyrical and epic-dramatic principles. Conceptuality is revealed through the interaction of objective and subjective plans, where genre allusions acquire a certain semantic meaning (the introduction of a waltz and choral episodes, the toccata manner in “perpetuum mobile” image). The impulsive rhythmic development, the richness of harmonious sound, the wide timbre palette of the piano and orchestra make the Concert emotionally intense, romantic. The Concert uses a full register spectrum of pianos and a wide arsenal of its techniques, which allows the soloist to embody his performing abilities and recreate the concept of composer’s concept. The First Concerto embodies the philosophical theme, which is revealed through the procedural model of the endless circle “life-death-life”, continuing the line of the symphonic instrumental concerto, vividly presented in Ukrainian music of the 20 century by B. Liatoshinskyi, with allusions to Baroque genres (toccata, chorale) and with active use of polyphonic methods of development (in particular, the introduction of the episode of fugato).

Abstract:

AbstractIn 1625 the Monastery of St. John's in Haarlem, which housed the local Order of the Knights of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem (Hospitallers), was dissolved. The property, including a large collection of paintings, passed to the City of Haarlem, which claimed all the monasteries in the district of Haarlen as compensation for damage sustairted during the siege and rebellion against Spain. In the monastery's archives, now in the Haarlem Municipal Archives, memorial panels are menizoned fourteen times. Nine of thern occur in three inventories of 1573, one in a testament of 1574 and the rest in the Commander's accounts of 1572, 1573 and 1574. In the case of six of the thirteen items there is no description of the representation at all; one is simply said to depict a number of persons. Four of the six other items are Passion representations. Like The Last Judgment, such themes are in keeping with the functiort of a memorial panel. The description of one epitaph as 'in laudem artis musiccs' is not sufficiently clear to give an idea of the representation. More information is available as to the patrons or commemorated persons. All of them seem to have been members of the Order of St. John: four panels were memorials to commanders, three to ordinary hospitallers and one painting commemorated the founder of the monastery. All were priests. Nothing in the archives suggests that the church contained memorials to non-members of the order. This must nonetheless have been the case: a 'Liber- memoriarum' compiled in 1570 indicates that numerous memorial services were held for the laity, many of whom apparently chose St. John's as their last resting-place. It is thus highly likely that memorials for these worshippers were placed in the church. A 1572 inventory of St. John's Monastery makes no mention of memorial panels, probably because the contents of the church were not listed. After the monastery had been destroyed during the siege of Haarlem, three inventories were drawn up: one of the ruined monastery, one of the items - mainly paintings which were moved to Utrecht, and one of the property taken to the Sint Adriaansdoelen, the temporary home of the order after the destruction of the monastery. Only in these three inventories are epitaphs mentioned. The inventories of 1580 and 1606 were drawn up by order of the City, the claimant to the mortastery's propery. They make no mention of private possessions, not even those of the members of the Order. The 1625 inventory, drawn up after the death of the last inmate, only mentiorts the painting that was bought by the convent to be placed on the grave of its founder. Epitaphs which were not orderend by the convent were probably regarded as private property, and passed to the heirs prior to 1625. Exact dates cannot be ascertained. The author has identified two epitaphs and a painting coming from St. John's. It is not clear whether the small painting of Mary, her cousin Elizabeth and Commander Jan Willem Jansz. (1484-1514) (Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, Weimar) is (part of) an epitaph or a devotional painting (ill. 2). The 1572 inventory mentions a picture of Jan Willem. It is not described, but the painting in Weimar is a likely candidate because of its small size (72 x 50). The 1573 inventory of the property in the Adriaansdoelen lists a wing of the epitaph of 'Heer Jan', but again, the representation is not described. The 17thcentury genealogist Opt Straeten van der Moelen described the four family coats of arms on the painting, but said nothing about the representation or where he saw it. It was possible to identify the Hospitaller in the Weimar work because of the armorial shield hanging on a tree behind the kneeling figure. The arms correspond with what Opt Straeten van der Moelen described as the arms of the Hospitaller's father, and with a wax impression of Jan Willem Jansz.'s arms (ill. 1) on a document of 1494, now in the Haarlem Municipal Archive. The date and painter of the picture are not known. In the series of portraits of the Commanders of St. John's Monastery in Haarlem (Frans Hals Museum) is a second portrait of Jan Willem. In this, the seventeenth portrait in the series (ill. 3), he is grey-haired, in contrast to the Weimar painting, in which he is depicted with black hair. Jan Willem Jansz. was born in about 1450. In 1484 he was elected Commander of the order, a function which he held until his death in 1514. The Bowes Museum, Durham, owns a triptych of an Entombment (ills. 4 and 5). On the middle panel is a kneeling Knight Hospitaller; on each of the side panels are four persons, arranged in pairs. One of them, on the right wing, is another member of the Order. Coats of arms can be seen on the prie-dieu's behind which three of the four couples kneel, and on the back of the panels (ill. 6). Comparison of these arms with the one on the seal of Philips van Hogesteyn, Commander of the Order frorn 1571 to 1574, suggests that this is his epitaph (ill. 7). The memorial panel is mentioned in the 1573 inventory of property in the Adriaansdoelen. In 1570, before becoming prior of the monastery, Philips had a 'Liber memoriarum' compiled which contained the names of his grandparents and parents. His grandmother came from the Van Arkel family, whose arms bore two opposing embattled bars. This coal of arms facilitated identification of the couples on the left wing. The grandparents are kneeling behind the last prie-dieu - the Van Arkel arms are on the heraldic left of the shield. In front of them are Philips van Hogesteyn's parents. It is harder to establish the identity of the people on the right wing, but the couple kneeling behind the prie-dieu are very likely Philips' brother and sister-in-law. The woman behind them could be his sister. The brother and sister are mentioned in his will, which he made in 1568. However, it is not clear who the Hospitaller on this panel is. It could be an unknown member of the family, but it is also possible that Philips van Hogesteyn was depicted in the triplych twice, first simply as a member of the family on one wing and again, later on in life, on the middle panel as the most important patron. Besides this painted epitaph, an elegy on Philips van Hogesteyn, written bij Cornelys Schonaeus, headmaster of the Latin school in Haarlem, has been preserved. This poem only mentions the effigy of the late Philips in front of the 'worthy reader' - not a word about his family. The 1572 inventory lists two separate portraits of Philips. It is not known where he was buried, nor has it been possible to establish whether his epitaph, with or without the elegy, or a portrait plus an elegy were ever placed on his grave. The painter is not mentioned by name anywhere either. Philips van Hogesteyn took holy orders in 1553. Assuming that he was 17 years old when he joined the Order of St. John, he would have entered the monastery in 1544. If this assumption is correct and he is portrayed twice on the triplych, it could have been painted any time from 1544 on. The reason for the commission must remain unanswered. In the Catharijneconvent Museum in Utrechl is a triptych with a Crucifixion. On the left wing is a kneeling man in a chasuble and stole, and on the right wing a Hospitaller (ill. 8). Today the outsides of the panels are empty. In the catalogue of an exhibition of North-Netherlandish painting and sculpture before 1575, held in 1913, however, the vestiges of the armorial shields -- four on each panel - are mentioned. Apparently this is an epitaph for a member of the Oem van Wijngaarden family, brought to Utrecht in 1573. The Hospitaller is Tieleman Oem van Wijngaarden, who was living in St. John's Monastery in Haarlem at the beginning of the 16th century and died in 1518 person on the right-hand panel appears to be Dirk van Raaphorst -- also known as Dirk van Noordwijk. The Utrecht triptych is identified here as the Van Wijngaarden epitaph from St. John's Monastery despite the fact that the description of shield I on the right-hand panel does not point towards the Oem van Wijngaarden family. Thanks to the fourth shield on the same panel, still in fairly good condition in 1913, it was possible, by dint of invenstigating Tieleman's family, to establish him as the person portrayed on the right-hand panel (see Appendix II). Dirk van Raaphorst of Noordwijk was a canon of St. Pancras' Church in Leiden. He probably owed the name 'van Raaphorst of Noordwijk' to the fact that he was called after his maternal grandfather. For the same reason, the armorial shields on the back of the lefthand panel are not arranged in the usual manner but inverted, i being the mother's arms, II the father's (see also Appendix III). Dirk van Noordwijk was a nephew of Tieleman Oem van Wijngaarden (see Appendix IV). He died in 1502. In 15 18 Tieleman was buried in the same grave in the church of St. John's Monastery. This memorial panel, too, prompts several questions. It is not clear why distant relatives, whose deaths moreover were sixteen years apart, were commemorated on the same panel. Neither the painter nor the dale of the triptych is known. However, perhaps the source of Tieleman's portrait can be established (fig.9). The features in this portrait bear a marked resemblance to those in the portrait of the Hospitaller on the Van Wijngaarden epitaph in Utrecht. Despite publications on individual North-Netherlandish memorial panels, no scholarly examination of the total number of known pieces has yet been initiated. The author is preparing such an examination, which may yield more insight into the customs pertaining to the corramemoration of the dead and the place accupied by memorial panels.

Abstract:

<p>In a country where there is a consistent loud outcry about school achievement of youth<br />in the final school examination in Grade 12, attention has recently shifted to children in<br />the primary school. The very founding of this journal was motivated by a deep concern<br />about research in childhood education and children’s lives. Questions were being asked<br />about what happens in the first years of schooling, about the suitability of the national<br />curriculum for such a diverse population, about specialised research in the field of<br />learning in the early years, and about teaching with care and with insight, knowing<br />who the children of this nation are.<br />The journal took an early stand when, at its launch in 2010, the editor noted that the<br />notion of a national foundation phase curriculum assumes the existence of a ‘national’<br />Grade 1 learner. In South Africa there are children who come to school, well prepared<br />for the demands of school – and there are others who come with only their survival<br />records in homes of extreme poverty, of absent parents and of families broken by the<br />effects of the history of the nation and the effects of disease. Much as we would like<br />to see a standard of performance expected from the ‘national’ young learner, we need<br />to see the layers of diversity too. Can such a stratified population, socially fractured<br />in many ways, truly enact a differentiated curriculum for children who have so much<br />and for children who have so little at the same time and at the same pace? Can our<br />foundation phase classes be truly inclusive?<br />It remains a vexing question. Much research is needed to even try to give a robust<br />response. In recent years, in the research of the Centre for Education Practice Research<br />at my home institution, we have encountered more than 3000 children between five<br />and seven years old in an extensive interview test of mathematical cognition. In the<br />process we found children who had never encountered a print drawing and children<br />who did not know that a page can be turned. However, the very same children had<br />a perfectly normal idea of approximate number and size. We regard this as evidence<br />that they have the core knowledge of number that has to be developed by systematic<br />instruction and caring apprenticeship in classrooms. But for that they would need<br />teachers who know them as well as they know the latest curriculum and its suggested<br />tools of teaching.<br />This is but one example of how important teacher education is and how important<br />it is that we should investigate both learners and teachers, but also teacher education<br />and teacher educators. Teachers and their educators at universities have their own<br />view of children, of learning and of childhood. Much as we may all agree that the<br />core activity of schools is for the young to learn the three Rs and the subject areas of<br />the curriculum, there are researchers who are opposed to a developmental view of<br />learning. The journal’s stance is that, in the Vygotskian tradition (Kozulin, 1990), the<br />young learn and are initiated – and thus develop – in the work of school (and society).<br />SAJCE– December 2014<br />ii<br />In the SAJCE we welcome different views on child learning and celebrate South<br />Africa’s researchers who argue that “pedagogical ‘know-how’ and views of child and<br />childhood constitute the subject knowledge that is foundational in the foundation<br />phase curriculum” – as Murris and Verbeek do in this issue. Add to that knowledge<br />of how children the world over have core knowledge systems, as argued by cognitive<br />developmental psychologists and neuroscientists, and we have a composite picture<br />of what the object of teacher education is – to know 1) the learner and 2) the subject<br />content, but also 3) the self as teacher.<br />This ‘didactical triangle’, was already proposed as view of teaching in the 17th century<br />in Comenius’s major work, Didactica Magna (Comenius, 1632/1967). In the 20th century,<br />for some reason, the English- speaking world used the term ‘didactic’ to denote<br />teacher-centred learning, while Comenius proposed what can arguably nowadays be<br />termed pedagogical content knowledge (PCK). Jari Lavonen, the chair of the teacher<br />education department at the University of Helsinki, recently noted that PCK is the<br />transformation of subject content knowledge by infusing it with knowledge of the<br />learner and of the self as teacher. In Finland they refer to PCK simply as Didactics, while<br />taking full cognisance of Shulman’s model (Shulman 1986).<br />But, views on teaching become more complicated when teachers are faced<br />with children who enter Grade 1, but who are not ready to embrace the way of life<br />at school. Bruwer and her co-authors report in this issue on teachers’ views on the<br />predicament they face when children need to cross the liminality boundary – when<br />they are still ‘betwixt and between’ life as an informal learner and life in school, where<br />they have to be inducted into life as a formal learner in a national curriculum. In the<br />same vein, Condy and Blease argue that a “one-size-fits-all curriculum cannot address<br />the issues that rural multigrade teachers and learners face”. Seldom do educational<br />researchers contemplate this very real issue. I was in the same class in Grade 1 as my<br />brother, who was then in Grade 8, in a little farm school. I recall vividly how we young<br />ones spent much time making clay oxen while they were doing indecipherable maths<br />on the writing board.<br />When more than one language is used, or required to be used, in a single classroom<br />communication set-up, a teacher is faced with yet another dimension. Ankiah-Gangadeen<br />and Samuel write about a narrative inquiry that was conducted in Mauritius, noting<br />that the “narrative inquiry methodology offered rich possibilities to foray into these<br />[teachers’] experiences, including the manifestations of negotiating their classroom<br />pedagogy in relation to their own personal historical biographies of language teaching<br />and learning”.<br />Added to the multilayered types of knowledge around which a teacher needs to<br />negotiate her way in a foundation phase classroom, are knowledge and understanding<br />of children’s transition from one grade to the next. Nieuwenhuizen and co-authors<br />found that the move from Grade 2 to Grade 3 is notably more difficult for children than<br />earlier grade transitions. I wish to add that it is also a grade transition that requires<br />much more of the learning child in volume and in pace of learning; the transition<br />Editorial<br />requires a ‘mature’ young learner who has worked through the curriculum of the<br />earlier grades effectively.<br />Kanjee and Moloi not only present information about ANA results, but show how<br />teachers utilise these in their teaching. To that, the editorial team adds: what is the<br />national testing ritual really doing for teachers? Are there many unforeseen and even<br />unintended effects? Many teachers may say that it alerts them to gaps in their own<br />knowledge and pedagogy and, especially, we would think, the way in which they<br />assess children’s learning effectively. While Kanjee and Moloi invoke local national<br />tests, Fritz and her co-authors from Germany, Switzerland and South Africa show<br />how a mathematics competence and diagnostic test for school beginners found<br />its way from Europe to South Africa. They point to the challenges of translating an<br />interview-based test and of validating it in a local context in four languages. With the<br />promise that the test will be normed in this country, the foundation phase education<br />as well as the educational psychology community may stand to benefit from such a<br />test, which is theoretically grounded in children’s conceptual development.<br />The matter of teaching with formative assessment as pedagogical tool comes to<br />mind whenever one discusses assessment. In an article by Long and Dunne, one reads<br />about their investigation into teaching of mathematics with a very specific angle – how<br />to “map and manage the omissions implicit in the current unfolding of the Curriculum<br />and Assessment Policy Statement (CAPS) for mathematics”. In a very dense and fast<br />paced curriculum it is not possible to fill all the gaps. Who knows what the effect may<br />be for future learning of children who move through a curriculum quite rapidly?<br />Staying in the early grade classroom, Sibanda explores the readability of two<br />textbooks for natural science learning for Grade 4 learners. She touches on one of<br />the sensitive nerves of South African school education, namely the English language.<br />In her analysis of two textbooks, using a range of methods of text analysis, she<br />comes to the conclusion that the books are simply too difficult to read. She argues<br />that the authors have not taken into account that both vocabulary and syntax have<br />to be taught systematically in order for Grade 4 children to be able to read texts in a<br />language they do not know well, for one, and in a discourse of science writing that is<br />new for them as well.<br />Ragpot narrates the story of how an instructional film, #Taximaths: how children<br />make their world mathematical, was conceptualised, scripted and produced with<br />senior undergraduate students at UJ. This artefact serves not only as higher education<br />material in teacher education, but is also used as material for teacher development.1<br />This issue of the journal is rounded off by an important contribution about the<br />ethics of research on children. Pillay explains how experts in ethics have advised him<br />in the work they do in the National Research Foundation South African Research<br />Chair he holds in ‘Education and Care in Childhood’ at the University of Johannesburg.<br />The reader is reminded that care of vulnerable children and the protection of their<br />rights should be high on the list of educational practice and its research.<br />iii<br />SAJCE– December 2014<br />The next issue of SAJCE is a special one. It is edited by Nadine Petersen and Sarah<br />Gravett and it celebrates a programme of research and development of the South<br />African Department of Higher Education and Training, with funding support from the<br />EU. The Strengthening Foundation Phase Teacher Education Programme started in<br />2011 and included most of the universities in the country. The issue promises to be a<br />milestone publication on teacher education for the primary school.<br />Editorial greetings<br />Elizabeth Henning</p>

Abstract:

Manuscript is a cultural product belongs to every civilized community that understands letters and words. Visual communication, before script and writing were established, such as ancient drawings, has been used by people since thousands years ago. The discovery of picture in prehistoric caves is considered as the beginning of drawing tradition towards the modern illustration. The discovery of scripts and writing shifted the tradition of drawing, although the simplest and the most effective communication is still the visual language.  It explains why an illustrative drawing in the old manuscript was used as a communication device which reflects the cultural development and the way of thinking from the society who created it. The tradition of writing and drawing in illustration was found in the Javanese and Balinese old manuscripts. The visual illustration, theme, and media of manuscripts shown similar in diversity, depend on their role in social life. Some parts of those old manuscripts show unique illustrations as well as the local identity of the society. The illustration on manuscript reflects the society culture of thinking and aesthetic achievement of visual art.    Key Words: Illustration, old Indonesian manuscript, visual language.Â

Abstract:

Autobiographical literature in recent years has attracted increasing interest, which is understandable considering the symbiosis between writing and reality that gives shape to it. The aim of this article is to approach the state of the question of the Catalan literature of the 'I' written by women, since the first appearances, the epistles of the Baroness de Castellvell and Molins de Rei, Estefania de Requesens, dated from 16th century until the posthumous diary of Maria-Mercè Marçal, 2014. The disease and the proximity of death is a device that drives writers to project themselves in some very important writings in the autobiographical genre. Childhood, old age or recovery of memory are other reasons why the authors leave witness in a field, the literary one, of a clearly patriarchal domain since immemorial times.

Abstract:

<p>Teaching English for Young Learners is not as simple as people thought. There are a lot of things to</p><p>consider. One of them is fostering young learners to be multi-literate. It means that they need to master more than one skill in their life. The skills or abilities are listening, speaking, reading, writing, counting, et cetera, with the sources either from hardcopy (books) or softcopy (internet). Therefore, it is needed a medium to help the young learners to achieve multi-literacies, that it is a digital video. This mini-research aimed to use digital video to raise students’ multi-literacies in TEYL, by utilizing descriptive qualitative design. The mini-research was conducted in English course for the age of 9-10 years old. It was done for a month in total of 4 meetings, with duration about 60 minutes. The teacher was successful to use digital video combined with picture series. The students felt happy and interested, since they firstly watched the digital video “sleeping beauty” before being asked to arrange picture series. The teacher also explored some vocabulary in the video and tried to contrast them with reality in surrounding. The kind of activity helped the young learners to communicate cross culturally. In fact, communicating cross culturally was also one of additional skill that indicated the students as multi-literate people. All in all, based on the findings of interview, the researcher also recommended conducting further research.</p>

Abstract:

This paper reports the results of a study investigating the Russian-language proficiency of bi/multilingual (Russian–English [+additional language]) children in Saskatchewan, Canada, as compared to monolingual children in Russia. Very few studies of Russo-English bilingual children’s language performance are available in the Canadian context, and no studies have ever been conducted in Saskatchewan, where input is severely restricted compared to other contexts due to demographic reasons. The major impetus for the study was therefore to determine if in these settings, bi/multilingual children can develop minority language proficiency comparable to that of their monolingual peers in Russia. The methodology employed in the study focuses on the linguistic analysis of audio recordings of a picture description task performed by participants. Oral language proficiency parameters (including vocabulary, fluency, and syntactical complexity) in the speech of the 5–6-year-old bi/multilingual children were compared with the ones produced by a control group (monolingual children) from Russia. The results demonstrate that the oral language proficiency in the bilingual group is on a par with that of the monolingual group. However, reading and writing skills of the bi/multilingual group are less developed than in the control group.

