Zeitschriftenartikel zum Thema „Jewellery houses“

The article discusses the production of costume jewellery in the first half of the 20th century. During this period, the jewellery made of less expensive materials has undergone a revolution in terms of its function. In the 20th century, the adornments ceased to be only imitations of precious gems and gradually gained their own identity. Promoted by Coco Chanel and, later on, by other French fashion designers, costume jewellery has become an independent genre of body ornament. Due to its lower production costs, Agata Lipczik designers could experiment with various materials, giving free rein to artistic imagination. Costume jewellery was often designed by artists previously professionally associated with leading jewellery houses offering traditional jewellery. At the same time, the artists who later on worked in well-known jewellery companies, had been collecting their first experiences by designing costume jewellery. The two jewellery worlds constantly influenced each other, provoking themselves to develop. This trend was particularly noticeable in the USA where the production of costume jewellery has been a very important industry since the beginning of the 20th century

The Haute Ecole de Joaillerie (HEJ) is the oldest jewellery school in France and lies at the heart of the institution of Parisian fine jewellery. This article examines the use of training models at the HEJ for transmitting technical and spatial expertise, resulting in fine jewellery knowledge that is standardized, evaluated and differentiated on a national and local scale. It reveals how these models connect students with the historic roots of the jewellery industry in Paris, namely the pre-modern craft guilds of goldsmiths, and also with the jewellery houses of the Place Vendôme, which emerged in the nineteenth century and are today the defining feature of Parisian fine jewellery. It is argued that the training models act as a lynchpin, linking Parisian fine jewellery across and within generations. This article contributes to literature on the growth and evolution of Parisian craft and design industries that remain recognizably identifiable with the city and their history in the face of the incursion of global markets.

In Bharmour tehsil, Cheena and inferior types of millets are used. Previously, the diet of Gaddis was simple and did not permit them much variation. In winter season all the people of this basin wear woolen garments but in summer season they wear cotton garments. As would be expected, with the process of modernization, a change took place in the traditional dress (Punjab castes, 1916). Every region has wear jewellery that is typical and peculiar to it. Jewellery and ornaments were fashioned by goldsmiths (suniars) all over Ravi River basin in Himachal Pradesh (C.S. Panchani). The houses are generally two to three storeyed buildings with separate kitchen and cowshed and the design of the houses is not uniform but its design depends upon the location of site. In a mountainous area like Bharmour, the village is not laid out in a systematic way and a number of factors seem to have determined the pattern of settlement. The permanent villages of the Gaddis on an average lie between an altitudes of 7000 to 10000 feet above sea level and they are small sized villages ranging from 30 to 200 families. The inhabitants of most of these villages are exclusively the Gaddis (Punjab State Gazetteer, 1904).

In today's world, with an increasing number of robberies, looting and shoplifting, it is indispensable to ensure the safety of our belongings and valuables. When it comes to certain places like bank vaults, uninhabited houses, business establishments like retail shops, jewellery stores, watch stores, etc., surveillance for observing the premise is very essential and has become the unavoidable need of the hour. At such places, it is unlikely to continuously monitor the venue using conventional cameras or a security guard person. To address such type of issues which involve uncertainty of safety, our project proposes a system which will tirelessly monitor the venue at required hours, intimate the intended person (administrator) via mobile communication (Short Message Service), initiate an alert alarm at the premise in order to aware the surroundings and also save the intrusion detected frames in the specified choice of storage. Also, it is developed in such a manner that the system recognizes and does not initiate alert/notification for persons those who are reliable and trustworthy (such as the shopkeeper, habitant of the house, etc.). This system is implemented with specific considerations using Image AI and Tensor flow built upon Convolutional Neural Networks, remotely operatable by users, without compromising the importance of security and protection.

In the light of new, well-documented excavations, the Keszthely culture can be divided into two distinct phases. The first phase flourished in the last third of the sixth century and the earlier seventh century, and its centre can be located to the Fenékpuszta fort. The grave goods suggest that in addition to a surviving late antique population, we can reckon with the presence of Balkanic and north Italian population groups who fled to the Avars in the face of the Slavic advance as well as with smaller Germanic groups who had joined the Avars in the hope of booty. The burial rites and the continued use of the Early Christian basilica at Fenékpuszta suggest that this population was Christian. The Fenékpuszta fort was destroyed around 630 and it remained unoccupied for some two decades. The elite disappeared. New cemeteries were opened around the mid-seventh century. The westward expansion of the Avar Khaganate led to the isolation of the population of the late Keszthely culture. In addition to typical late Avar material, the finds of this population include jewellery items and various costume accessories that are only known from the Keszthely area. Both phases warrant the use of the label “culture”. The first settlement of the culture’s late phase was investigated at Hévízdomb, where both sunken and above-ground timber-framed houses were excavated.