Abstract:

The Fellows of the Royal Society have a tradition of writing expositions of their work which rapidly attain the status of classics. Newton’s Principia, Darwin’s Origin of Species , Maxwell’s Theory of Electricity and Magnetism, Rutherford’s Radioactive Transformations , and Dirac’s Quantum Mechanics all served to define a field which their authors had played a major role in establishing, and as a source of knowledge and inspiration for succeeding generations. Rutherford’s book went through two metamorphoses before reaching its final form as Radiations from Radioactive Substances by Rutherford, Chadwick and Ellis (hereafter referred to as RCE). During the early 1930s, it was the principal source for all aspiring nuclear physicists, including Fermi's group in Rome and a whole generation in America. It thus, inadvertently, contributed to the erosion of the overwhelming dominance of the Cavendish Laboratory in the subject. It was often referred to as the ‘Bible’ of nuclear physics, but at least from 1932, ‘Old Testament’ might have been more appropriate. It is firmly based on the proton-electron model of the nucleus and the ‘new mechanics’ makes only a tentative appearance. Nevertheless it is a true masterpiece, clearly and elegantly written, full of incisive summaries and insights, and giving a remarkably faithful and complete picture, from an experimental viewpoint, of nuclear physics as it was around 1930.

Abstract:

Ever since I tripped over Tiddles while I was carrying a pile of discs into the studio, I’ve known it was possible to get a laugh out of gramophone records!Max Bygraves In 1978 the music critic Lester Bangs published a typically pugnacious essay with the fighting title, “The Ten Most Ridiculous Albums of the Seventies.” Before deliciously launching into his execution of Uri Geller’s self-titled album or Rick Dees’ The Original Disco Duck, Bangs asserts that because that decade was history’s silliest, it stands to reason “that ridiculous records should become the norm instead of anomalies,” that abominations should be the best of our time (Bangs, 1978). This absurd pretzel logic sounds uncannily like Jacques Derrida’s definition of the “post” condition, since for it to arrive it begins by not arriving (Derrida 1987, 29). Lester is thinking like a poststructuralist. The oddness of the most singularly odd album out in Bangs’ greatest misses of the seventies had nothing to do with how ridiculous it was, but the fact that it even existed at all. (Bangs 1978) The album was entitled The Best of Marcel Marceao. Produced by Michael Viner the album contained four tracks, with two identical on both sides: “Silence,” which is nineteen minutes long and “Applause,” one minute. To underline how extraordinary this gramophone record is, John Cage’s Lecture on Nothing (1959) is cacophonous by comparison. While Bangs agrees with popular opinion that The Best of Marcel Marceao the “ultimate concept album,” he concluded that this is “one of those rare records that never dates” (Bangs, 1978). This tacet album is a good way to start thinking about the Classical Gas project, and the ironic semiotics at work in it (Tofts & Gye 2011). It too is about records that are silent and that never date. First, the album’s cover art, featuring a theatrically posed Marceau, implies the invitation to speak in the absence of speech; or, in our terms, it is asking to be re-written. Secondly, the French mime’s surname is spelled incorrectly, with an “o” rather than “u” as the final letter. As well as the caprice of an actual album by Marcel Marceau, the implicit presence and absence of the letters o and u is appropriately in excess of expectations, weird and unexpected like an early title in the Classical Gas catalogue, Ernesto Laclau’s and Chantal Mouffe’s Hegemony and Socialist Strategy. (classical-gas.com) Like a zootrope animation, it is impossible not to see the o and u flickering at one at the same time on the cover. In this duplicity it performs the conventional and logical permutation of English grammar. Silence invites difference, variation within a finite lexical set and the opportunity to choose individual items from it. Here is album cover art that speaks of presence and absence, of that which is anticipated and unexpected: a gramophone recoding without sound. In this the Marceau cover is one of Roland Barthes’ mythologies, something larger than life, structured like a language and structured out of language (Barthes 1982). This ambiguity is the perfidious grammar that underwrites Classical Gas. Images, we learned from structuralism, are codified, or rather, are code. Visual remix is a rhetorical gesture of recoding that interferes with the semiotic DNA of an image. The juxtaposition of text and image is interchangeable and requires our imagination of what we are looking at and what it might sound like. This persistent interplay of metaphor and metonymy has enabled us to take more than forty easy listening albums and republish them as mild-mannered recordings from the maverick history of ideas, from Marxism and psychoanalysis, to reception theory, poststructuralism and the writings of critical auteurs. Foucault à gogo, for instance, takes a 1965 James Last dance album and recodes it as the second volume of The History of Sexuality. In saying this, we are mindful of the ambivalence of the very possibility of this connection, to how and when the eureka moment of remix recognition occurs, if at all. Mix and remix are, after Jean Baudrillard, both precession and procession of simulacra (Baudrillard, 1983). The nature of remix is that it is always already elusive and anachronistic. Not everyone can be guaranteed to see the shadow of one text in dialogue with another, like a hi-fi palimpsest. Or another way of saying this, such an epiphany of déjà vu, of having seen this before, may happen after the fact of encounter. This anachrony is central to remix practices, from the films of Quentin Tarrantino and the “séance fictions” of Soda_Jerk, to obscure Flintstones/Goodfellas mashups on YouTube. It is also implicit in critical understandings of an improbable familiarity with the superabundance of cultural archives, the dizzying excess of an infinite record library straight out of Jorge Luis Borges’ ever-expanding imagination. Drifting through the stacks of such a repository over an entire lifetime any title found, for librarian and reader alike, is either original and remix, sometime. Metalanguages that seek to counter this ambivalence are forms of bad faith, like film spoilers Brodie’s Notes. Accordingly, this essay sets out to explain some of the generic conventions of Classical Gas, as a remix project in which an image’s semiotic DNA is rewired and recontextualised. While a fake, it is also completely real (Faith in fakes, as it happens, may well be a forthcoming Umberto Eco title in the series). While these album covers are hyperreal, realistic in excess of being real, the project does take some inspiration from an actual, rather than imaginary archive of album covers. In 2005, Jewish artist Dani Gal happened upon a 1968 LP that documented the events surrounding the Six Day War in Israel in 1967. To his surprise, he found a considerable number of similar LPs to do with significant twentieth century historical events, speeches and political debates. In the artist’s own words, the LPs collected in his Historical Record Archive (2005-ongoing) are in fact silent, since it is only their covers that are exhibited in installations of this work, signifying a potential sound that visitors must try to audition. As Gal has observed, the interactive contract of the work is derived from the audience’s instinct to “try to imagine the sounds” even though they cannot listen to them (Gal 2011, 182). Classical Gas deliberately plays with this potential yearning that Gal astutely instils in his viewer and aspiring auditor. While they can never be listened to, they can entice, after Gilles Deleuze, a “virtual co-existence” of imaginary sound that manifests itself as a contract between viewer and LP (Deleuze 1991, 63). The writer Jeffrey Sconce condensed this embrace of the virtual as something plausibly real when he pithily observed of the Classical Gas project that it is “the thrift-bin in my fantasy world. I want to play S/Z at 78 rpm” (Sconce 2011). In terms of Sconce’s spectral media interests the LPs are haunted by the trace of potential “other” sounds that have taken possession of and appropriated the covers for another use (Sconce 2000).Mimetic While most albums are elusive and metaphoric (such as Freud’s Totem and Taboo, or Luce Irigaray’s Ethics of Sexual Difference), some titles do make a concession to a tantalizing, mimetic literalness (such as Das Institut fur Sozialforschung). They display a trace of the haunting subject in terms of a tantalizing echo of fact or suggestion of verifiable biography. The motivation here is the recognition of a potential similarity, since most Classical Gas titles work by contrast. As with Roland Barthes’ analysis of the erotics of the fashion system, so with Gilles Deleuze’s Coldness and Cruelty: it is “where the garment gapes” that the tease begins. (Barthes 1994, 9) Or, in this instance, where the cigarette smokes. (classical-gas.com) A casual Max Bygraves, paused in mid-thought, looks askance while lighting up. Despite the temptation to read even more into this, a smoking related illness did not contribute to Bygraves’ death in 2012. However, dying of Alzheimer’s disease, his dementia is suggestive of the album’s intrinsic capacity to be a palimpsest of the co-presence of different memories, of confused identities, obscure realities that are virtual and real. Beginning with the album cover itself, it has to become an LP (Deleuze 1991, 63). First, it is a cardboard, planar sleeve measuring 310mm squared, that can be imprinted with a myriad of different images. Secondly, it is conventionally identified in terms of a title, such as Organ Highlights or Classics Up to Date. Thirdly it is inscribed by genre, which may be song, drama, spoken word, or novelty albums of industrial or instrumental sounds, such as Memories of Steam and Accelerated Accordians. A case in point is John Woodhouse And His Magic Accordion from 1969. (classical-gas.com) All aspects of its generic attributes as benign and wholesome accordion tunes are warped and re-interpreted in Classical Gas. Springtime for Kittler appeared not long after the death of its eponymous philosopher in 2011. Directed by Richard D. James, also known as Aphex Twin, it is a homage album to Friedrich Kittler by the PostProducers, a fictitious remix collective inspired by Mel Brooks whose personnel include Mark Amerika and Darren Tofts. The single from this album, yet to be released, is a paean to Kittler’s last words, “Alle Apparate auschalten.” Foucault à gogo (vol. 2), the first album remixed for this series, is also typical of this archaeological approach to the found object. (classical-gas.com) The erasure and replacement of pre-existing text in a similar font re-writes an iconic image of wooing that is indicative of romantic album covers of this period. This album is reflective of the overall project in that the actual James Last album (1968) preceded the publication of the Foucault text (1976) that haunts it. This is suggestive of how coding and recoding are in the eye of the beholder and the specific time in which the remixed album is encountered. It doesn’t take James Last, Michel Foucault or Theodor Holm Nelson to tell you that there is no such thing as a collective memory with linear recall. As the record producer Milt Gabler observes in the liner notes to this album, “whatever the title with this artist, the tune remains the same, that distinct and unique Foucault à gogo.” “This artist” in this instance is Last or Foucault, as well as Last and Foucault. Similarly Milt Gabler is an actual author of liner notes (though not on the James Last album) whose words from another album, another context and another time, are appropriated and deftly re-written with Last’s Hammond à gogo volume 2 and The History of Sexuality in mind as a palimpsest (this approach to sampling liner notes and re-writing them as if they speak for the new album is a trope at work in all the titles in the series). And after all is said and done with the real or remixed title, both artists, after Umberto Eco, will have spoken once more of love (Eco 1985, 68). Ambivalence Foucault à gogo is suggestive of the semiotic rewiring that underwrites Classical Gas as a whole. What is at stake in this is something that poststructuralism learned from its predecessor. Taking the tenuous conventionality of Ferdinand de Saussure’s signifier and signified as a starting point, Lacan, Derrida and others embraced the freedom of this arbitrariness as the convention or social contract that brings together a thing and a word that denotes it. This insight of liberation, or what Hélène Cixous and others, after Jacques Lacan, called jouissance (Lacan 1992), meant that texts were bristling with ambiguity and ambivalence, free play, promiscuity and, with a nod to Mikhail Bakhtin, carnival (Bakhtin 1984). A picture of a pipe was, after Foucault after Magritte, not a pipe (Foucault 1983). This po-faced sophistry is expressed in René Magritte’s “Treachery of Images” of 1948, which screamed out that the word pipe could mean anything. Foucault’s reprise of Magritte in “This is Not a Pipe” also speaks of Classical Gas’ embrace of the elasticity of sign and signifier, his “plastic elements” an inadvertent suggestion of vinyl (Foucault 1983, 53). (classical-gas.com) This uncanny association of structuralism and remixed vinyl LPs is intimated in Ferdinand de Saussure’s Cours de linguistique générale. Its original cover art is straight out of a structuralist text-book, with its paired icons and words of love, rain, honey, rose, etc. But this text as performed by Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians in New York in 1956 is no less plausible than Saussure’s lectures in Geneva in 1906. Cultural memory and cultural amnesia are one and the same thing. Out of all of the Classical Gas catalogue, this album is arguably the most suggestive of what Jeffrey Sconce would call “haunting” (Sconce, 2000), an ambivalent mixing of the “memory and desire” that T.S. Eliot wrote of in the allusive pages of The Waste Land (Eliot 1975, 27). Here we encounter the memory of a bookish study of signs from the early twentieth century and the desire for its vinyl equivalent on World Record Club in the 1960s. Memory and desire, either or, or both. This ambivalence was deftly articulated by Roland Barthes in his last book, Camera Lucida, as a kind of spectral haunting, a vision or act of double seeing in the perception of the photographic image. This flickering of perception is never static, predictable or repeatable. It is a way of seeing contingent upon who is doing the looking and when. Barthes famously conceptualised this interplay in perception of an between the conventions that culture has mandated, its studium, and the unexpected, idiosyncratic double vision that is unique to the observer, its punctum (Barthes 1982, 26-27). Accordingly, the Cours de linguistique générale is a record by Saussure as well as the posthumous publication in Paris and Lausanne of notes from his lectures in 1916. (Barthes 1982, 51) With the caption “Idiot children in an institution, New Jersey, 1924,” American photographer Lewis Hine’s anthropological study declares that this is a clinical image of pathological notions of monstrosity and aberration at the time. Barthes though, writing in a post-1968 Paris, only sees an outrageous Danton collar and a banal finger bandage (Barthes 1982, 51). With the radical, protestant cries of the fallout of the Paris riots in mind, as well as a nod to music writer Greil Marcus (1989), it is tempting to see Hine’s image as the warped cover of a Dead Kennedys album, perhaps Plastic Surgery Disasters. In terms of the Classical Gas approach to recoding, though, this would be far too predictable; for a start there is neither a pipe, a tan cardigan nor a chenille scarf to be seen. A more heart-warming, suitable title might be Ray Conniff’s 1965 Christmas Album: Here We Come A-Caroling. Irony (secretprehistory.net) Like our Secret Gestural Prehistory of Mobile Devices project (Tofts & Gye), Classical Gas approaches the idea of recoding and remixing with a relentless irony. The kind of records we collect and the covers which we use for this project are what you would expect to find in the hutch of an old gramophone player, rather than “what’s hot” in iTunes. The process of recoding the album covers seeks to realign expectations of what is being looked at, such that it becomes difficult to see it in any other way. In this an album’s recoded signification implies the recognition of the already seen, of album covers like this, that signal something other than what we are seeing; colours, fonts etc., belonging to a historical period, to its genres and its demographic. One of the more bucolic and duplicitous forms of rhetoric, irony wants it both ways, to be totally lounge and theoretically too-cool-for school, as in Rencontre Terrestre by Hélène Cixous and Frédéric-Yves Jeannet. (classical-gas.com) This image persuades through the subtle alteration of typography that it belongs to a style, a period and a vibe that would seem to be at odds with the title and content of the album, but as a totality of image and text is entirely plausible. The same is true of Roland Barthes’ S/Z. The radical semiologist invites us into his comfortable sitting room for a cup of coffee. A traditional Times font reinforces the image of Barthes as an avuncular, Sunday afternoon story-teller or crooner, more Alistair Cooke/Perry Como than French Marxist. (classical-gas.com) In some instances, like Histoire de Tel Quel, there is no text at all on the cover and the image has to do its signifying work iconographically. (classical-gas.com) Here a sixties collage of French-ness on the original Victor Sylvester album from 1963 precedes and anticipates the re-written album it has been waiting for. That said, the original title In France is rather bland compared to Histoire de Tel Quel. A chic blond, the Eiffel Tower and intellectual obscurity vamp synaesthetically, conjuring the smell of Gauloises, espresso and agitated discussions of Communism on the Boulevard St. Germain. With Marcel Marceao with an “o” in mind, this example of a cover without text ironically demonstrates how Classical Gas, like The Secret Gestural Prehistory of Mobile Devices, is ostensibly a writing project. Just as the images are taken hostage from other contexts, text from the liner notes is sampled from other records and re-written in an act of ghost-writing to complete the remixed album. Without the liner notes, Classical Gas would make a capable Photoshop project, but lacks any force as critical remix. The redesigned and re-titled covers certainly re-code the album, transform it into something else; something else that obviously or obliquely reflects the theme, ideas or content of the title, whether it’s Louis Althusser’s Philosophy as a Revolutionary Weapon or Luce Irigaray’s An Ethics of Sexual Difference. If you don’t hear the ruggedness of Leslie Fiedler’s essays in No! In Thunder then the writing hasn’t worked. The liner notes are the albums’ conscience, the rubric that speaks the tunes, the words and elusive ideas that are implied but can never be heard. The Histoire de Tel Quel notes illustrate this suggestiveness: You may well think as is. Philippe Forest doesn’t, not in this Éditions du Seuil classic. The titles included on this recording have been chosen with a dual purpose: for those who wish to think and those who wish to listen. What Forest captures in this album is distinctive, fresh and daring. For what country has said it like it is, has produced more robustesse than France? Here is some of that country’s most famous talent swinging from silk stockings, the can-can, to amour, presented with the full spectrum of stereo sound. (classical-gas.com) The writing accurately imitates the inflection and rhythm of liner notes of the period, so on the one hand it sounds plausibly like a toe-tapping dance album. On the other, and at the same time, it gestures knowingly to the written texts upon which it is based, invoking its rigours as a philosophical text. The dithering suggestiveness of both – is it music or text – is like a scrambled moving image always coming into focus, never quite resolving into one or the other. But either is plausible. The Tel Quel theorists were interested in popular culture like the can-can, they were fascinated with the topic of love and if instead of books they produced albums, their thinking would be auditioned in full stereo sound. With irony in mind, then, it’s hardly surprising to know that the implicit title of the project, that is neither seen nor heard but always imminent, is Classical Gasbags. (classical-gas.com) Liner notes elaborate and complete an implicit narrative in the title and image, making something compellingly realistic that is a composite of reality and fabulation. Consider Adrian Martin’s Surrealism (A Quite Special Frivolity): France is the undeniable capital of today’s contemporary sound. For Adrian Martin, this is home ground. His French soul glows and expands in the lovely Mediterranean warmth of this old favourite, released for the first time on Project 3 Total Sound Stereo. But don’t be deceived by the tonal and melodic caprices that carry you along in flutter-free sound. As Martin hits his groove, there will be revolution by night. Watch out for new Adrian Martin releases soon, including La nuit expérimentale and, his first title in English in many years, One more Bullet in the Head (produced by Bucky Pizzarelli). (classical-gas.com) Referring to Martin’s famous essay of the same name, these notes allusively skirt around his actual biography (he regularly spends time in France), his professional writing on surrealism (“revolution by night” was the sub-title of a catalogue for the Surrealism exhibition at the National Gallery of Australia in Canberra and the Art Gallery of New South Wales in 1993 to which he contributed an essay) (Martin 1993), as well as “One more bullet in the head,” the rejected title of an essay that was published in World Art magazine in New York in the mid-1990s. While the cover evokes the cool vibe of nouvelle vague Paris, it is actually from a 1968 album, Roma Oggi by the American guitarist Tony Mottola (a real person who actually sounds like a fictional character from Sergio Leone’s Once Upon A Time in America, a film on which Martin has written a book for the British Film Institute). Plausibility, in terms of Martin’s Surrealism album, has to be as compellingly real as the sincerity of Sandy Scott’s Here’s Sandy. And it should be no surprise to see the cover art of Scott’s album return as Georges Bataille’s Erotism. Gramophone The history of the gramophone represents the technological desire to write sound. In this the gramophone record is a ligature of sound and text, a form of phonographic writing. With this history in mind it’s hardly surprising that theorists such as Derrida and Kittler included the gramophone under the conceptual framework of a general grammatology (Derrida 1992, 253 & Kittler 1997, 28). (classical-gas.com) Jacques Derrida’s Of Grammatology is the avatar of Classical Gas in its re-writing of a previous writing. Re-inscribing the picaresque Pal Joey soundtrack as a foundation text of post-structuralism is appropriate in terms of the gramme or literate principle of Western metaphysics as well as the echolalia of remix. As Derrida observes in Of Grammatology, history and knowledge “have always been determined (and not only etymologically or philosophically) as detours for the purpose of the reappropriation of presence” (Derrida 1976, 10). A gas way to finish, you might say. But in retrospect the ur-text that drives the poetics of Classical Gas is not Of Grammatology but the errant Marcel Marceau album described previously. Far from being an oddity, an aberration or a “novelty” album, it is a classic gramophone recording, the quintessential writing of an absent speech, offbeat and untimely. References Bahktin, Mikhail. Rabelais and His World. Trans. Hélène Iswolsky. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985. Bangs, Lester. “The Ten Most Ridiculous Albums of the Seventies”. Phonograph Record Magazine, March, 1978. Reproduced at http://rateyourmusic.com/list/dacapo/the_ten_most_ridiculous_records_of_the_seventies__by_lester_bangs. Barthes, Roland. Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography. Trans. Richard Howard. London: Flamingo, 1982. ---. Mythologies. Trans. Annette Lavers. London: Granada, 1982. ---. The Pleasure of the Text. Trans. Richard Miller. Oxford: Blackwell, 1994. Baudrillard, Jean. Simulations. Trans. Paul Foss, Paul Patton and Philip Beitchman. New York: Semiotext[e], 1983. Deleuze, Gilles. Bergsonism. Trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Barbara Habberjam. New York: Zone Books, 2000. Derrida, Jacques. Of Grammatology. Trans. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976. ---. The Post Card: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond. Trans. Alan Bass. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1987. ---. “Ulysses Gramophone: Hear Say Yes in Joyce,” in Acts of Literature. Ed. Derek Attridge. New York: Routledge, 1992. Eco, Umberto. Reflections on The Name of the Rose. Trans. William Weaver. London: Secker & Warburg, 1985. Eliot, T.S. The Waste Land and Other Poems. London: Faber & Faber, 1975. Foucault, Michel. This Is Not a Pipe. Trans. James Harkness. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983. ---. The Use of Pleasure: The History of Sexuality Volume 2. Trans. Robert Hurley. New York: Random House, 1985. Gal, Dani. Interview with Jens Hoffmann, Istanbul Biennale Companion. Istanbul Foundation for Culture and the Arts, 2011. Kittler, Friedrich. “Gramophone, Film, Typewriter,” in Literature, Media, Information Systems. Ed. John Johnston. Amsterdam: Overseas Publishers Association, 1997. Lacan, Jacques. The Ethics of Psychoanalysis (1959–1960): The Seminar of Jacques Lacan. Trans. Dennis Porter. London: Routledge, 1992. Marcus, Greil. Lipstick Traces: A Secret History of the Twentieth Century. London: Secker & Warburg, 1989. Martin, Adrian. “The Artificial Night: Surrealism and Cinema,” in Surrealism: Revolution by Night. Canberra: National Gallery of Australia, 1993. Sconce, Jeffrey. Haunted Media: Electronic Presence from Telegraphy to Television. Durham: Duke University Press, 2000. ---. Online communication with authors, June 2011. Tofts, Darren and Lisa Gye. The Secret Gestural Prehistory of Mobile Devices. 2010-ongoing. http://www.secretprehistory.net/. ---. Classical Gas. 2011-ongoing. http://www.classical-gas.com/.

Abstract:

‘Historiographic Metafiction’ (HM) is a literary term first coined by creative writing academic Linda Hutcheon in 1988, and which refers to the postmodern practice of a fiction author inserting imagined--or illegitimate--characters into narratives that are intended to be received as authentic and historically accurate, that is, ostensibly legitimate. Such adventurous and bold authorial strategies frequently result in “novels which are both intensely self-reflexive and yet paradoxically also lay claim to historical events and personages” (Hutcheon, A Poetics 5). They can be so entertaining and engaging that the overtly intertextual, explicitly inventive work of biographical HM can even change the “hegemonic discourse of history” (Nunning 353) for, as Philippa Gregory, the author of HM novel The Other Boleyn Girl (2001), has said regarding this genre of creative writing: “Fiction is about imagined feelings and thoughts. History depends on the outer life. The novel is always about the inner life. Fiction can sometimes do more than history. It can fill the gaps” (University of Sussex). In a way, this article will be filling one of the gaps regarding HM.Forrest Gump (Robert Zemeckis, 1994) is possibly the best known cinematic example of HM, and this film version of the 1986 novel by Winston Groom particularly excels in seamlessly inserting images of a fictional character into verified history, as represented by well-known television newsreel footage. In Zemeckis’s adaptation, gaps were created in the celluloid artefact and filled digitally with images of the actor, Tom Hanks, playing the eponymous role. Words are often deemed less trustworthy than images, however, and fiction is considered particularly unreliable--although there are some exceptions conceded. In addition to Gregory’s novel; Midnight’s Children (1980) by Salman Rushdie; The Name of the Rose (1983) by Umberto Eco; and The Flashman Papers (1969-2005) by George MacDonald Fraser, are three well-known, loved and lauded examples of literary HM, which even if they fail to convince the reader of their bona fides, nevertheless win a place in many hearts. But despite the genre’s popularity, there is nevertheless a conceptual gap in the literary theory of Hutcheon given her (perfectly understandable) inability in 1988 to predict the future of e-publishing. This article will attempt to address that shortcoming by exploring the potential for authors of HM e-novels to use hyperlinks which immediately direct the reader to fact providing webpages such as those available at the website Wikipedia, like a much speedier (and more independent) version of the footnotes in Fraser’s Flashman novels.Of course, as Roland Barthes declared in 1977, “the text is a tissue of quotations drawn from innumerable centres of culture” (146) and, as per any academic work that attempts to contribute to knowledge, a text’s sources--its “quotations”--must be properly identified and acknowledged via checkable references if credibility is to be securely established. Hence, in explaining the way claims to fact in the HM novel can be confirmed by independently published experts on the Internet, this article will also address the problem Hutcheon identifies, in that for many readers the entirety of the HM novel assumes questionable authenticity, that is, the novel’s “meta-fictional self-reflexivity (and intertextuality) renders their claims to historical veracity somewhat problematic, to say the least” ("Historiographic Metafiction: Parody", 3). This article (and the PhD in creative writing I am presently working on at Murdoch University in Perth, Western Australia) will possibly develop the concept of HM to a new level: one at which the Internet-connected reader of the hyperlinked e-novel is made fully (and even instantly) aware of those literary elements of the narrative that are legitimate and factual as distinct from those that are fictional, that is, illegitimate. Furthermore, utilising examples from my own (yet-to-be published) hyperlinked HM e-novel, this article demonstrates that such hyperlinking can add an ironic sub-text to a fictional character’s thoughts and utterances, through highlighting the reality concerning their mistaken or naïve beliefs, thus creating HM narratives that serve an entertainingly complex yet nevertheless truly educational purpose.As a relatively new and under-researched genre of historical writing, HM differs dramatically from the better known style of standard historical or biographical narrative, which typically tends to emphasise mimesis, the cataloguing of major “players” in historical events and encyclopaedic accuracy of dates, deaths and places. Instead, HM involves the re-contextualisation of real-life figures from the past, incorporating the lives of entirely (or, as in the case of Gregory’s Mary Boleyn, at least partly) fictitious characters into their generally accepted famous and factual activities, and/or the invention of scenarios that gel realistically--but entertainingly--within a landscape of well-known and well-documented events. As Hutcheon herself states: “The formal linking of history and fiction through the common denominators of intertextuality and narrativity is usually offered not as a reduction, as a shrinking of the scope and value of fiction, but rather as an expansion of these” ("Intertextuality", 11). Similarly, Gregory emphasises the need for authors of HM to extend themselves beyond the encyclopaedic archive: “Archives are not history. The trouble with archives is that the material is often random and atypical. To have history, you have to have a narrative” (University of Sussex). Functionally then, HM is an intertextual narrative genre which serves to communicate to a contemporary audience an expanded story or stories of the past which present an ultimately more self-reflective, personal and unpredictable authorship: it is a distinctly auteurial mode of biographical history writing for it places the postmodern author’s imaginative “signature” front and foremost.Hutcheon later clarified that the quest for historical truth in fiction cannot possibly hold up to the persuasive powers of a master novelist, as per the following rationale: “Fact is discourse-defined: an event is not” ("Historiographic Metafiction", 843). This means, in a rather simplistic nutshell, that the new breed of HM novel writer is not constrained by what others may call fact: s/he knows that the alleged “fact” can be renegotiated and redefined by an inventive discourse. An event, on the other hand, is responsible for too many incontrovertible consequences for it to be contested by her/his mere discourse. So-called facts are much easier for the HM writer to play with than world changing events. This notion was further popularised by Ansgar Nunning when he claimed the overtly explicit work of HM can even change the “hegemonic discourse of history” (353). HM authors can radically alter, it seems, the way the reader perceives the facts of history especially when entertaining, engaging and believable characters are deliberately devised and manipulated into the narrative by the writer. Little wonder, then, that Hutcheon bemoans the unfortunate reality that for many readers the entirety of a HM work assumes questionable “veracity” due to its author’s insertion of imaginary and therefore illegitimate personages.But there is an advantage to be found in this, the digital era, and that is the Internet’s hyperlink. In our ubiquitously networked electronic information age, novels written for publication as e-books may, I propose, include clickable links on the names of actual people and events to Wikipedia entries or the like, thus strengthening the reception of the work as being based on real history (the occasional unreliability of Wikipedia notwithstanding). If picked up for hard copy publication this function of the HM e-novel can be replicated with the inclusion of icons in the printed margins that can be scanned by smartphones or similar gadgets. This small but significant element of the production reinforces the e-novel’s potential status as a new form of HM and addresses Hutcheon’s concern that for HM novels, their imaginative but illegitimate invention of characters “renders their claims to historical veracity somewhat problematic, to say the least” ("Historiographic Metafiction: Parody", 3).Some historic scenarios are so little researched or so misunderstood and discoloured by the muddy waters of time and/or rumour that such hyperlinking will be a boon to HM writers. Where an obscure facet of Australian history is being fictionalised, for example, these edifying hyperlinks can provide additional background information, as Glenda Banks and Martin Andrew might have wished for when they wrote regarding Bank’s Victorian goldfields based HM novel A Respectable Married Woman. This 2012 printed work explores the lives of several under-researched and under-represented minorities, such as settler women and Aboriginal Australians, and the author Banks lamented the dearth of public awareness regarding these peoples. Indeed, HM seems tailor-made for exposing the subaltern lives of those repressed individuals who form the human “backdrop” to the lives of more famous personages. Banks and Andrew explain:To echo the writings of Homi K. Bhaba (1990), this sets up a creative site for interrogating the dominant, hegemonic, ‘normalised’ master narratives about the Victorian goldfields and ‘re-membering’ a marginalised group - the women of the goldfields, the indigenous [sic], the Chinese - and their culture (2013).In my own hyperlinked short story (presently under consideration for publishing elsewhere), which is actually a standalone version of the first chapter of a full-length HM e-novel about Aboriginal Australian activists Eddie Mabo and Chicka Dixon and the history of the Aboriginal Tent Embassy in Canberra, entitled The Bullroarers, I have focussed on a similarly under-represented minority, that being light-complexioned, mixed race Aboriginal Australians. My second novel to deal with Indigenous Australian issues (see Starrs, That Blackfella Bloodsucka Dance), it is my first attempt at writing HM. Hopefully avoiding overkill whilst alerting readers to those Wikipedia pages with relevance to the narrative theme of non-Indigenous attitudes towards light-complexioned Indigenous Australians, I have inserted a total of only six hyperlinks in this 2200-word piece, plus the explanatory foreword stating: “Note, except where they are well-known place names or are indicated as factual by the insertion of Internet hyperlinks verifying such, all persons, organisations, businesses and places named in this text are entirely fictitious.”The hyperlinks in my short story all take the reader not to stubs but to well-established Wikipedia pages, and provide for the uninformed audience the following near-unassailable facts (i.e. events):The TV program, A Current Affair, which the racist character of the short story taken from The Bullroarers, Mrs Poulter, relies on for her prejudicial opinions linking Aborigines with the dealing of illegal drugs, is a long-running, prime-time Channel Nine production. Of particular relevance in the Wikipedia entry is the comment: “Like its main rival broadcast on the Seven Network, Today Tonight, A Current Affair is often considered by media critics and the public at large to use sensationalist journalism” (Wikipedia, “A Current Affair”).The Aboriginal Tent Embassy, located on the lawns opposite the Old Parliament House in Canberra, was established in 1972 and ever since has been the focus of Aboriginal Australian land rights activism and political agitation. In 1995 the Australian Register of the National Estate listed it as the only Aboriginal site in Australia that is recognised nationally for representing Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people and their political struggles (Wikipedia, “The Aboriginal Tent Embassy”).In 1992, during an Aboriginal land rights case known as Mabo, the High Court of Australia issued a judgment constituting a direct overturning of terra nullius, which is a Latin term meaning “land belonging to no one”, and which had previously formed the legal rationale and justification for the British invasion and colonisation of Aboriginal Australia (Wikipedia, “Terra Nullius”).Aboriginal rights activist and Torres Strait Islander, Eddie Koiki Mabo (1936 to 1992), was instrumental in the High Court decision to overturn the doctrine of terra nullius in 1992. In that same year, Eddie Mabo was posthumously awarded the Australian Human Rights Medal in the Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission Awards (Wikipedia, “Eddie Mabo”).The full name of what Mrs Poulter blithely refers to as “the Department of Families and that” is the Australian Government’s Department of Families, Housing, Community Services and Indigenous Affairs (Wikipedia, “The Department of Families, Housing, Community Services and Indigenous Affairs”).The British colonisation of Australia was a bloody, murderous affair: “continuous Aboriginal resistance for well over a century belies the ‘myth’ of peaceful settlement in Australia. Settlers in turn often reacted to Aboriginal resistance with great violence, resulting in numerous indiscriminate massacres by whites of Aboriginal men, women and children” (Wikipedia, “History of Australia (1788 - 1850)”).Basically, what is not evidenced empirically with regard to the subject matter of my text, that is, the egregious attitudes of non-Indigenous Australians towards Indigenous Australians, can be extrapolated thanks to the hyperlinks. This resonates strongly with Linda Tuhiwai Smith’s assertion in 2012 that those under-represented by mainstream, patriarchal epistemologies need to be engaged in acts of “reclaiming, reformulating and reconstituting” (143) so as to be re-presented as authentic identities in these HM artefacts of literary research.Exerting auteurial power as an Aboriginal Australian author myself, I have sought to imprint on my writing a multi-levelled signature pertaining to my people’s under-representation: there is not just the text I have created but another level to be considered by the reader, that being my careful choice of Wikipedia pages to hyperlink certain aspects of the creative writing to. These electronic footnotes serve as politically charged acts of “reclaiming, reformulating and reconstituting” Aboriginal Australian history, to reuse the words of Smith, for when we Aboriginal Australian authors reiterate, when we subjugated savages wrestle the keyboard away from the colonising overseers, our readers witness the Other writing back, critically. As I have stated previously (see Starrs, "Writing"), receivers of our words see the distorted and silencing master discourse subverted and, indeed, inverted. Our audiences are subjectively repositioned to see the British Crown as the monster. The previously presumed rational, enlightened and civil coloniser is instead depicted as the author and perpetrator of a violently racist, criminal discourse, until, eventually, s/he is ultimately eroded and made into the Other: s/he is rendered the villainous, predatory savage by the auteurial signatures in revisionist histories such as The Bullroarers.Whilst the benefit in these hyperlinks as electronic educational footnotes in my short story is fairly obvious, what may not be so obvious is the ironic commentary they can make, when read in conjunction with the rest of The Bullroarers. Although one must reluctantly agree with Wayne C. Booth’s comment in his classic 1974 study A Rhetoric of Irony that, in some regards, “the very spirit and value [of irony] are violated by the effort to be clear about it” (ix), I will nevertheless strive for clarity and understanding by utilizing Booth’s definition of irony “as something that under-mines clarities, opens up vistas of chaos, and either liberates by destroying all dogmas or destroys by revealing the inescapable canker of negation at the heart of every affirmation” (ix). The reader of The Bullroarers is not expecting the main character, Mrs Poulter, to be the subject of erosive criticism that destroys her “dogmas” about Aboriginal Australians--certainly not so early in the narrative when it is unclear if she is or is not the protagonist of the story--and yet that’s exactly what the hyperlinks do. They expose her as hopelessly unreliable, laughably misinformed and yes, unforgivably stupid. They reveal the illegitimacy of her beliefs. Perhaps the most personally excoriating of these revelations is provided by the link to the Wikipedia entry on the Australian Government’s Department of Families, Housing, Community Services and Indigenous Affairs, which is where her own daughter, Roxy, works, but which Mrs Poulter knows, gormlessly, as “the Department of Families and that”. The ignorant woman spouts racist diatribes against Aboriginal Australians without even realising how inextricably linked she and her family, who live at the deliberately named Boomerang Crescent, really are. Therein lies the irony I am trying to create with my use of hyperlinks: an independent, expert adjudication reveals my character, Mrs Poulter, and her opinions, are hiding an “inescapable canker of negation at the heart of every affirmation” (Booth ix), despite the air of easy confidence she projects.Is the novel-reading public ready for these HM hyperlinked e-novels and their potentially ironic sub-texts? Indeed, the question must be asked: can the e-book ever compete with the tactile sensations a finely crafted, perfectly bound hardcover publication provides? Perhaps, if the economics of book buying comes into consideration. E-novels are cheap to publish and cheap to purchase, hence they are becoming hugely popular with the book buying public. Writes Mark co*ker, the founder of Smashwords, a successful online publisher and distributor of e-books: “We incorporated in 2007, and we officially launched the business in May 2008. In our first year, we published 140 books from 90 authors. Our catalog reached 6,000 books in 2009, 28,800 in 2010, 92,000 in 2011, 191,000 in 2012 and as of this writing (November 2013) stands at over 250,000 titles” (co*ker 2013). co*ker divulged more about his company’s success in an interview with Forbes online magazine: “‘It costs essentially the same to pump 10,000 new books a month through our network as it will cost to do 100,000 a month,’ he reasons. Smashwords book retails, on average, for just above $3; 15,000 titles are free” (Colao 2012).In such a burgeoning environment of technological progress in publishing I am tempted to say that yes, the time of the hyperlinked e-novel has come, and to even predict that HM will be a big part of this new wave of postmodern literature. The hyperlinked HM e-novel’s strategy invites the reader to reflect on the legitimacy and illegitimacy of different forms of narrative, possibly concluding, thanks to ironic electronic footnoting, that not all the novel’s characters and their commentary are to be trusted. Perhaps my HM e-novel will, with its untrustworthy Mrs Poulter and its little-known history of the Aboriginal Tent Embassy addressed by gap-filling hyperlinks, establish a legitimising narrative for a people who have traditionally in white Australian society been deemed the Other and illegitimate. Perhaps The Bullroarers will someday alter attitudes of non-Indigenous Australians to the history and political activities of this country’s first peoples, to the point even, that as Nunning warns, we witness a change in the “hegemonic discourse of history” (353). If that happens we must be thankful for our Internet-enabled information age and its concomitant possibilities for hyperlinked e-publications, for technology may be separated from the world of art, but it can nevertheless be effectively used to recreate, enhance and access that world, to the extent texts previously considered illegitimate achieve authenticity and veracity.ReferencesBanks, Glenda. A Respectable Married Woman. Melbourne: Lacuna, 2012.Banks, Glenda, and Martin Andrew. “Populating a Historical Novel: A Case Study of a Practice-led Research Approach to Historiographic Metafiction.” Bukker Tillibul 7 (2013). 19 Sep. 2014 ‹http://bukkertillibul.net/Text.html?VOL=7&INDEX=2›.Barthes, Roland. Image, Music, Text. Trans. Stephen Heath. London: Fontana Press, 1977.Booth, Wayne C. A Rhetoric of Irony. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1974.Colao, J.J. “Apple’s Biggest (Unknown) Supplier of E-books.” Forbes 7 June 2012. 19 Sep. 2014 ‹http://www.forbes.com/sites/jjcolao/2012/06/07/apples-biggest-unknown-supplier-of-e-books/›.co*ker, Mark. “Q & A with Smashwords Founder, Mark co*ker.” About Smashwords 2013. 19 Sep. 2014 ‹https://www.smashwords.com/about›.Eco, Umberto. The Name of the Rose. Trans. William Weaver, San Diego: Harcourt, 1983.Forrest Gump. Dir. Robert Zemeckis. Paramount Pictures, 1994.Fraser, George MacDonald. The Flashman Papers. Various publishers, 1969-2005.Groom, Winston. Forrest Gump. NY: Doubleday, 1986.Gregory, Philippa. The Other Boleyn Girl. UK: Scribner, 2001.Hutcheon, Linda. A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction, 2nd ed. Abingdon, UK: Taylor and Francis, 1988.---. “Intertextuality, Parody, and the Discourses of History: A Poetics of Postmodernism History, Theory, Fiction.” 1988. 19 Sep. 2014 ‹http://ieas.unideb.hu/admin/file_3553.pdf›.---. “Historiographic Metafiction: Parody and the Intertextuality of History.” Eds. P. O’Donnell and R.C. Davis, Intertextuality and Contemporary American Fiction. Baltimore, Maryland: John Hopkins UP, 1989. 3-32.---. “Historiographic Metafiction.” Ed. Michael McKeon, Theory of the Novel: A Historical Approach Baltimore, Maryland: Johns Hopkins UP, 2000. 830-50.Nunning, Ansgar. “Where Historiographic Metafiction and Narratology Meet.” Style 38.3 (2004): 352-75.Rushdie, Salman. Midnight’s Children. London: Jonathan Cape, 1980.Starrs, D. Bruno. That Blackfella Bloodsucka Dance! Saarbrücken, Germany: Just Fiction Edition (paperback), 2011; Starrs via Smashwords (e-book), 2012.---. “Writing Indigenous Vampires: Aboriginal Gothic or Aboriginal Fantastic?” M/C Journal 17.4 (2014). 19 Sep. 2014 ‹http://journal.media-culture.org.au/index.php/mcjournal/article/viewArticle/834›.Tuhiwai Smith, Linda. Decolonizing Methodologies. London & New York: Zed Books, 2012.University of Sussex. “Philippa Gregory Fills the Historical Gaps.” University of Sussex Alumni Magazine 51 (2012). 19 Sep. 2014 ‹http://www.scribd.com/doc/136033913/University-of-Sussex-Alumni-Magazine-Falmer-issue-51›.Wikipedia. “A Current Affair.” 2014. 19 Sep. 2014 ‹http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Current_Affair›.---. “Aboriginal Tent Embassy.” 2014. 19 Sep. 2014 ‹http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aboriginal_Tent_Embassy›.---. “Department of Families, Housing, Community Services and Indigenous Affairs.” 2014. 19 Sep. 2014 ‹http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Department_of_Families,_Housing,_Community_Services_and_Indigenous_Affairs›.---. “Eddie Mabo.” 2014. 19 Sep. 2014 ‹http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eddie_Mabo›.---. “History of Australia (1788 – 1850).” 2014. 19 Sep. 2014 ‹http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Australia_(1788%E2%80%931850)#Aboriginal_resistance›.---. “Terra Nullius.” 2014. 19 Sep. 2014 ‹http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terra_nullius›.

Abstract:

Ahmed, Roda. Mae Among the Stars. Illustrated by Stasia Burrington, Harper Collins, 2018. Mae Among the Stars is the perfect picture book for any young child (3-8) interested in space. It tells the real-life story of Mae Jemison, the first African American woman in space. This story urges children to explore even the most impossible dreams, or as Mae’s parents repeatedly encourage throughout: “If you can dream it, if you believe it and work hard for it, anything is possible.” The story revolves around the age-old question most of us are asked as children: What would you like to be when you grow up? Mae Jemison dreams about being an astronaut. Although her teacher tries to deter her from pursuing this dream, Mae refuses to give up. Thanks to her determination and parents’ reinforcement, she continues to work towards achieving her “impossible” dream of seeing Earth from space. Kids will find the last page of this book particularly interesting because it contains the bio of Mae Jemison and her accomplishments. The illustrations in this book elevate the story to an exceptional level. The rich colours and imaginative drawings bring each page to life. The illustrations are so vivid that one page in particular stands out from the rest because it is depicted in a muted blue, representing Mae’s gloomy response to her teacher’s disapproval of her dream of becoming an astronaut. Although the story tackles the deep-rooted issues of racial and gender stereotypes, the writing is simple enough for young readers to connect with Mae’s story while still inspiring them to reach for the stars. Recommended: 3 out of 4 starsReviewer: Bridget Harty Bridget Harty is a University of Alberta undergraduate student in the Elementary Education program. She enjoys spending time with family and friends and rereading the Harry Potter series any chance she gets.

Abstract:

Abstract This review of three introductory textbooks in the field of popular culture published in 2018 and 2019 focuses on the different perspectives they provide on such culture, as a means for understanding its current state and future evolution. It is divided into six sections: 1. Introduction; 2. Pop Culture, People, and Politics; 3. A Pastiche Approach to Cinema; 4. Pop Culture Theories; 5. Pop Culture and the Internet; 6. Conclusion. Pop culture is changing radically today, breaking away from the historical flow that gained momentum in then 1920s, because its delivery through the Internet may be fragmenting its organic textuality. As a distinct form of culture, pop culture crystallized primarily in the US in the first decades of the twentieth century, arguably as a way for young people to contest and openly violate the restrictive social traditions of colonial America through new music, fashions, and overall lifestyles. It spread rapidly and broadly throughout American cities and other areas of the urbanized world—a diffusion made possible by new technologies, such as radio and cinema. From the outset, trends in pop culture influenced aesthetic tastes, politics, and even major musical and literary movements that were once considered to be part of ‘high culture’, gradually obliterating binary distinctions such as high-versus-low in cultural matters. In a phrase, what started out as a lifestyle reaction against puritanical colonial culture became a major source of new aesthetics (new music, new writing, and so on), remaining so ever since. But pop culture may have run its course with the rise of meme culture on the Internet. The books under review here are thus quite significant, not only because they present complementary views of pop culture to a broad audience, but also because we can draw from them a picture of how pop culture is evolving in the digital age and what this might imply for the future of this century-old cultural experiment.

Abstract:

Billan, Rumeet. Who Do I Want To Become? Illustrated by Michelle Clement. Page Two Books, 2018. This picture book conveys an important approach to problem solving. When asked by his teacher, Mr. Janzen, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” the central character, Dylan, initially thinks in narrow terms: career choices. He is stymied. When he reframes the question as “Who do I want to become?” he arrives at a thoughtful answer. “I want to be someone who tries new things and isn’t afraid to fail. I want to be someone who helps others and makes a difference in the world. Someone who isn’t afraid to be me.” [p.31] Dylan clearly has changed the problem from “What do I want to do for a living?” to “What kind of person do I want to be?” It should be pointed out that the actual words of his reframing are no guarantee of a philosophical result. Many children would still respond to the question, “Who do I want to become?” in terms of role models, generic or specific: “I want to become Prime Minister.” “Chris Hadfield.” “Tessa Virtue.” (Certainly, had I been asked that question at eight years of age as I struggled, in my brother’s old hockey skates, to navigate the frozen puddle that was our “rink” I would have replied, “Barbara Ann Scott.”) The culminating focus of the storyline is character development; parents and teachers could use this book to begin discussion of it. They may have to do some prompting, even a little rewording of the central question, to achieve that focus. It is worth the effort. Dillan’s answer opens up issues of self-acceptance, self-direction, and self-actualization in a manner suitable for school aged children. His conclusion also emphasizes that the business of childhood is personal growth and development, not career planning. Though this is a picture book, the inherent nature of its topic, as well as Billan’s writing vocabulary, suggest its use with children eight to twelve years of age. Michelle Clement’s humorous cartoon-style drawings should appeal to that age group as well. In sum, the total package seems age appropriate for pre-adolescent youngsters. Reviewer: Leslie AitkenRecommended: 3 out of 4 stars Leslie Aitken’s long career in librarianship included selection of children’s literature for school, public, special and academic libraries. She is a former Curriculum Librarian of the University of Alberta.

Abstract:

The first time I read Hélène Cixous’s The Laugh of the Medusa I swooned. I wanted to write the whole thing out, large, and black, and pin it across an entire wall. I was 32 and vulnerable around polemic texts (I was always copying out quotes and sticking them to my walls, trying to hold onto meaning, unable to let the writing I read slip out and away). You must "write your self, your body must be heard" (Cixous 880), I read, as if for the hundredth time, even though it was the first. Those decades old words had an echoing, a resonance to them, as if each person who had read them had left their own mnemonic mark there, so that by the time they reached me, they struck, immediately, at my core (not the heart or the spine, or even the gut, but somewhere stickier; some pulsing place in amongst my organs, somewhere not touched, a space forgotten). The body that read The Laugh was so big its knees had trouble lifting it from chairs (“more body, hence more writing”, Cixous 886), and was soon to have its gallbladder taken. Its polycystic ovaries dreamed, lumpily and without much hope, of zygotes. The body that read The Laugh was a wobbling thing, sheathed in fat (as if this could protect it), with a yearning for sveltness, for muscle, for strength. Cixous sang through its cells, and called it to itself. The body that read The Laugh wrote itself back. It spoke about dungeons, and walls that had collected teenaged fists, and needles that turned it somnambulant and concave and warm until it was not. It wrote trauma in short and staggering sentences (out, get it out) as if narrative could save it from a fat-laden and static decline. Text leaked from tissue and bone, out through fingers and onto the page, and in increments so small I did not notice them, the body took its place. I was, all-of-a-sudden, more than my head. And then the body that read The Laugh performed the ultimate coup, and conceived.The body wrote then about its own birth, and the birth of its mother, and when its own children were born, of course, of course, about them. “Oral drive, anal drive, vocal drive–all these drives are our strengths, and among them is the gestation drive–all just like the desire to write: a desire to live self from within, a desire for the swollen belly, for language, for blood” (Cixous 891). The fat was gone, and in its place this other tissue, that later would be he. What I know now is that the body gets what the body wants. What I know now is that the body will tell its story, because if you “censor the body [… then] you censor breath and speech at the same time” (Cixous 880).I am trying to find a beginning. Because where is the place where I start? I was never a twinkle in my mother’s eye. It was the seventies. She was 22 and then 23–there was nothing planned about me. Her eyes a flinty green, hair long and straight. When I think of her then I remember this photo: black and white on the thick photo paper that is hard to get now. No shiny oblong spat from a machine, this paper was pulled in and out of three chemical trays and hung, dripping, in a dark red room to show me a woman in a long white t-shirt and nothing else. She stares straight out at me. On the shirt is a women’s symbol with a fist in the middle of it. Do you know the one? It might have been purple (the symbol I mean). When I think of her then I see her David Bowie teeth, the ones she hated, and a packet of Drum tobacco with Tally-Hos tucked inside, and some of the scars on her forearms, but not all of them, not yet. I can imagine her pregnant with me, the slow gait, that fleshy weight dragging at her spine and pelvis. She told me the story of my birth every year on my birthday. She remembers what day of the week the contractions started. The story is told with a kind of glory in the detail, with a relishing of small facts. I do the same with my children now. I was delivered by forceps. The dent in my skull, up above my right ear, was a party trick when I was a teenager, and an annoyance when I wanted to shave my head down to the bone at 18. Just before Jem was born, I discovered a second dent behind my left ear. My skull holds the footprint of those silver clamps. My bones say here, and here, this is where I was pulled from you. I have seen babies being born this way. They don’t slide out all sealish and purple and slippy. They are pulled. The person holding the forcep handles uses their whole body weight to yank that baby out. It makes me squirm, all that pulling, those tiny neck bones concertinaing out, the silver scoops sinking into the skull and leaving prints, like a warm spoon in dough. The urgency of separation, of the need to make two things from one. After Jem was born he lay on my chest for hours. As the placenta was birthed he weed on me. I felt the warm trickle down my side and was glad. There was nothing so right as my naked body making a bed for his. I lay in a pool of wet (blood and lichor and Jem’s little wee) and the midwives pushed towels under me so I wouldn’t get cold. He sucked. White waffle weave blankets over both of us. That bloody nest. I lay in it and rested my free hand on his vernix covered back; the softest thing I had ever touched. We basked in the warm wet. We basked. How do I sew theory into this writing? Julia Kristeva especially, whose Stabat Mater describes those early moments of holding the one who was inside and then out so perfectly that I am left silent. The smell of milk, dew-drenched greenery, sour and clear, a memory of wind, of air, of seaweed (as if a body lived without waste): it glides under my skin, not stopping at the mouth or nose but caressing my veins, and stripping the skin from the bones fills me like a balloon full of ozone and I plant my feet firmly on the ground in order to carry him, safe, stable, unuprootable, while he dances in my neck, floats with my hair, looks right and left for a soft shoulder, “slips on the breast, swingles, silver vivid blossom of my belly” and finally flies up from my navel in his dream, borne by my hands. My son (Kristeva, Stabat Mater 141). Is theory more important than this? The smell of milk (dried, it is soursweet and will draw any baby to you, nuzzling and mewling), which resides alongside the Virgin Mother and the semiotics of milk and tears. The language of fluid. While the rest of this writing, the stories not of mothers and babies, but one mother and one baby, came out smooth and fast, as soon as I see or hear or write that word, theory, I slow. I am concerned with the placement of things. I do not have the sense of being free. But if there’s anything that should come from this vain attempt to answer Cixous, to “write your self. Your body must be heard” (880), it should be that freedom and theory, boundary-lessness, is where I reside. If anything should come from this, it is the knowing that theory is the most creative pursuit, and that creativity will always speak to theory. There are fewer divisions than any of us realise, and the leakiness of bodies, of this body, will get me there. The smell of this page is of lichor; a clean but heady smell, thick with old cells and a foetus’s breath. The smell of this page is of blood and saliva and milk mixed (the colour like rotten strawberries or the soaked pad at the bottom of your tray of supermarket mince). It is a smell that you will secretly savour, breathe deeply, and then long for lemon zest or the sharpness of coffee beans to send away that angelic fug. That milk and tears have a language of their own is undeniable. Kristeva says they are “metaphors of non-language, of a ‘semiotic’ that does not coincide with linguistic communication” (Stabat Mater 143) but what I know is that these fluids were the first language for my children. Were they the first language for me? Because “it must be true: babies drink language along with the breastmilk: Curling up over their tongues while they take siestas–Mots au lait, verbae cum lacta, palabros con leche” (Wasserman quoted in Giles 223). The enduring picture I have of myself as an infant is of a baby who didn’t cry, but my mother will tell you a different story, in the way that all of us do. She will tell you I didn’t smile until I was five months old (Soli and Jem were both beaming at three months). Born six weeks premature, my muscles took longer to find their place, to assemble themselves under my skin. She will tell you I screamed in the night, because all babies do. Is this non-language? Jem was unintelligible much of the time. I felt as if I was holding a puzzle. Three o’clock in the morning, having tried breastfeeds, a bath with Nick Drake’s Pink Moon, bouncing him in a baby sling on the fitball (wedged into a corner so that if I nodded off I would hopefully swoon backwards, and the wall would wake me), walking him around and around while rocking and singing, then breastfeeding again, and still he did not sleep, and still he cried and clawed at my cheeks and shoulders and wrists and writhed; I could not guess at what it was he needed. I had never been less concerned with the self that was me. I was all breasts and milk and a craving for barbecued chicken and watermelon at three in the morning because he was drinking every ounce of energy I had. I was arms and a voice. I was food. And then I learnt other things; about let downs and waking up in pools of the stuff. Wet. Everywhere. “Lactating bodies tend towards anarchy” (Bartlett 163). Any body will tend towards anarchy – there is so much to keep in – but there are only so many openings a person can keep track of, and breastfeeding meant a kind of levelling up, meant I was as far from clean and proper as I possibly could be (Kristeva, Powers of Horror 72).In the nights I was not alone. Caren could not breastfeed him, but could do everything else, and never said I have to work tomorrow, because she knew I was working too. During waking hours I watched him constantly for those mystical tired signs, which often were hungry signs, which quickly became overtired signs. There was no figuring it out. But Soli, with Soli, I knew. The language of babies had been sung into my bones. There is a grammar in crying, a calling out and telling, a way of knowing that is older than I’ll ever be. Those tiny bodies are brimming with semiotics. Knees pulled up is belly ache, arching is tired, a look to the side I-want-that-take-me-there-not-there. There. Curling in, the whole of him, is don’t-look-at-me-now-hands-away. Now he is one he uses his hands to tell me what he wants. Sign language because I sign and so, then, does he, but also an emphatic placing of my hands on his body or toys, utensils, swings, things. In the early hours of a Wednesday morning I tried to stroke his head, to close his wide-open eyes with my fingertips. He grabbed my hand and moved it to his chest before I could alight on the bridge of his nose. And yesterday he raised his arm into the air, then got my hand and placed it into his raised hand, then stood, and led me down to the laundry to play with the dustpan and broom. His body, literally, speaks.This is the language of mothers and babies. It is laid down in the darkest part of the night. Laid down like memory, like dreams, stitched into tiredness and circled with dread adrenalin and fear. It will never stop. That baby will cry and I will stare owl-eyed into the dark and bend my cracking knees (don’t shake the baby it will only make it worse don’t shake don’t). These babies will grow into children and then adults who will never remember those screaming nights, cots like cages, a stuffed toy pushed on them as if it could replace the warmth of skin and breath (please, please, little bear, replace the warmth of skin and breath). I will never remember it, but she will. They will never remember it, but we will. Kristeva says too that mothers are in a “catastrophe of identity which plunges the proper Name into that ‘unnameable’ that somehow involves our imaginary representations of femininity, non-language, or the body” (Stabat Mater 134). A catastrophe of identity. The me and the not-me. In the night, with a wrapped baby and aching biceps, the I-was batting quietly at the I-am. The I-am is all body. Arms to hold and bathe and change him, milk to feed him, a voice to sing and soothe him. The I-was is a different beast, made of words and books, uninterrupted conversation and the kind of self-obsession and autonomy I didn’t know existed until it was gone. Old friends stopped asking me about my day. They asked Caren, who had been at work, but not me. It did not matter that she was a woman; in this, for most people we spoke to, she was the public and I was the private, her work mattered and mine did not. Later she would commiserate and I would fume, but while it was happening, it was near impossible to contest. A catastrophe of identity. In a day I had fed and walked and cried and sung and fed and rocked and pointed and read books with no words and rolled inane balls across the lounge room floor and washed and sung and fed. I had circled in and around while the sun traced its arc. I had waited with impatience for adult company. I had loved harder than I ever had before. I had metamorphosed and nobody noticed. Nobody noticed. A catastrophe of identity it was, but the noise and visibility that the word catastrophe invokes was entirely absent. And where was the language to describe this peeling inside out? I was burnished bright by those sleepless nights, by the requirement of the I-am. And in those nights I learned what my mother already knew. That having children is a form of grief. That we lose. But that we gain. At 23, what’s lost is possibility. She must have seen her writer’s life drilling down to nothing. She knew that Sylvia Plath had placed her head, so carefully on its pillow, in that gas filled place. No pungent metaphor, just a poet, a mother, who could not continue. I had my babies at 34 and 36. I knew some of what I would lose, but had more than I needed. My mother had started out with not enough, and so was left concave and edged with desperation as she made her way through inner-city Sydney’s grime, her children singing from behind her wait for me, wait for me, Mama please wait for me, I’m going just as fast as I can.Nothing could be more ‘normal’ than that a maternal image should establish itself on the site of that tempered anguish known as love. No one is spared. Except perhaps the saint or the mystic, or the writer who, by force of language, can still manage nothing more than to demolish the fiction of the mother-as-love’s-mainstay and to identify with love as it really is: a fire of tongues, an escape from representation (Kristeva, Stabat Mater 145).We transformed, she and I. She hoped to make herself new with children. A writer born of writers, the growing and birthing of our tiny bodies forced her to place pen to paper, to fight to write. She carved a place for herself with words but it kept collapsing in on her. My father’s bi-polar rages, his scrubbing evil spirits from the soles of her shoes in the middle of the night, wore her down, and soon she inhabited that maternal image anyway, in spite of all her attempts to side step it. The mad mother, the single mother, the sad mother. And yes I remember those mothers. But I also remember her holding me so hard sometimes I couldn’t breathe properly, and that some nights when I couldn’t sleep she had warm eyes and made chamomile tea, and that she called me angel. A fire of tongues, but even she, with her words, couldn’t escape from representation. I am a writer born of writers born of writers (triply blessed or cursed with text). In my scramble to not be mad or bad or sad, I still could not escape the maternal image. More days than I can count I lay under my babies wishing I could be somewhere, anywhere else, but they needed to sleep or feed or be. With me. Held captive by the need to be a good mother, to be the best mother, no saint or mystic presenting itself, all I could do was write. Whole poems sprang unbidden and complete from my pen. My love for my children, that fire of tongues, was demolishing me, and the only way through was to inhabit this vessel of text, to imbibe the language of bodies and tears and night, and make from it my boat.Those children wrote my body in the night. They taught me about desire, that unbounded scribbling thing that will not be bound by subjectivity, by me. They taught me that “the body is literally written on, inscribed, by desire and signification” (Grosz 60), and every morning I woke with ashen bones and poetry aching out through my pores, with my body writing me.This Mother ThingI maintain that I do not have to leavethe house at nightall leathery and eyelinered,all booted up and raw.I maintain that I do not miss thosesmoky rooms (wait that’s not allowed any more)where we strut and, without looking,compare tattoos.Because two years ago I had you.You with your blonde hair shining, your eyes like a creek after rain, that veinthat’s so blue on the side of your small nosethat people think you’ve been bruised.Because two years ago you cameout of me and landed here and grew. There is no going out. We (she and me) washand cook and wash and clean and love.This mother thing is the making of me but I missthose pulsing rooms,the feel of all of you pressing in onall of me.This mother thing is the making of me. And in text, in poetry, I find my home. “You only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her. And she’s not deadly. She’s beautiful and she’s laughing” (Cixous 885). The mother-body writes herself, and is made new. The mother-body writes her own mother, and knows she was always-already here. The mother-body births, and breastfeeds, and turns to me in the aching night and says this: the Medusa? The Medusa is me.ReferencesBartlett, Alison. Breastwork: Rethinking Breastfeeding. Sydney: UNSW Press, 2005.Cixous, Hélène, Keith Cohen, and Paula Cohen (Trans.). "The Laugh of the Medusa." Signs 1.4 (1976): 875-93. Giles, Fiona. Fresh Milk. Crows Nest, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 2003. Grosz, Elizabeth. Volatile Bodies: Toward a Corporeal Feminism. St Leonards, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 1994.Kristeva, Julia, and Leon S. Roudiez (Trans.) Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection. New York: Columbia University Press, 1982.Kristeva, Julia, and Arthur Goldhammer (Trans.). "Stabat Mater." Poetics Today 6.1-2 (1985): 133-52.

Abstract:

Halfway through the 2006 memoir comic Fun Home, the reader encounters a photograph that the book’s author, Alison Bechdel, found in a box of family snapshots shortly after her father’s death. The picture—“literally the core of the book, the centrefold” (Bechdel qtd. in Chute “Interview” 1006)—of Alison’s teenaged babysitter, Roy, erotically reclining on a bed in only his underwear, is the most tangible and direct evidence of her father’s sexual affairs with teenage boys, more confronting than his own earlier confession. Through this image, and a rich archive of familial texts, Bechdel chronicles her father’s thwarted desires and ambitions, probable suicide, and her own sexual and artistic coming of age.Bruce Bechdel, a married school teacher and part-time funeral director, was also an avid amateur historical restorer and connoisseur of modernist literature. Shortly after Alison came out to her parents at nineteen, Bruce was hit by a truck in what his daughter believes was an act of suicide. In Fun Home, Bechdel reads her family history suspiciously, plumbing family snapshots, letters, and favoured novels, interpreting against the grain, to trace her queer genealogy. Ultimately, she inverts this suspicious and interrogative reading, using the evidence she has gathered in order to read her father’s sexuality positively and embrace her queer and artistic inheritance from him. In The New York Times Magazine, in 2004, Charles McGrath made the suggestion that comics were “the new literary form” (24). Although comics have not yet reached widespread mainstream acceptance as a medium of merit, the burgeoning field of comics scholarship over the last fifteen years, the 2007 adaptation of Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis into a feature film, and the addition of comics to the Best American series all testify to the widening popularity and status of the form. Memoir comics have established themselves, as Hillary Chute notes, as “the dominant mode of contemporary work” (Graphic 17). Many of these autobiographical works, including Fun Home, recount traumatic histories, employing the medium’s unique capacity to evoke the fractured and repetitive experience of the traumatised through panel structure and use of images. Comics articulate “what wasn’t permitted to be said or imagined, defying the ordinary processes of thought” (Said qtd. in Whitlock 967). The hand-drawn nature of comics emphasises the subjectivity of perception and memory, making it a particularly powerful medium for personal histories. The clear mediation of a history by the artist’s hand complicates truth claims. Comics open up avenues for both suspicious and restorative readings because their form suggests that history is always constructed and therefore not able to be confirmed as “ultimately truthful,” but also that there is no ultimate truth to be unveiled. No narrative is unmediated; a timeline is not more “pure” than a fleshed out narrative text. All narratives exclude information in order to craft a comprehensible series of events. Bechdel’s role as a suspicious reader of her father and of her own history resonates through her role as a historian and her interrogation of the ethical concerns of referential writing.Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity critiques the hermeneutics of suspicion from a queer theory perspective, instead advocating reparative reading as a critical strategy. The hermeneutics of suspicion describes “the well-oiled machine of ideology critique” that has become the primary mode of critical reading over the last thirty or so years, suspiciously interpreting texts to uncover their hidden ideological biases (Felski, Uses 1). Reparative reading, on the other hand, moves away from this paranoid mode, instead valuing pleasure and “positive affects like joy and excitement” (Vincent). Sedgwick does not wholly reject suspicious reading, suggesting that it “represent[s] a way, among other ways, of seeking, finding, and organizing knowledge. Paranoia knows some things well and others poorly” (Touching 129). Felski, paraphrasing Ricoeur, notes that the hermeneutics of suspicion “adopts an adversarial sensibility to probe for concealed, repressed, or disavowed meanings” (“Suspicious” 216). In this fashion, Bechdel employs suspicious strategies to reveal her father’s hidden desires and transgressions that were obscured in the standard version of her family narrative, but ultimately moves away from such techniques to joyfully embrace her inheritance from him. Sedgwick notes that paranoid readings may only reveal that which is already known:While there is plenty of hidden violence that requires exposure there is also, and increasingly, an ethos where forms of violence that are hypervisible from the start may be offered as an exemplary spectacle rather than remain to be unveiled as a scandalous secret. (Touching 139)This is contrary to suspicious reading’s assumption that violence is culturally shunned, hidden, and in need of “unveiling” in contemporary Western culture. It would be too obvious for Bechdel to condemn her father: gay men have been unfairly misrepresented in the American popular imagination for decades, if not longer. Through her reparative reading of him, she rejects this single-minded reduction of people to one negative type. She accepts both her father’s weaknesses and her debts to him. A reading which only sought to publicise Bruce’s hom*osexual affairs would lack the great depth that Bechdel finds in the slippage between her father’s identity and her own.Bechdel’s embrace of Bruce’s failings as a father, a husband, and an artist, her revisioning of his death as a positive, creative act full of agency, and her characterisation of him as a supportive forerunner, “there to catch [Alison] as [she] leapt,” (Bechdel 232) moves his story away from archetypal narratives of hom*osexual tragedy. Bechdel’s memoir ends with (and enacts through its virtuoso execution) her own success, and the support of those who came before her. This move mirrors Joseph Litvak’s suggestion that “the importance of ‘mistakes’ in queer reading and writing […] has a lot to do with loosening the traumatic, inevitable-seeming connection between mistakes and humiliation […] Doesn’t reading queer mean learning, among other things, that mistakes can be good rather than bad surprises?” (Sedgwick Touching 146–7).Fun Home is saturated with intertextual references and archival materials that attempt to piece together the memoir’s fractured and hidden histories. The construction of this personal history works by including familial and historical records to register the trauma of the Bechdels’ personal tragedy. The archival texts are meticulously hand-drawn, their time-worn and ragged physicality maintained to emphasise the referentiality of these documents. Bechdel’s use of realistically drawn family photographs, complete with photo corners, suggests a family photograph album, although rather than establishing a censored and idealistic narrative, as most family albums do, the photographs are read and reproduced for their suppressed and destabilising content. Bechdel describes them as “particularly mythic” (Chute “Interview” 1009), and she plunders this symbolic richness to rewrite her family history. The archival documents function as primary texts, which stand in opposition to the deadly secrecy of her childhood home: they are concrete and evidentiary. Bechdel reads her father’s letters and photographs (and their gothic revival house) for sexual and artistic evidence, “read[ing] the text against the grain in order to draw out what it refuses to own up to” (Felski “Suspicious” 23). She interprets his letters’ baroque lyrical flourishes as indications both of his semi-repressed hom*osexuality and of the artistic sensibility that she would inherit and refine.Suspicion of the entire historical project marks the memoir. Philippe Lejeune describes the “Autobiographical Pact” as “a contract of identity that is sealed by the proper name” of the author (19). Bechdel does not challenge this pact fundamentally—the authoritative narrative voice of her book structures it to be read as historically truthful—but she does challenge and complicate the apparent simplicity of this referential model. Bechdel’s discussion of the referential failings of her childhood diary making—“the troubled gap between word and meaning”—casts a suspicious eye over the rest of the memoir’s historical project (Bechdel 143). She asks how language can adequately articulate experience or refer to the external world in an environment defined by secrets and silence. At the time of her childhood, it cannot—the claim to full disclosure that the memoir ultimately makes is predicated on distance and time. Bechdel simultaneously makes a claim for the historical veracity of her narrative and destabilises our assumptions around the idea of factual and retrospective truth:When I was ten, I was obsessed with making sure my diary entries bore no false witness. But as I aged, hard facts gave way to vagaries of emotion and opinion. False humility, overwrought penmanship, and self-disgust began to cloud my testimony […] until […] the truth is barely perceptible behind a hedge of qualifiers, encryption, and stray punctuation. (Bechdel 169)That which is “unrepresentable” is simultaneously represented and denied. The comics medium itself, with its simultaneous graphic and textual representation, suggests the unreliability of any one means of representation. Of Bechdel’s diaries, Jared Gardner notes, “what develops over the course of her diary […] is an increasing sense that text and image are each alone inadequate to the task, and that some merger of the two is required to tell the story of the truth, and the truth of the story” (“Archives” 3).As the boyishly dressed Alison urges her father, applying scare-quoted “bronzer,” to hurry up, Bechdel narrates, “my father began to seem morally suspect to me long before I knew that he actually had a dark secret” (16). Alison is presented as her father’s binary opposite, “butch to his nelly. Utilitarian to his aesthete,” (15) and, as a teenager, frames his love of art and extravagance as debauched. This clear distinction soon becomes blurred, as Alison and Bruce’s similarities begin to overwhelm their differences. The huge drawn hand shown holding the photograph of Roy, in the memoir’s “centrefold,” more than twice life-size, reproduces the reader’s hand holding the book. We are placed in Bechdel’s, and by extension her father’s, role, as the illicit and transgressive voyeurs of the erotic spectacle of Roy’s body, and as the possessors and consumers of hidden, troubling texts. At this point, Bechdel begins to take her queer reading of this family archive and use it to establish a strong connection between her initially unsympathetic father and herself. Despite his neglect of his children, and his self-involvement, Bechdel claims him as her spiritual and creative father, as well as her biological one. This reparative embrace moves Bruce from the role of criticised outsider in Alison’s world to one of queer predecessor. Bechdel figures herself and her father as doubled aesthetic and erotic observers and appreciators. Ann Cvetkovich suggests that “mimicking her father as witness to the image, Alison is brought closer to him only at the risk of replicating his illicit sexual desires” (118). For Alison, consuming her father’s texts connects her with him in a positive yet troubling way: “My father’s end was my beginning. Or more precisely, […] the end of his lie coincided with the beginning of my truth” (Bechdel 116–17). The final panel of the same chapter depicts Alison’s hands holding drawn photos of herself at twenty-one and Bruce at twenty-two. The snapshots overlap, and Bechdel lists the similarities between the photographs, concluding, “it’s about as close as a translation can get” (120). Through the “vast network of transversals” (102) that is their life together, Alison and Bruce are, paradoxically, twinned “inversions of one another” (98). Sedgwick suggests that “inversion models […] locate gay people—whether biologically or culturally—at the threshold between genders” (Epistemology 88). Bechdel’s focus on Proust’s “antiquated clinical term” both neatly fits her thematic expression of Alison and Bruce’s relationship as doubles (“Not only were we inverts. We were inversions of one another”) and situates them in a space of possibility and liminality (97-98).Bechdel rejects a wholly suspicious approach by maintaining and embracing the aporia in her and her father’s story, an essential element of memory. According to Chute, Fun Home shows “that the form of comics crucially retains the insolvable gaps of family history” (Graphic 175). Rejecting suspicion involves embracing ambiguity and unresolvability. It concedes that there is no one authentic truth to be neatly revealed and resolved. Fun Home’s “spatial and semantic gaps […] express a critical unknowability or undecidability” (Chute Graphic 182). Bechdel allows the gaps in her narrative to remain, refusing to “pretend to know” Bruce’s “erotic truth” (230), an act to which suspicious reading is diametrically opposed. Suspicious reading wishes to close all gaps, to articulate silences and literalise mysteries, and Bechdel’s narrative progressively moves away from this mode. The medium of comics uses words and images together, simultaneously separate and united. Similarly, Alison and Bruce are presented as opposites: butch/sissy, artist/dilettante. Yet the memoir’s conclusion presents Alison and Bruce in a loving, reciprocal relationship. The final page of the book has two frames: one of Bruce’s perspective in the moment before his death, and one showing him contentedly playing with a young Alison in a swimming pool—death contrasted with life. The gaps in the narrative are not closed but embraced. Bechdel’s “tricky reverse narration” (232) suggests a complex mode of reading that allows both Bechdel and the reader to perceive Bruce as a positive forebear. Comics as a medium pay particular visual attention to absence and silence. The gutter, the space between panels, functions in a way that is not quite paralleled by silence in speech and music, and spaces and line breaks in text—after all, there are still blank spaces between words and elements of the image within the comics panel. The gutter is the space where closure occurs, allowing readers to infer causality and often the passing of time (McCloud 5). The gutters in this book echo the many gaps in knowledge and presence that mark the narrative. Fun Home is impelled by absence on a practical level: the absence of the dead parent, the absence of a past that was unspoken of and yet informed every element of Alison’s childhood.Bechdel’s hyper-literate narration steers the reader through the memoir and acknowledges its own aporia. Fun Home “does not seek to preserve the past as it was, as its archival obsession might suggest, but rather to circulate ideas about the past with gaps fully intact” (Chute Graphic 180). Bechdel, while making her own interpretation of her father’s death clear, does not insist on her reading. While Bruce attempted to restore his home into a perfect, hermetically sealed simulacrum of nineteenth-century domestic glamour, Bechdel creates a postmodern text that slips easily between a multiplicity of time periods, opening up the absences, failures, and humiliations of her story. Chute argues:Bruce Bechdel wants the past to be whole; Alison Bechdel makes it free-floating […] She animates the past in a book that is […] a counterarchitecture to the stifling, shame-filled house in which she grew up: she animates and releases its histories, circulating them and giving them life even when they devolve on death. (Graphic 216)Bechdel employs a literary process of detection in the revelation of both of their sexualities. Her archive is constructed like an evidence file; through layered tableaux of letters, novels and photographs, we see how Bruce’s obsessive love of avant-garde literature functions as an emblem of his hidden desire; Alison discovers her sexuality through the memoirs of Colette and the seminal gay pride manifestos of the late 1970s. Watson suggests that the “panels, gutters, and page, as bounded and delimited visual space, allow texturing of the two-dimensional image through collage, counterpoint, the superimposition of multiple media, and self-referential gestures […] Bechdel's rich exploitation of visual possibilities places Fun Home at an autobiographical interface where disparate modes of self-inscription intersect and comment upon one another” (32).Alison’s role as a literary and literal detective of concealed sexualities and of texts is particularly evident in the scene when she realises that she is gay. Wearing a plaid trench coat with the collar turned up like a private eye, she stands in the campus bookshop reading a copy of Word is Out, with a shadowy figure in the background (one whose silhouette resembles her father’s teenaged lover, Roy), and a speech bubble with a single exclamation mark articulating her realisation. While “the classic detective novel […] depends on […] a double plot, telling the story of a crime via the story of its investigation” (Felski “Suspicious” 225), Fun Home tells the story of Alison’s coming out and genesis as an artist through the story of her father’s brief life and thwarted desires. On the memoir’s final page, revisioning the artifactual photograph that begins her final chapter, Bechdel reclaims her father from what a cool reading of the historical record (adultery with adolescents, verbally abusive, emotionally distant) might encourage readers to superficially assume. Cvetkovich articulates the way Fun Home uses:Ordinary experience as an opening onto revisionist histories that avoid the emotional simplifications that can sometimes accompany representations of even the most unassimilable historical traumas […] Bechdel refuses easy distinctions between heroes and perpetrators, but doing so via a figure who represents a highly stigmatised sexuality is a bold move. (125)Rejecting paranoid strategies, Bechdel is less interested in classification and condemnation of her father than she is in her own tangled relation to him. She adopts a reparative strategy by focusing on the strands of joy and identification in her history with her father, rather than simply making a paranoid attack on his character.She occludes the negative possibilities and connotations of her father’s story to end on a largely positive note: “But in the tricky reverse narration that impels our entwined stories, he was there to catch me when I leapt” (232). In the final moment of her text Bechdel moves away from the memoir’s earlier destabilising actions, which forced the reader to regard Bruce with suspicion, as the keeper of destructive secrets and as a menacing presence in the Bechdels’ family life. The final image is of complete trust and support. His death is rendered not as chaotic and violent as it historically was, but calm, controlled, beneficent. Bechdel has commented, “I think it’s part of my father’s brilliance, the fact that his death was so ambiguous […] The idea that he could pull that off. That it was his last great wheeze. I want to believe that he went out triumphantly” (qtd. in Burkeman). The revisioning of Bruce’s death as a suicide and the reverse narration which establishes the accomplished artist and writer Bechdel’s creative and literary debt to him function as a redemption.Bechdel queers her suspicious reading of her family history in order to reparatively reclaim her father’s historical and personal connection with herself. The narrative testifies to Bruce’s failings as a father and husband, and confesses to Alison’s own complicity in her father’s transgressive desires and artistic interest, and to her inability to represent the past authoritatively and with complete accuracy. Bechdel both engages in and ultimately rejects a suspicious interpretation of her family and personal history. As Gardner notes, “only by allowing the past to bleed into history, fact to bleed into fiction, image into text, might we begin to allow our own pain to bleed into the other, and more urgently, the pain of the other to bleed into ourselves” (“Autobiography’s” 23). Suspicion itself is queered in the reparative revisioning of Bruce’s life and death, and in the “tricky reverse narration” (232) of the künstlerroman’s joyful conclusion.ReferencesBechdel, Alison. Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic. New York: Mariner Books, 2007. Burkeman, Oliver. “A life stripped bare.” The Guardian 16 Oct. 2006: G2 16.Cvetkovich, Ann. “Drawing the Archive in Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home.” Women’s Studies Quarterly 36.1/2 (2008): 111–29. Chute, Hillary L. Graphic Women: Life Narrative and Contemporary Comics. New York: Columbia UP, 2010. ---. “Interview with Alison Bechdel.” MFS Modern Fiction Studies 52.4 (2006): 1004–13. Felski, Rita. Uses of Literature. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2008.---. “Suspicious Minds.” Poetics Today 32:3 (2011): 215–34. Gardner, Jared. “Archives, Collectors, and the New Media Work of Comics.” MFS Modern Fiction Studies 52.4 (2006): 787–806. ---. “Autobiography’s Biography 1972-2007.” Biography 31.1 (2008): 1–26. Lejeune, Philippe. On Autobiography. Ed. Paul John Eakin. Trans. Katherine Leary. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989. McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. New York: HarperPerennial, 1994. McGrath, Charles. “Not Funnies.” New York Times Magazine 11 Jul. 2004: 24–56. Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. Epistemology of the Closet. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008. ---. Touching Feeling. Durham : Duke University Press, 2003. Vincent, J. Keith. “Affect and Reparative Reading.” Honoring Eve. Ed. J. Keith Vincent. Affect and Reparative Reading. Boston University College of Arts and Sciences. October 31 2009. 25 May 2011. ‹http://www.bu.edu/honoringeve/panels/affect-and-reparative-reading/?›.Watson, Julia. “Autographic disclosures and genealogies of desire in Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home.” Biography 31.1 (2008): 27–59. Whitlock, Gillian. “Autographics: The Seeing “I” of the Comics.” Modern Fiction Studies 52.4 (2006): 965–79.

Abstract:

Cookbooks can be interpreted as sites of exchange and transformation. This is not only due to their practical use as written instructions that assist in turning ingredients into dishes, but also to their significance as interconnecting mediums between teacher and student, perceiver and perceived, past and present. Hinging on inescapable notions of apprenticeship, occasion, and the passing of time—and being at once familiar and unfamiliar to both the reader and the writer—the recipe “as text” renders a specific brand of culinary uncanny. In outlining the function of cookbooks as chronicles of the everyday, Janet Theophano points out that they “are one of a variety of written forms, such as diaries and journals, that [people] have adapted to recount and enrich their lives […] blending raw ingredients into a new configuration” (122). The cookbook unveils the peculiar ability of the ephemeral “text” to find permanence and materiality through the embodied framework action and repetition. In view of its propensity to be read, evaluated, and reconfigured, the cookbook can be read as a manifestation of voice, a site of interpretation and communication between writer and reader which is defined not by static assessment, but by dynamic and often incongruous exchanges of emotions, mysteries, and riddles. Taking the in-between status of the cookbook as point of departure, this paper analyses the cookbook as a “living dead” entity, a revenant text bridging the gap between the ephemerality of the word and the tangibility of the physical action. Using Joanne Harris’s fictional treatment of the trans-generational cookbook in Five Quarters of the Orange (2001) as an evocative example, the cookbook is read as a site of “memory, mourning and melancholia” which is also inevitably connected—in its aesthetic, political and intellectual contexts—to the concept of “return.” The “dead” voice in the cookbook is resurrected through practice. Re-enacting instructions brings with it a sense of transformative exchange that, in both its conceptual and factual dimensions, recalls those uncanny structural principles that are the definitive characteristic of the Gothic. These find particular resonance, at least as far as cookbooks are concerned, in “a sense of the unspeakable” and a “correspondence between dreams, language, writing” (Castricano 13). Understanding the cookbook as a “Gothic text” unveils one of the most intriguing aspects of the recipe as a vault of knowledge and memory that, in an appropriately mysterious twist, can be connected to the literary framework of the uncanny through the theme of “live burial.” As an example of the written word, a cookbook is a text that “calls” to the reader; that call is not only sited in interpretation—as it can be arguably claimed for the majority of written texts—but it is also strongly linked to a sense of lived experience on the writer’s part. This connection between “presences” is particularly evident in examples of cookbooks belonging to what is known as “autobiographical cookbooks”, a specific genre of culinary writing where “recipes play an integral part in the revelation of the personal history” (Kelly 258). Known examples from this category include Alice B. Toklas’s famous Cook Book (1954) and, more recently, Nigel Slater’s Toast (2003). In the autobiographical cookbook, the food recipes are fully intertwined with the writer’s memories and experiences, so that the two things, as Kelly suggests, “could not be separated” (258). The writer of this type of cookbook is, one might venture to argue, always present, always “alive”, indistinguishable and indivisible from the experience of any recipe that is read and re-enacted. The culinary phantom—understood here as the “voice” of the writer and how it re-lives through the re-enacted recipe—functions as a literary revenant through the culturally prescribed readability of the recipes as a “transtextual” (Rashkin 45) piece. The term, put forward by Esther Rashkin, suggests a close relationship between written and “lived” narratives that is reliant on encrypted messages of haunting, memory, and spectrality (45). This fundamental concept—essential to grasp the status of cookbooks as a haunted text—helps us to understand the writer and instructor of recipes as “being there” without necessarily being present. The writers of cookbooks are phantomised in that their presence—recalling the materiality of action and motion—is buried alive in the pages of the cookbook. It remains tacit and unheard until it is resurrected through reading and recreating the recipe. Although this idea of “coming alive” finds resonance in virtually all forms of textual exchange, the phantomatic nature of the relationship between writer and reader finds its most tangible expression in the cookbook precisely because of the practical and “lived in” nature of the text itself. While all texts, Jacques Derrida suggests, call to us to inherit their knowledge through “secrecy” and choice, cookbooks are specifically bound to a dynamic injunction of response, where the reader transforms the written word into action, and, in so doing, revives the embodied nature of the recipe as much as it resurrects the ghostly presence of its writer (Spectres of Marx 158). As a textual medium housing kitchen phantoms, cookbooks designate “a place” that, as Derrida puts it, draws attention to the culinary manuscript’s ability to communicate a legacy that, although not “natural, transparent and univocal”, still calls for an “interpretation” whose textual choices form the basis of enigma, inhabitation, and haunting (Spectres of Marx 16). It is this mystery that animates the interaction between memory, ghostly figures and recipes in Five Quarters of the Orange. Whilst evoking Derrida’s understanding of the written texts as a site of secrecy, exchange and (one may argue) haunting, Harris simultaneously illustrates Kelly’s contention that the cookbook breaks the barriers between the seemingly common everyday and personal narratives. In the story, Framboise Dartigen—a mysterious woman in her sixties—returns to the village of her childhood in the Loire region of France. Here she rescues the old family farm from fifty years of abandonment and under the acquired identity of the veuve Simone, opens a local crêperie, serving simple, traditional dishes. Harris stresses how, upon her return to the village, Framboise brings with her resentment, shameful family secrets and, most importantly, her mother Mirabelle’s “album”: a strange hybrid of recipe book and diary, written during the German occupation of the Loire region in World War II. The recipe album was left to Framboise as an inheritance after her mother’s death: “She gave me the album, valueless, then, except for the thoughts and insights jotted in the margins alongside recipes and newspaper cuttings and herbal cures. Not a diary, precisely; there are no dates in the album, no precise order” (Harris 14). It soon becomes clear that Mirabelle had an extraordinary relationship with her recipe album, keeping it as a life transcript in which food preparation figures as a main focus of attention: “My mother marked the events in her life with recipes, dishes of her own invention or interpretations of old favourites. Food was her nostalgia, her celebration, its nurture and preparation the sole outlet for her creativity” (14). The album is described by Framboise as her mother’s only confidant, its pages the sole means of expression of events, thoughts and preoccupations. In this sense, the recipes contain knowledge of the past and, at the same time, come to represent a trans-temporal coordinate from which to begin understanding Mirabelle’s life and the social situations she experienced while writing the album. As the cookery album acts as a medium of self-representation for Mirabelle, Harris also gestures towards the idea that recipes offer an insight into a person that history may have otherwise forgotten. The culinary album in Five Quarters of the Orange establishes itself as a bonding element and a trans-temporal gateway through which an exchange ensues between mother and daughter. The etymological origin of the word “recipe” offers a further insight into the nature of the exchange. The word finds its root in the Latin word reciperere, meaning simultaneously “to give and to receive” (Floyd and Forster 6). Mirabelle’s recipes are not only the textual representation of the patterns and behaviours on which her life was based but, most importantly, position themselves in a process of an uncanny exchange. Acting as the surrogate of the long-passed Mirabelle, the album’s existence as a haunted culinary document ushers in the possibility of secrets and revelations, contradictions, and concealment. On numerous occasions, Framboise confesses that the translation of the recipe book was a task with which she did not want to engage. Forcing herself, she describes the reading as a personal “struggle” (276). Fearing what the book could reveal—literally, the recipes of a lifetime—she suspects that the album will demand a deep involvement with her mother’s existence: “I had avoided looking at the album, feeling absurdly at fault, a voyeuse, as if my mother might come in at any time and see me reading her strange secrets. Truth is, I didn’t want to know her secrets” (30). On the one hand, Framboise’s fear could be interpreted as apprehension at the prospect of unveiling unpleasant truths. On the other, she is reluctant to re-live her mother’s emotions, passions and anxieties, feeling they may actually be “sublimated into her recipes” (270). Framboise’s initial resistance to the secrets of the recipe book is quickly followed by an almost obsessive quest to “translate” the text: “I read through the album little by little during those lengthening nights. I deciphered the code [and] wrote down and cross-referenced everything by means of small cards, trying to put everything in sequence” (225). As Harris exposes Framboise’s personal struggle in unravelling Mirabelle’s individual history, the daughter’s hermeneutic excavation into the past is problematised by her mother’s strange style: “The language […] in which much of the album was written was alien to me, and after a few abortive attempts to decipher it, I abandoned the idea […] the mad scrawlings, poems, drawings and accounts […] were written with no apparent logic, no order that I could discover” (31). Only after a period of careful interpretation does Framboise understand the confused organisation of her mother’s culinary thoughts. Once the daughter has decoded the recipes, she is able to use them: “I began to make cakes [...] the brioche and pain d’épices of the region, as well as some [...] Breton specialties, packets of crêpes dentelle, fruit tarts and packs de sablés, biscuits, nutbread, cinnamon snaps [...] I used my mother’s old recipes” (22). As Framboise engages with her mother’s album, Mirabelle’s memory is celebrated in the act of reading, deciphering, and recreating the recipes. As a metaphorically buried collection waiting to be interpreted, the cookbook is the catalyst through which the memory of Mirabelle can be passed to her daughter and live on. Discussing the haunted nature of texts, Derrida suggests that once one interprets a text written by another, that text “comes back” and “lives on” (‘Roundtable on Translation’ 158). In this framework of return and exchange, the replication of the Mirabelle’s recipes, by her daughter Framboise, is the tangible expression of the mother’s life. As the collective history of wartime France and the memory of Mirabelle’s life are reaffirmed in the cookbook, the recipes allow Framboise to understand what is “staring [her] in the face”, and finally see “the reason for her [mother’s] actions and the terrible repercussions on [her] own” life (268). As the process of culinary translating takes place, it becomes clear that her deceased mother’s album conceals a legacy that goes beyond material possessions. Mirabelle “returns” through the cookbook and that return, in Jodey Castricano’s words, “acts as inheritance.” In the hauntingly autobiographical context of the culinary album, the mother’s phantom and the recipes become “inseparable” (29). Within the resistant and at times contradictory framework of the Gothic text, legacy is always passed on through a process of haunting which must be accepted in order to understand and decode the writing. This exchange becomes even more significant when cookbooks are concerned, since the intended engagement with the recipes is one of acceptance and response. When the cookbook “calls”, the reader is asked “to respond to an injunction” (Castricano 17). In this framework, Mirabelle’s album in Five Quarters of the Orange becomes the haunted channel through which the reader can communicate with her “ghost” or, to be more specific, her “spectral signature.” In these terms, the cookbook is a vector for reincarnation and haunting, while recipes themselves function as the vehicle for the parallel consciousness of culinary phantoms to find a status of reincarnated identification through their connection to a series of repeated gestures. The concept of “phantom” here is particularly useful in the understanding put forward by Nicholas Abraham and Maria Torok—and later developed by Derrida and Castricano—as “the buried speech of another”, the shadow of perception and experience that returns through the subject’s text (Castricano 11). In the framework of the culinary, the phantom returns in the cookbook through an interaction between the explicit or implied “I” of the recipe’s instructions, and the physical and psychological dimension of the “you” that finds lodging in the reader as re-enactor. In the cookbook, the intertextual relationship between the reader’s present and the writer’s past can be identified, as Rashkin claims, “in narratives organised by phantoms” (45). Indeed, as Framboise’s relationship with the recipe book is troubled by her mother’s spectral presence, it becomes apparent that even the writing of the text was a mysterious process. Mirabelle’s album, in places, offers “cryptic references” (14): moments that are impenetrable, indecipherable, enigmatic. This is a text written “with ghosts”: “the first page is given to my father’s death—the ribbon of his Légion d’Honneur pasted thickly to the paper beneath a blurry photograph and a neat recipe for buck-wheat pancakes—and carries a kind of gruesome humour. Under the picture my mother has pencilled 'Remember—dig up Jerusalem artichokes. Ha! Ha! Ha!'” (14). The writing of the recipe book is initiated by the death of Mirabelle’s husband, Yannick, and his passing is marked by her wish to eradicate from the garden the Jerusalem artichokes which, as it is revealed later, were his favourite food. According to culinary folklore, Jerusalem artichokes are meant to be highly “spermatogenic”, so their consumption can make men fertile (Amato 3). Their uprooting from Mirabelle’s garden, after the husband’s death, signifies the loss of male presence and reproductive function, as if Mirabelle herself were rejecting the symbol of Yannick’s control of the house. Her bittersweet, mocking comments at this disappearance—the insensitive “Ha! Ha! Ha!”—are indicative of Mirabelle’s desire to detach herself from the restraints of married life. Considering women’s traditional function as family cooks, her happiness at the lack of marital duties extends to the kitchen as much as to the bedroom. The destruction of Yannick’s artichokes is juxtaposed with a recipe for black-wheat pancakes which the family then “ate with everything” (15). It is at this point that Framboise recalls suddenly and with a sense of shock that her mother never mentioned her father after his death. It is as if a mixture of grief and trauma animate Mirabelle’s feeling towards her deceased husband. The only confirmation of Yannick’s existence persists in the pages of the cookbook through Mirabelle’s occasional use of the undecipherable “bilini-enverlini”, a language of “inverted syllables, reversed words, nonsense prefixes and suffices”: “Ini tnawini inoti plainexini [...] Minini toni nierus niohwbi inoti” (42). The cryptic language was, we are told, “invented” by Yannick, who used to “speak it all the time” (42). Yannick’s presence thus is inscribed in the album, which is thereby transformed into an evocative historical document. Although he disappears from his wife’s everyday life, Yannick’s ghost—to which the recipe book is almost dedicated on the initial page—remains and haunts the pages. The cryptic cookbook is thus also a “crypt.” In their recent, quasi-Gothic revision of classical psychoanalysis, Nicholas Abraham and Maria Torok write about the trauma of loss in relation to psychic crypts. In mourning a loved one, they argue, the individual can slip into melancholia by erecting what they call an “inner crypt.” In the psychological crypt, the dead—or, more precisely, the memory of the dead—can be hidden or introjectively “devoured”, metaphorically speaking, as a way of denying its demise. This form of introjection—understood here in clear connection to the Freudian concept of literally “consuming” one’s enemy—is interpreted as the “normal” progression through which the subject accepts the death of a loved one and slowly removes its memory from consciousness. However, when this process of detachment encounters resistance, a “crypt” is formed. The crypt maps, as Abraham and Torok claim, the psychological topography of “the untold and unsayable secret, the feeling unfelt, the pain denied” (21). In its locus of mystery and concealment, the crypt is haunted by the memory of the dead which, paradoxically, inhabits it as a “living-dead.” Through the crypt, the dead can “return” to disturb consciousness. In Five Quarters of the Orange, the encoded nature of Mirabelle’s recipes—emerging as such on multiple levels of interpretation—enables the memory of Yannick to “return” within the writing itself. In his preface to Abraham and Torok’s The Wolf-Man’s Magic Word, Derrida argues that the psychological crypt houses “the ghost that comes haunting out the Unconscious of the other” (‘Fors’ xxi). Mirabelle’s cookbook might therefore be read as an encrypted reincarnation of her husband’s ghostly memory. The recipe book functions as the encrypted passageway through which the dead re-join the living in a responsive cycle of exchange and experience. Writing, in this sense, re-creates the subject through the culinary framework and transforms the cookbook into a revenant text colonised by the living-dead. Abraham and Torok suggest that “reconstituted from the memories of words, scenes and affects, the objective correlative of loss is buried alive in the crypt” (130). With this idea in mind, it is possible to suggest that, among Mirabelle’s recipes, the Gothicised Yannick inhabits a culinary crypt. It is through his associations with both the written and the practical dimension food that he remains, to borrow Derrida’s words, a haunting presence that Mirabelle is “perfectly willing to keep alive” within the bounds of the culinary vault (‘Fors’ xxi). As far as the mourning crypt is concerned, the exchange of consciousness that is embedded in the text takes place by producing a level of experiential concealment, based on the overarching effect of Gothicised interiority. Derrida remarks that “the crypt from which the ghost comes back belongs to someone else” (‘Fors’ 119). This suggestion throws into sharp relief the ability of the cookbook as a haunted text to draw the reader into a process of consciousness transmission and reception that is always and necessarily a form of “living-dead” exchange. In these terms, the recipe itself—especially in its embodiment as instructed actions—needs to be understood as a vector for establishing the uncanny barriers of signification erected by the bounds of the cookbook itself as a haunted site of death, enchantment, and revenant signs. In this way, eating, a vital and animated activity, is “disturbingly blended with death, decomposition and the corpse” (Piatti-Farnell 146). And far from simply providing nourishment for the living, Mirabelle’s encrypted recipes continue to feed the dead through cycles of mourning and melancholia. Mirabelle’s cookbook, therefore, becomes a textual example of “cryptomimeses”, a writing practice that, echoing the convention of the Gothic framework, generates its ghostly effects through embodying the structures of remembrance and the dynamics of autobiographic deconstructive writing (Castricano 8). As heimliche and unheimliche collide in practices of culinary reading and writing, the cookbook acts as quasi-mystical, haunted space through which the uncanny frameworks of language and experience can become actualised. ReferencesAbraham, Nicolas, and Maria Torok, The Shell and the Kernel: Renewals of Psychoanalysis. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1994. Amato, Joseph. The Great Jerusalem Artichoke Circus. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1993. Castricano, Jodey. Cryptomimesis: The Gothic and Jacques Derrida’s Ghost Writing. London: McGill-Queen’s UP, 2003. Derrida, Jacques. “Fors: the Anglish words of Nicolas Abraham and Maria Torok.” Eds. Nicholas Abraham, and Maria Torok. The Wolf Man’s Magic Word: A Cryptonomy. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota Pr, 1986. xi–xlviii ---. “Roundtable on Translation.” The Ear of the Other: Otobiography, Transference, Translation. London: U of Nebraska P, 1985. 91–161. Floyd, Janet, and Laurel Foster. The Recipe Reader: Narratives–Contexts–Traditions. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003. Harris, Joanne. Five Quarters of the Orange. Maidenhead: Black Swan, 2002. Kelly, Traci Marie. “‘If I Were a Voodoo Priestess’: Women’s Culinary Autobiographies.” Kitchen Culture in America: Popular Representations of Food, Gender and Race. Ed. Sherrie A. Inness. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 2001. 251–70. Piatti-Farnell, Lorna. Food and Culture in Contemporary American Fiction. New York: Routledge, 2011. Rashkin, Esther. Family Secrets and the Psychoanalysis of Narrative. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1992. Slater, Nigel. Toast: The Story of a Boy’s Hunger. London: Harper Perennial, 2004. Theophano, Janet. Eat My Words: Reading Women’s Lives Through The Cookbooks They Wrote. New York: Palgrave, 2002. Toklas, Alice B. The Alice B. Toklas Cook Book. New York: Perennial,1984.

Abstract:

Watts, Irene N., Touched by Fire. Toronto: Tundra Books, 2013. Print.In the first decade of the 20th century, Miriam Markovitz and her family have fled their small town in the country to live in Kiev. She and her family are Jewish and the Tsar does not favor Jews. After narrowly escaping the pogroms, Miriam’s father Sam dreams of taking the whole family to America. Known as the “Golden Land”, in America Jews are free of persecution. Over the next few years the family relocates to Berlin where Miriam’s parents and grandparents work hard to save enough money. The plan is for Sam to travel to New York ahead of the family. Miriam is fourteen years old when the first set of tickets to America arrives in the mail from her father. Leaving on the adventure of their lives, the Markovitz family must endure illnesses, family quarrels, and filth. For Miriam it seems crossing the ocean is the hardest thing she has very done, but she is destined to witness an even worse tragedy in her new country. Touched By Fire is an enlightening story that brings to light many of the injustices Jews were forced to face, long before the anti-Semitism of the Nazis’ era. It is easy to form an attachment to the characters, and I found myself hoping and worrying for the Markovitz family. Miriam is especially vivid and comes out clearly as a strong and self-sacrificing heroine.These positive points aside, there were some peculiarities about this book that stood out in my mind. Firstly, Miriam’s journey is relatively tame, especially when you consider how graphic young adult literature has become. While there is a fair share of danger and hardship in the journey, Watts has left the harsher struggles to be faced by minor characters, leaving Miriam as merely a witness. I would also have liked more development of the characters Miriam met along the way. Leaving these characters underdeveloped reduced the impact of their struggles and made Miriam’s feelings about them somewhat flat. Finally, I must admit to some puzzlement as to why Watts chose to give the book the title Touched By Fire, as it refers strictly to the tragedy detailed in the conclusion, when most of the book’s focus is on Miriam’s journey and her maturation.In considering these criticisms alongside the overall story, I found myself divided as to how I felt about the book. I have to conclude that younger readers may not be drawn to these inconsistences and nuances, but would rather enjoy the story for the picture it paints of the time period. I have therefore given the book three out four stars. Touched by Fire is most suitable for children ages 9-13 and would be enjoyed by young readers that enjoy historical fiction.Recommended: 3 out of 4 starsReviewer: Hanne PearceHanne Pearce has worked at the University of Alberta Libraries in various support staff positions since 2004 and is currently a Public Service Assistant at the Rutherford Humanities and Social Sciences Library. In 2010 she completed her MLIS at the University of Alberta. Aside from being an avid reader she has continuing interests in writing, photography, graphic design and knitting.

Abstract:

Through my last lengthy writing project, it did not take long to I realise I had become obsessed with paths. The proof of it was there in my notebooks, and, most prominently, in the backlog of photographs cluttering the inner workings of my mobile phone. Most of the photographs I took had a couple of things in common: first, the astonishing greenness of the world they were describing; second, the way a road or path or corridor or pavement or trail led off into distance. The greenness was because I was in England, in summer, and mostly in a part of the country where green seems at times the only colour. I am not sure what it was about tailing perspective that caught me.Image 1: a) Undercliffe Cemetery, Bradford; b) Undercliffe Cemetery, Bradfordc) Leeds Road, Otley; d) Shibden Park, Halifax Image 2: a) Runswick Bay; b) St. Mary's Churchyard, Habberleyc) The Habberley Road, to Pontesbury; d) Todmorden, path to Stoodley Pike I was working on a kind of family memoir, tied up in my grandmother’s last days, which were also days I spent marching through towns and countryside I once knew, looking for clues about a place and its past. I had left the north-west of England a decade or so before, and I was grappling with what James Wood calls “homelooseness”, a sensation of exile that even economic migrants like myself encounter. It is a particular kind of “secular homelessness” in which “the ties that might bind one to Home have been loosened” (105-106). Loosened irrevocably, I might add. The kind of wandering which I embarked on is not unique. Wood describes it in himself, and in the work of W.G. Sebald—a writer who, he says, “had an exquisite sense of the varieties of not-belonging” (106).I walked a lot, mostly on paths I used to know. And when, later, I counted up the photographs I had taken of that similar-but-different scene, there were almost 500 of them, none of which I can bring myself to delete. Some were repeated, or nearly so—I had often tried to make sure the path in the frame was centred in the middle of the screen. Most of the pictures were almost entirely miscellaneous, and if it were not for a feature on my phone I could not work out how to turn off (that feature which tracks where each photograph was taken) I would not have much idea of what each picture represented. What’s clear is that there was some lingering significance, some almost-tangible metaphor, in the way I was recording the walking I was doing. This same significance is there, too (in an almost quantifiable way), in the thesis I was working on while I was taking the photographs: I used the word “path” 63 times in the version I handed to examiners, not counting all the times I could have, but chose not to—all the “pavements”, “trails”, “roads”, and “holloways” of it would add up to a number even more substantial. For instance, the word “walk”, or derivatives of it, comes up 115 times. This article is designed to ask why. I aim to focus on that metaphor, on that significance, and unpack the way life writing can intersect with both the journey of a life being lived, and the process of writing down that life (by process of writing I sometimes mean anything but: I mean the process of working towards the writing. Of going, of doing, of talking, of spending, of working, of thinking, of walking). I came, in the thesis, to view certain kinds of prose as a way of imitating the rhythms of the mind, but I think there’s something about that rhythm which associates it with the feet as well. Rebecca Solnit thinks so too, or, at least, that the processes of thinking and walking can wrap around each other, helixed or concatenated. In Wanderlust she says that:the rhythm of walking generates a kind of rhythm of thinking, and the passage through a landscape echoes or stimulates the passage through a series of thoughts. This creates an odd consonance between internal and external passage, one that suggests that the mind is also a landscape of sorts and that walking is one way to traverse it. (5-6)The “odd consonance” Solnit speaks of is a kind of seamlessness between the internal and external; it is something which can be aped on the page. And, in this way, prose can imitate the mind thinking. This way of writing is evident in the digression-filled, wandering, sinuous sentences of W.G. Sebald, and of Marcel Proust as well. I don’t want to entangle myself in the question of whether Proust and Sebald count as life writers here. I used them as models, and, at the very least, I think their prose manipulates the conceits of the autobiographical pact. In fact, Sebald often refused to label his own work; once he called his writing “prose [...] of indefinite form” (Franklin 123). My definition of life writing is, thus, indefinite, and merely indicates the field in which I work and know best.Edmund White, when writing on Proust, suggested that every page of Remembrance of Things Past—while only occasionally being a literal page of Proust’s mind thinking—is, nevertheless, “a transcript of a mind thinking [...] the fully orchestrated, ceaseless, and disciplined ruminations of one mind, one voice” (138). Ceaselessness, seamlessness ... there’s also a viscosity to this kind of prose—Virginia Woolf called it “impassioned”, and spoke of the way some prosecan lick up with its long glutinous tongue the most minute fragments of fact and mass them into the most subtle labyrinths, and listen silently at doors behind which only a murmur, only a whisper, is to be heard. With all the suppleness of a tool which is in constant use it can follow the windings and record the changes which are typical of the modern mind. To this, with Proust and Dostoevsky behind us, we must agree. (20)When I read White and Woolf it seemed they could have been talking about Sebald, too: everything in Sebald’s oeuvre is funnelled through what White described in Remembrance as the cyclopean “I” at the centre of the Proustian consciousness (138). The same could be said about Sebald: as Lynne Schwartz says, “All Sebald’s characters sound like the narrator” (15). And that narrator has very particular qualities, encouraged by the sense of homelooseness Wood describes: the Sebald narrator is a wanderer, by train through Italian cities and New York Suburbs, on foot through the empty reaches of the English countryside, exploring the history of each settlement he passes through [...] Wherever he travels, he finds strangely vacant streets and roads, not a soul around [...] Sebald’s books are famously strewn with evocative, gloomy black-and-white photographs that call up the presence of the dead, of vanished places, and also serve as proofs of his passage. (Schwartz 14) I tried to resist the urge to take photographs, for the simple reason that I knew I could not include them all in the finished thesis—even including some would seem (perhaps) derivative. But this method of wandering—whether on the page or in the world—was formative for me. And the linkage between thinking and walking, and walking and writing, and writing and thinking is worth exploring, if only to identify some reason for that need to show proof of passage.Walking in Proust and Sebald either forms the shape of narrative, or one its cruxes. Both found ways to let walking affect the rhythm, movement, motivation, and even the aesthetic of their prose. Sebald’s The Rings of Saturn, for example, is plotless because of the way it follows its narrator on a walking tour of Suffolk. The effect is similar to something Murray Baumgarten noticed in one of Sebald’s other books, The Emigrants: “The [Sebaldian] narrator discovers in the course of his travels (and with him the reader) that he is constructing the text he is reading, a text at once being imagined and destroyed, a fragment of the past, and a ruin that haunts the present” (268). Proust’s opus is a meditation on the different ways we can walk. Remembrance is a book about momentum—a book about movement. It is a book which always forges forward, but which always faces backward, where time and place can still and footsteps be paused in motion, or tiptoed upstairs and across tables or be caught in flight over the body of an octogenarian lying on a beach. And it is the walks of the narrator’s past—his encounters with landscape—that give his present (and future) thoughts impetus: the rhythms of his long-past progress still affect the way he moves and acts and thinks, and will always do so:the “Méséglise way” and the “Guermantes way” remain for me linked with many of the little incidents of that one of all the divers lives along whose parallel lines we are moved, which is the most abundant in sudden reverses of fortune, the richest in episodes; I mean the life of the mind [...] [T]he two “ways” give to those [impressions of the mind] a foundation, depth, a dimension lacking from the rest. They invest them, too, with a charm, a significance which is for me alone. (Swann’s Way 252-255)The two “ways”—walks in and around the town of Combray—are, for the narrator, frames through which he thinks about his childhood, and all the things which happened to him because of that childhood. I felt something similar through the process of writing my thesis: a need to allow the 3-mile-per-hour-connection between mind and body and place that Solnit speaks about seep into my work. I felt the stirrings of old ways; the places I once walked, which I photographed and paced, pulsed and pushed me forwards in the present and towards the future. I felt strangely attached to, and disconnected from, those pathways: lanes where I had rummaged for conkers; streets my grandparents had once lived and worked on; railways demolished because of roads which now existed, leaving only long, straight pathways through overgrown countryside suffused with time and memory. The oddness I felt might be an effect of what Wood describes as a “certain doubleness”, “where homesickness is a kind of longing for Britain and an irritation with Britain: sickness for and sickness of” (93-94). The model of seamless prose offered some way to articulate, at least, the particularities of this condition, and of the problem of connection—whether with place or the past. But it is in this shift away from conclusiveness, which occurs when the writer constructs-as-they-write, that Baumgarten sees seamlessness:rather than the defined edges, boundaries, and conventional perceptions promised by realism, and the efficient account of intention, action, causation, and conclusion implied by the stance of realistic prose, reader and narrator have to assimilate the past and present in a dream state in which they blend imperceptibly into each other. (277)It’s difficult to articulate the way in which the connection between walking, writing, and thinking works. Solnit draws one comparison, talking to the ways in which digression and association mix:as a literary structure, the recounted walk encourages digression and association, in contrast to the stricter form of a discourse or the chronological progression of a biographical or historical narrative [...] James Joyce and Virginia Woolf would, in trying to describe the workings of the mind, develop of style called stream of consciousness. In their novels Ulysses and Mrs Dalloway, the jumble of thoughts and recollections of their protagonists unfolds best during walks. This kind of unstructured, associative thinking is the kind most often connected to walking, and it suggests walking as not an analytical but an improvisational act. (21)I think the key, here, is the notion of association—in the making of connections, and, in my case, in the making of connections between present and past. When we walk we exist in a roving state, and with a dual purpose: Sophie Cunningham says that we walk to get from one place to the next, but also to insist that “what lies between our point of departure and our destination is important. We create connection. We pay attention to detail, and these details plant us firmly in the day, in the present” (Cunningham). The slipperiness of homelooseness can be emphasised in the slipperiness of seamless prose, and walking—situating self in the present—is a rebuttal of slipperiness (if, as I will argue, a rebuttal which has at its heart a contradiction: it is both effective and ineffective. It feels as close as is possible to something impossible to attain). Solnit argues that walking and what she calls “personal, descriptive, and specific” writing are suited to each other:walking is itself a way of grounding one’s thoughts in a personal and embodied experience of the world that it lends itself to this kind of writing. This is why the meaning of walking is mostly discussed elsewhere than in philosophy: in poetry, novels, letters, diaries, travellers’ accounts, and first-person essays. (26)If a person is searching for some kind of possible-impossible grounding in the past, then walking pace is the pace at which to achieve that sensation (both in the world and on the page). It is at walking pace that connections can be made, even if they can be sensed slipping away: this is the Janus-faced problem of attempting to uncover anything which has been. The search, in fact, becomes facsimile for the past itself, or for the inconclusiveness of the past. In my own work—in preparing for that work—I walked and wrote about walking up the flank of the hill which hovered above the house in which I lived before I left England. To get to the top, and the great stone monument which sits there, I had to pass that house. The door was open, and that was enough to unsettle. Baumgarten, again on The Emigrants, articulates the effect: “unresolved, fragmented, incomplete, relying on shards for evidence, the narrator insists on the inconclusiveness of his experience: rather than arriving at a conclusion, narrator and reader are left disturbed” (269).Sebald writes in his usual intense way about a Swiss writer, Robert Walser, who he calls le promeneur solitaire (“The Solitary Walker”). Walser was a prolific writer, but through the last years of his life wrote less and less until he ended up incapable of doing so: in the end, Sebald says, “the traces Robert Walser left on his path through life were so faint as to have almost been effaced altogether” (119).Sebald draws parallels between Walser and his own grandfather. Both have worked their way into Sebald’s prose, along with the author himself. Because of this co*cktail, I’ve come to read Sebald’s thoughts on Walser as sideways thoughts on his own prose (perhaps due to that cyclopean quality described by White). The works of the two writers share, at the very least, a certain incandescent ephemerality—a quality which exists in Sebald’s work, crystallised in the form and formlessness of a wasps’ nest. The wasps’ nest is a symbol Sebald uses in his book Vertigo, and which he talks to in an interview with Sarah Kafatou:do you know what a wasp’s nest is like? It’s made of something much much thinner than airmail paper: grey and as thin as possible. This gets wrapped around and around like pastry, like a millefeuille, and can get as big as two feet across. It weighs nothing. For me the wasp’s nest is a kind of ideal vision: an object that is extremely complicated and intricate, made out of something that hardly exists. (32)It is in this ephemerality that the walker’s way of moving—if not their journey—can be felt. The ephemerality is necessary because of the way the world is: the way it always passes. A work which is made to seem to encompass everything, like Remembrance of Things Past, is made to do so because that is the nature of what walking offers: an ability to comprehend the world solidly, both minutely and vastly, but with a kind of forgetting attached to it. When a person walks through the world they are firmly embedded in it, yes, but they are also always enacting a process of forgetting where they have been. This continual interplay between presence and absence is evidenced in the way in which Sebald and Proust build the consciousnesses they shape on the page—consciousnessess accustomed to connectedness. According to Sebald, it was through the prose of Walser that he learned this—or, at least, through an engagement with Walser’s world, Sebald, “slowly learned to grasp how everything is connected across space and time” (149). Perhaps it can be seen in the way that the Méséglise and Guermantes ways resonate for the Proustian narrator even when they are gone. Proust’s narrator receives a letter from an old love, in the last volume of Remembrance, which describes the fate of the Méséglise way (Swann’s way, that is—the title of the first volume in the sequence). Gilberte tells him that the battlefields of World War I have overtaken the paths they used to walk:the little road you so loved, the one we called the stiff Hawthorn climb, where you professed to be in love with me when you were a child, when all the time I was in love with you, I cannot tell you how important that position is. The great wheatfield in which it ended is the famous “slope 307,” the name you have so often seen recorded in the communiqués. The French blew up the little bridge over the Vivonne which, you remember, did not bring back your childhood to you as much as you would have liked. The Germans threw others across; during a year and a half they held one half of Combray and the French the other. (Time Regained 69-70)Lia Purpura describes, and senses, a similar kind of connectedness. The way in which each moment builds into something—into the ephemeral, shifting self of a person walking through the world—is emphasised because that is the way the world works:I could walk for miles right now, fielding all that passes through, rubs off, lends a sense of being—that rush of moments, objects, sensations so much like a cloud of gnats, a cold patch in the ocean, dust motes in a ray of sun that roil, gather, settle around my head and make up the daily weather of a self. (x)This is what seamless prose can emulate: the rush of moments and the folds and shapes which dust turns and makes. And, well, I am aware that this may seem a grand kind of conclusion, and even a peculiarly nonspecific one. But nonspecificity is built by a culmination of details, of sentences—it is built deliberately, to evoke a sense of looseness in the world. And in the associations which result, through the mind of the writer, their narrator, and the reader, much more than is evident on the page—Sebald’s “everything”—is flung to the surface. Of course, this “everything” is split through with the melancholy evident in the destruction of the Méséglise way. Nonspecificity becomes the result of any attempt to capture the past—or, at least, the past becomes less tangible the longer, closer, and slower your attempt to grasp it. In both Sebald and Proust the task of representation is made to feel seamless in echo of the impossibility of resolution.In the unbroken track of a sentence lies a metaphor for the way in which life is spent: under threat, forever assaulted by the world and the senses, and forever separated from what came before. The walk-as-method is entangled with the mind thinking and the pen writing; each apes the other, and all work towards the same kind of end: an articulation of how the world is. At least, in the hands of Sebald and Proust and through their long and complex prosodies, it does. For both there is a kind of melancholy attached to this articulation—perhaps because the threads that bind sever as well. The Rings of Saturn offers a look at this. The book closes with a chapter on the weaving of silk, inflected, perhaps, with a knowledge of the ways in which Robert Walser—through attempts to ensnare some of life’s ephemerality—became a victim of it:That weavers in particular, together with scholars and writers with whom they had much in common, tended to suffer from melancholy and all the evils associated with it, is understandable given the nature of their work, which forced them to sit bent over, day after day, straining to keep their eye on the complex patterns they created. It is difficult to imagine the depths of despair into which those can be driven who, even after the end of the working day, are engrossed in their intricate designs and who are pursued, into their dreams, by the feeling that they have got hold of the wrong thread. (283)Vladimir Nabokov, writing on Swann’s Way, gives a competing metaphor for thinking through the seamlessness afforded by walking and writing. It is, altogether, more optimistic: more in keeping with Purpura’s interpretation of connectedness: “Proust’s conversations and his descriptions merge into one another, creating a new unity where flower and leaf and insect belong to one and the same blossoming tree” (214). This is the purpose of long and complex books like The Rings of Saturn and Remembrance of Things Past: to draw the lines which link each and all together. To describe the shape of consciousness, to mimic the actions of a body experiencing its progress through the world. I think that is what the photographs I took when wandering attempt, in a failing way, to do. They all show a kind of relentlessness, but in that relentlessness is also, I think, the promise of connectedness—even if not connectedness itself. Each path aims forward, and articulates something of what came before and what might come next, whether trodden in the world or walked on the page.Author’s NoteI’d like to express my thanks to the anonymous reviewers who took time to improve this article. I’m grateful for their insights and engagement, and for the nuance they added to the final copy.References Baumgarten, Murray. “‘Not Knowing What I Should Think:’ The Landscape of Postmemory in W.G. Sebald’s The Emigrants.” Partial Answers: Journal of Literature and the History of Ideas 5.2 (2007): 267-287. 28 Sep. 2018 <https://doi.org/10.1353/pan.2007.0000>.Cunningham, Sophie. “Staying with the Trouble.” Australian Book Review 371 (May 2015). 23 June 2016 <https://www.australianbookreview.com.au/abr-online/archive/2015/2500-2015-calibre-prize-winner-staying-with-the-trouble>.Franklin, Ruth. “Rings of Smoke.” The Emergence of Memory: Conversations with W.G. Sebald. Ed. Lynne Sharon Schwartz. New York: Seven Stories Press, 2007. 121-122.Kafatou, Sarah. “An Interview with W.G. Sebald.” Harvard Review 15 (1998): 31-35. Nabokov, Vladimir. “Marcel Proust: The Walk by Swann’s Place.” 1980. Lectures on Literature. London: Picador, 1983. 207-250.Proust, Marcel. Swann’s Way. Part I. 1913. Trans. C.K. Scott Moncrieff in 1922. London: Chatto & Windus, 1960.———. Time Regained. 1927. Trans. Stephen Hudson. London: Chatto & Windus, 1957.Purpura, Lia. “On Not Pivoting”. Diagram 12.1 (n.d.). 21 June 2018 <http://thediagram.com/12_1/purpura.html>.Schwartz, Lynne Sharon, ed. The Emergence of Memory: Conversations with W.G. Sebald. New York: Seven Stories Press, 2007.Sebald, W.G. The Rings of Saturn. 1995. Trans. Michael Hulse in 1998. London: Vintage, 2002.——. “Le Promeneur Solitaire.” A Place in the Country. Trans. Jo Catling. London: Hamish Hamilton, 2013. 117-154.Solnit, Rebecca. Wanderlust: A History of Walking. 2001. London: Granta Publications, 2014.White, Edmund. Proust. London: Phoenix, 1999.Wood, James. The Nearest Thing to Life. London: Jonathan Cape, 2015.Woolf, Virginia. “The Narrow Bridge of Art.” Granite and Rainbow. USA: Harvest Books, 1975.

Abstract:

IntroductionTwo writers, stuck in our university offices, decide to take our thoughts “for a walk” across the page. Writing from Middlesbrough, United Kingdom, and Auckland, New Zealand, we are separated by 18,000 kilometres and 11 hours, and yet here, on the page, our paths meet. How does walking, imaginary or real, affect our thinking? How do the environments through which we move, and the things we see along the way, influence our writing? What role do rhythm and pace play in the process? We invite you to join us on two short walks that reflect on our shared challenges as writers from two different strands of writing studies. Perhaps our paths will intersect, or even overlap, with yours somewhere? Ultimately, we aim to find out what happens when we leave our academic baggage behind, side-stepping dense theoretical arguments and comprehensive literature reviews for a creative-critical exploration. Evija: Let’s admit it, Sophie—I’m stuck. I’ve spent half a day in front of this computer but have hardly typed a line. It’s not just writing. It’s my thinking. I feel like my mind is weighed down by the clutter of thoughts that lead nowhere.Look at my surroundings. My office is crammed with stuff. So many thoughts buried under piles of paper, insisting on their place in the work in which they so obviously do not belong. I also can’t help but feel the magnetic pull of others’ ideas from all the books around me. Each thought, each reference, fights for its place in my work. What an unbearable intertextual mess...Sophie: I think that everyone who has ever tried to write knows exactly what these moments feel like. We can feel so lost, so stuck and blocked. Have you ever noticed that the words that we use about these feelings are intensely visceral? Perhaps that’s why, when the words won’t come, so many of us find it helpful to get up and move our bodies. Evija, shall we leave our desks behind for a while and go for a walk? Would you like to join me?E: Most certainly! Apparently, Friedrich Nietzsche loved to take his mind for a walk (Gros). Ideas, born among books, says Frédéric Gros, “exude the stuffy odour of libraries” (18). Gros describes such books as “grey”: “overloaded with quotations, references, footnotes, explicatory prudence, indefinite refutations” (19). They fail to say anything new and are “crammed”, “stuffed”, and “weighed down”; they are “born of a compilation of the other books” (Gros 19) so also bear their weight. Essentially, we are told, we should think of the books we are writing as “expression[s] of [our] physiology” (Gros 19). If we are shrivelled, stuck, stooped, tense, and tired, so also are our thoughts. Therefore, in order to make your thoughts breathe, walk, and even “dance”, says Nietzsche, you should go outdoors, go up in the mountains.S: As I read what you’ve written here, Evija, I feel as if I’m walking amongst your thoughts, both here on the screen and in my imagination. Sometimes, I’m in perfect step with you. At other times, I want to interrupt, tug on your sleeve and point, and say “Look! Have you seen this, just up ahead?”E: That’s the value of companionship on the road. A shared conversation on the move can lead to a transformation of thought, a conversion, as in the Biblical stories of the roads to Emmaus and Damascus. In fact, we tested the power of walking and talking in rural settings in a series of experimental events organised for academics in Auckland, New Zealand, throughout 2017 (see our blog post on Writing, Writing Everywhere website). It appeared to work very well for writers who had either been “stuck” or in the early stages of drafting. Those who were looking to structure existing thoughts were better off staying put. But walking and talking is an entire other topic (see Anderson) that we should discuss in more depth some other time.Anyway, you’ve brought us to what looks like a forest. Is this where you want us to go?A Walk “into the Woods,” or Getting in the Thick of Free-Writing S: Yes, just follow me. I often walk in the woods close to where I live. Of course, going “into the woods” is itself a metaphor, rich with fairy-tale connotations about creativity. The woods are full of darkness and danger, grandmother’s cottage, wild beasts, witches, poisonous fruits. The woods are where traps are laid, where children wander and get lost, where enchantments befall us. But humans have always been seduced by the woods and what lies in wait there (Maitland). In Jungian terms, losing oneself in darkness is a rite of initiation. By stepping into the woods, we surrender to not knowing, to walking off the path and into the depths of our imagination. I dare you to do that, right now! E: Letting go is not always easy. I keep wanting to respond to your claim by adding scholarly references to important work on the topic. I want to mention the father of the essay, Michel de Montaigne, for whom this form of writing was but “an attempt” (from Old French, “essai”) to place himself in this world, a philosophical and literary adventure that stood very far from the rigidly structured academic essay of the present day (Sturm). We’ve forgotten that writing is a risky undertaking, an exploration of uncharted terrains (Sturm). S: Yes, and in academic thinking, we’re always afraid to ramble. But perhaps rambling is exactly what we need to do. Perhaps we need to start walking without knowing where we’re going ... and see where it takes us. E: Indeed. Instead of going on writing retreats, academics should be sent “into the woods”, where their main task would be to get lost before they even start to think.S: Into the Woods, a reality TV show for academics? But seriously, maybe there is something about walking into the woods—or a landscape different from our habitual one—that symbolises a shift in feeling-state. When I walk into the woods, I purposely place myself in a different world. My senses are heightened. I become acutely aware of each tiny sound—the ticking of the leaves, the wind, the birdsong, the crunch of my feet, the pounding of the blood in my ears. I become less aware of all the difficult parts of myself, my troubles, my stuckness, what weighs on me so heavily. It seems to me that there is a parallel here with a state of consciousness or awareness famously described by the psychologist of optimal experience, Mihalyi Csikszentmihalyi, as “flow”. In flow, “the loss of a sense of self separate from the world around it is sometimes accompanied by a feeling of union with the environment” (Csikszentmihalyi 63), together with pleasure in movement and in the sensory experience of seeing the world. So flow might be one way of thinking about my lived experience of walking in the woods. But this shift has also been described by the psychotherapist Marion Milner as a shift from “narrow thinking” into a “wider” way of looking, listening, feeling, and moving—a feeling state that Milner called the “fat feeling”. She identified this “fat feeling” as characteristic of moments when she experienced intense delight (Milner 15) and she began to experiment with ways in which she could practice it more purposefully.In this sense, walking is a kind of “trick” that I can play upon myself. The shift from office to woods, from sitting at my desk to moving through the world, triggers a shift from preoccupation with the “head stuff” of academic work and into a more felt, bodily way of experiencing. Walking helps me to “get out of my head.”E: So wandering through this thicket becomes a kind of free writing?S: Yes, free writing is like “taking a line for a walk” on the page, words that the Swiss-German artist Paul Klee famously attributed to drawing (Klee 105; see also Raymond). It’s what we’re doing here, wouldn’t you say?Two Lines of Walking: A drawing by Evija. E: Yes—and we don’t know where this walk will lead us. I’m thinking of the many times I have propelled myself into meaningful writing by simply letting the hand do its work and produce written characters on the screen or page. Initially, it looks like nonsense. Then, meaning and order start to emerge.S: Yes, my suggestion is that walking—like writing—frees us up, connects us with the bodily, felt, and pleasurable aspects of the writing process. We need this opportunity to meander, go off at tangents...E: So what qualities do free writing and walking have in common? What is helpful about each of these activities?S: A first guess might be that free writing and walking make use of rhythm. Linguist and psychoanalyst Julia Kristeva calls the sound, rhythm, and texture of language the “semiotic”. For Kristeva, the “semiotic” (the realm of bodily drives and affects, rhythms, pre-verbal babble) and the “symbolic” (the realm of prescribed language, linguistic structure, grammar, and judgment) do not exist in rigid opposition to one another. Instead, they form a continuum which she calls “signifiance” or signification (Kristeva 22), a “dialectic” (24) of making meaning. According to Kristeva, even the smallest element of symbolic meaning, the phoneme, is involved in “rhythmic, intonational repetitions” (103) so that, as we order phonemes into words and words into sentences, our language pulses with the operations of our bodily, instinctual drives. Kristeva thinks in terms of an “explosion of the semiotic in the symbolic” (69). E: An explosion. I like that!S: Me too.My theory is that, by letting go into that rhythm a little, we’re enabling ourselves to access some of the pre-verbal force that Kristeva talks about. E: So the rhythm of walking helps us to connect with the rhythmic qualities of the semiotic?S: Exactly. We might say that a lot of academic writing tends to privilege the symbolic—both in terms of the style we choose and the way that we structure our arguments. E: And academic convention requires that we make more references here. For example, as we’re discussing “free writing”, we could cite Ken Macrorie or Peter Elbow, the two grandfathers of the method. Or we might scaffold our talks about collaborative writing as a means of scholarly inquiry, with the work of Laurel Richardson or another authority in the field.S: Yes, and all of this is an important part of academic practice, of course. But perhaps when we give ourselves permission to ramble and meander, to loosen up the relationships between what we feel and what we say, we move along the continuum of meaning-making towards the more felt and bodily, and away from the received and prescribed. …S: And I’ve put an ellipsis there to mark that we are moving into another kind of space now. We’re coming to a clearing in the woods. Because at some point in our rambling, we might want to pause and make a few suggestions. Perhaps we come to a clearing, like this one here. We sit down for a while and collect our thoughts.E: Yes. Let’s sit down. And, while you’re resting, let me tell you what this “collecting of thoughts” reminds me of.I’m thinking that we don’t necessarily need to go anywhere to get away from our particular state of mind. A shared cup of coffee or a conversation can have the same effect. Much has already been said about the effects of alcohol, tobacco, and drugs on writing; all rather harmful ways of going “on a trip” (Laing; Klein). In our case, it’s the blank pages of a shared Google Doc that has brought us together, collecting our thoughts on walking and moving us into a different realm, a new world of exciting and strange ideas to be explored. And the idea of mapping out this space by gradually filling its pages with words sets our minds on a journey.S: That’s interesting. The choreographer Twyla Tharp talks about the power of ritual in creating this shift for us into a creative or flow state. It could be lighting a candle or drinking a glass of water. There is a moment when something “clicks”, and we enter the world of creativity.E: Yes, a thing can act as a portal or gateway. And, as I want to show you, the things in the landscape that we walk through can help us to enter imaginary realms.So can I take you for a little walk now? See that winding country road leading through open fields and rolling hills? That’s where we’re going to start.A publicity image, drawn by Evija, for Walking Talking Writing events for academics, organised at the University of Auckland in 2017.A Walk “through the Countryside”, or Traversing the Landscape of ThoughtsE: Sophie, you spoke earlier about the way that experiencing yourself in relation to the environment is important for opening up your imagination. For example, just allowing yourself to be in the woods and noticing how the space pulsates around you is enough to awaken your bodily awareness.But let’s take a stroll along this road and let me explain to you what’s happening for me. You see, I find the woods too distracting and stimulating. When I’m stuck, I crave openness and space like this landscape that we’re walking through right now. S: Too much detail, too many things, overwhelm you?E: Exactly. Here, where the landscape is simple and spacious, my thoughts can breathe. Ideas quietly graze as I move through them. The country road is under my feet and I know exactly where I’m heading – beyond that horizon line in the distance… I need to be able to look far into that hazy distance to get my sense of seeing things “in depth.” All this makes me think of a study by Mia Keinänen in which she surveyed nine Norwegian academics who habitually walk to think (Keinänen). Based on their personal observations, the resulting article provides interesting material about the importance of walking—its rhythm, environment, and so on—on one’s thinking. For one of the academics, being able to see landmarks and thoughts in perspective was the key to being able to see ideas in new ways. There is a “landscape of thinking”, in which thinking becomes a place and environment is a process.For another participant in the study, thoughts become objects populating the landscape. The thinker walks through these object-thoughts, mapping out their connections, pulling some ideas closer, pushing others further away, as if moving through a 3D computer game.S: Hmm. I too think that we tend to project not only thoughts but also the emotions that we ourselves might be experiencing onto the objects around us. The literary critic Suzanne Nalbantian describes this as the creation of “aesthetic objects”, a “mythopoetic” process by which material objects in the external world “change their status from real to ‘aesthetic’ objects” and begin to function as “anchors or receptacles for subjectivity” (Nalbantien 54).Nalbantian uses examples such as Proust’s madeleine or Woolf’s lighthouse to illustrate the ways in which authors of autobiographical fiction invest the objects around them with a particular psychic value or feeling-tone.For me, this might be a tree, or a fallen leaf on the path. For you, Evija, it could be the horizon, or an open field or a vague object, half-perceived in the distance. E: So there’s a kind of equivalence between what we’re feeling and what we’re noticing? S: Yes. And it works the other way around too. What we’re noticing affects our feelings and thoughts. And perhaps it’s really about finding and knowing what works best for us—the landscape that is the best fit for how we want to feel… E: Or how we want to think. Or write. S: That’s it. Of course, metaphor is another way of describing this process. When we create a metaphor, we bring together a feeling or memory inside us with an object in the outside world. The feeling that we carry within us right now finds perfect form in the shape of this particular hillside. A thought is this pebble. A memory is that cloud…E: That’s the method of loci, which Mia Keinänen also refers to (600) in her article about the walking-thinking Norwegian academics. By projecting one’s learnt knowledge onto a physical landscape, one is able to better navigate ideas.S: Although I can’t help thinking that’s all a little cerebral. For me, the process is more immediate and felt. But I’m sure we’re talking about something very similar...E: Well, the anthropologist Tim Ingold, who has written a great deal on walking, in his article “Ways of Mind-Walking: Reading, Writing, Painting” urges us to rethink what imagination might be and the ways that it might relate to the physical environment, our movement through it, and our vision. He quotes James Elkins’s suggestion (in Ingold 15-16) that true “seeing” involves workings of both the eye and the mind in bringing forth images. But Ingold questions the very notion of imagination as a place inhabited by images. From derelict houses, barren fields and crossroads, to trees, stray dogs, and other people, the images we see around us do not represent “the forms of things in the world” (Ingold 16). Instead, they are gateways and “place-holders” for the truer essence of things they seem to represent (16). S: There’s that idea of the thing acting as a gateway or portal again… E: Yes, images—like the ruins of that windmill over there—do not “stand for things” but help us experientially “find” those things (Ingold16). This is one of the purposes of art, which, instead of giving us representations of things in the world, offers us something which is like the things in the world (16)—i.e., experiences.But as we walk, and notice the objects around us, are there specific qualities about the objects themselves that make this process—what you call “projection”—more or less difficult for us?A drawing by Latvian artist Māris Subačs (2016). The text on the image says: “Clouds slowly moving.” Publicity image for Subačs’s exhibition “Baltā Istaba” (The White Room), taken from Latvijas Sabiedriskie Mediji, https://www.lsm.lv/. S: Well, let’s circle back now—on the road and on the page. We’ve talked about the way that you need wide, open spaces, whereas I find myself responding to a range of different environments in different ways. How do you feel now, as we pause here and begin to retrace our steps? E: How do I feel? I’m not sure. Right now, I’m thinking about the way that I respond to art. For example, I would say that life-like images of physical objects in this world (e.g., a realistic painting of a vase with flowers) are harder to perceive with my mind's eye than, let’s say, of an abstract painting. I don’t want to be too tied to the surface details and physicality of the world. What I see in a picture is not the representation of the vase and flowers; what I see are forms that the “inner life force”, to use Ingold’s term, has taken to express itself through (vaseness, flowerness). The more abstract the image, the more of the symbolic or the imaginary it can contain. (Consider the traditional Aboriginal art, as Ingold invites, or the line drawings of Latvian artist Māris Subačs, as I suggest, depicted above.) Things we can observe in this world, says Ingold, are but “outward, sensible forms” that “give shape to the inner generative impulse that is life itself” (17). (This comes from the underlying belief that the phenomenal world itself is all “figmented” (Ingold 17, referring to literary scholar Mary Carruthers).)S: And, interestingly, I don’t recognise this at all! My experiencing of the objects around me feels very different. That tree, this pine cone in my hand, the solidity of this physical form is very helpful in crystallising something that I’m feeling. I enjoy looking at abstract paintings too. I can imagine myself into them. But the thing-ness of things is also deeply satisfying, especially if I can also touch, taste, smell, hold the thing itself. The poet Selima Hill goes for a walk in order to gather objects in a Tupperware box: “a dead butterfly, a yellow pebble, a scrap of blue paper, an empty condom packet.” Later she places an object from these “Tupperware treasures” on her writing desk and uses it “to focus on the kernel of the poem”, concentrating on it “to select the fragments and images she needs” (Taylor). This resonates with me.E: So, to summarise, walking seems to have something to do with seeing, for both of us. S: Yes, and not just seeing but also feeling and experiencing, with all of our senses. E: OK. And walking like appreciating art or writing or reading, has the capacity to take us beyond what shows at surface level, and so a step closer to the “truer” expression of life, to paraphrase Ingold. S: Yes, and the expression that Ingold calls more “true” is what Kristeva would say is the semiotic, the other-than-meaning, the felt and bodily, always bubbling beneath the surface. E: True, true. And although Ingold here doesn’t say how walking facilitates this kind of seeing and experiencing, perhaps we can make some suggestions here.You focused on the rhythm of walking and thinking/writing earlier. But I’m equally intrigued by the effects of speed. S: That resonates for me too. I need to be able to slow down and really experience the world around me. E: Well, did you know that there are scientific studies that suggest a correlation between the speed of walking and the speed of thinking (Jabr; Oppezzo and Schwartz)? The pace of walking, as the movement of our bodies through space, sets a particular temporal relationship with the objects we move past. In turn, this affects our “thinking time”, and our thinking about abstract ideas (Cuelenaere 127, referring to George Lakoff and Mark Johnson’s ideas).S: That makes sense to me. I noticed that when we were walking through the woods, we had slowed right down and then, as we reached the open road, you seemed to want to go much faster than me…E: Yes, at a steady pace. That’s perhaps not surprising. Because it seems that the speed of our walking is intimately connected with our vision. So if I’m moving through a landscape in which I’m fully immersed, I’m unable to take in everything around me. I choose to rest my eyes on a few select points of interest. S: Or on the horizon…E: Yes. The path that leads through an open field allows me to rest my eyes on the distant horizon. I register the patterns of fields and houses; and perhaps I catch sight of the trees in my peripheral vision. The detailed imagery, if any, gets reduced to geometrical figures and lines.The challenge is to find the right balance between the stimuli provided by the external world and the speed of movement through it.S: So the pace of walking can enable us to see things in a certain way. For you, this is moving quickly, seeing things vaguely, fragmentally and selectively. For me, it’s an opportunity to take my time, find my own rhythm, to slow down and weigh a thought or a thing. I think I’m probably the kind of walker who stops to pick up sticks and shells, and curious stones. I love the rhythm of moving but it isn’t necessarily fast movement. Perhaps you’re a speed walker and I’m a rambler? E: I think both the pace and the rhythm are of equal importance. The movement can be so monotonous that it becomes a meditative process, in which I lose myself. Then, what matters is no longer the destination but the journey itself. It’s like...S: Evija! Stop for a moment! Over here! Look at this! E: You know, that actually broke my train of thought. S: I’m sorry… I couldn’t resist. But Evija, we’ve arrived at the entrance to the woods again. E: And the light’s fading… I should get back to the office.S: Yes, but this time, we can choose which way to go: through the trees and into the half-dark of my creative subconscious or across the wide, open spaces of your imagination. E: And will we walk slowly—or at speed? There’s still so much to say. There are other landscapes and pathways—and pages—that we haven’t even explored yet.S: But I don’t want to stop. I want to keep walking with you.E: Indeed, Sophie, writing is a walk that never ends. ReferencesAnderson, Jon. “Talking whilst Walking: A Geographical Archaeology of Knowledge.” Area 36.3 (2004): 254-261. Csikszentmihalyi, Mihalyi. Flow and the Psychology of Discovery and Invention. NewYork: Harper Perennial, 1997.Cuelenaere, Laurence. “Aymara Forms of Walking: A Linguistic Anthropological Reflection on the Relation between Language and Motion.” Language Sciences 33.1 (2011):126-137. Elbow, Peter. Writing without Teachers. 2nd ed. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1998. Gros, Frédéric. 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