Lepenski Vir is an archaeological site of extraordinary international significance; an area where exceptional culture and specific art, which took place within organized social and religious life, emerged as unique in Central and South-Eastern Europe (6800-5400 BC, according to the date C14). The methods and complexity of the architecture of these buildings, their sustainability and energy efficiency, as well as the treatment of the associated monumental sculptures, clearly define the stages of settlement over a period of at least two thousand years. Today, it is even possible to say that people in those ancient times were even more instructed in the issues of nature and her whimsicality than we are today. Today, the site is in a natural reserve in an extremely picturesque landscape. During the archaeological excavations of the 1960s, seven prehistoric settlements were unearthed, one after the other. These settlements contain the remains of 67 apparently planned dwellings, fireplaces, tools, instruments, and jewellery. The settlements also contain altars and sculptures, carved out of round limestone pieces that are of artistic and aesthetic, as well as ritual and symbolic importance. The paper elaborates on the harmony of architectural style and natural surroundings that has been considered since the earliest times. Its aim is to analyse Lepenski Vir, one of the most significant archaeological sites in the world, i.e., the technique and the conditions under which it was created. However, as the reality of the subject is quite elusive in today's time, this paper seeks to show the value of the principles on which ancient architecture rests, primarily using natural materials and specific simple forms in design and construction. The reason for this is the inextricable link between man and nature at all times, the very essence of their interconnectedness, as well as the creation of a healthy, aesthetically valuable, and quality living space. Based on these analyses, one specific conceptual solution will be attached, i.e., the proposal of a contemporary interpretation of the ancient Lepenski Vir settlement and houses that can meet the needs of modern man and age, where millennia-old tradition is implemented in contemporary Serbian architecture. Doi: 10.28991/HEF-2022-03-01-08 Full Text: PDF

The article analyses some episodes from biography and the daily life of elder of Merkinė, vogt and colonel of a petyhorcy unit of the armed forces of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania Mateusz Ogiński (1738–1786). On the basis of the documents preserved in the Ogiński foundation of the Lithuanian State history archive (F. 1177), the article argues that Mateusz Ogiński was mainly occupied with the maintenance of his properties and litigation in courts, not actually seeking any political or public career. He personally issued directions to the stewards of his properties and controlled execution of his orders. Somewhere close to the First Partition of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth (1772) he was known for the detailed regulation of his economic activities. He put effort to concentrate in his hands some real estate (by buying plots and houses in Merkinė), invested and developed various businesses (renting a windmill and a pub, operating a coffee shop, building a sawmill and a brickyard, fishing, shipping timber to Konigsberg, renovating Merkinė’s town hall, etc.). Later M. Ogiński was often renting out his properties to other individuals, but that had a negative influence on his possessions. Lifestyle that disregarded the income made M. Ogiński drown in debt early, and he entered a loop of having to start borrowing to pay debts. Elder of Merkinė Ogiński would borrow and spend large sums of money to make purchases of various items of luxury abroad and in Lithuania (clothes, jewellery, alcohol, species, fruits, etc.), and to maintain his manor and even a folk music group. M. Ogiński litigated in many Lithuanian courts and, judging from his letters (and quite many of them survived), he would have inhabited these litigation processes, taking interest in legal nuances and using different opportunities to influence court processes to his advantage (making acquaintance with judges, looking for third party interceders, writing letters to judges, and personally participating in court proceedings). Most common lawsuits against him were about unpaid debts, yet his own claims were against stewards of his properties, and real estate rights. Keywords: eldership of Merkinė, the Ogiński, daily routine, economics, courts.

The hereby text is a short study on the relationship between architecture and jewellery. In the first part, it presents the history of occurrence of architectural forms in jewellery from antiquity to present day in the European culture. The second part delivers the examples of contemporary artefacts, particularly rings with microarchitecture. The analysis of the collected examples proves that architecture – its form, construction and detail − is a motive of decoration willingly used in jewellery design, often of a symbolic meaning related to the household or the temple (wedding rings, ritual rings). Nowadays, especially in the 21st century, microarchitecture in jewellery often emerges with reference to the place of origin, i.e. the famous building being, most frequently, the commemoration of a journey, able to bring back the memory of a visited city. The architectural jewellery, whose meanings and functions are the subject of the hereby study, has undergone many transformations throughout history. Even though it has transitioned from simple to complicated and decorative forms, from precious and rare to cheap and popular objects of mass production presenting the miniature replicas of buildings, the jewellery nearly always symbolises the city. Much less often the jewellery design occurs with reference to the metaphorical meanings of buildings as a representation of permanency (the tower in Alessandro Dari’s jewellery) or marital union (the house and the temple in Jewish rings).

The hereby text is a short study on the relationship between architecture and jewellery. In the first part, it presents the history of occurrence of architectural forms in jewellery from antiquity to present day in the European culture. The second part delivers the examples of contemporary artefacts, particularly rings with microarchitecture. The analysis of the collected examples proves that architecture – its form, construction and detail − is a motive of decoration willingly used in jewellery design, often of a symbolic meaning related to the household or the temple (wedding rings, ritual rings). Nowadays, especially in the 21st century, microarchitecture in jewellery often emerges with reference to the place of origin, i.e. the famous building being, most frequently, the commemoration of a journey, able to bring back the memory of a visited city. The architectural jewellery, whose meanings and functions are the subject of the hereby study, has undergone many transformations throughout history. Even though it has transitioned from simple to complicated and decorative forms, from precious and rare to cheap and popular objects of mass production presenting the miniature replicas of buildings, the jewellery nearly always symbolises the city. Much less often the jewellery design occurs with reference to the metaphorical meanings of buildings as a representation of permanency (the tower in Alessandro Dari’s jewellery) or marital union (the house and the temple in Jewish rings).

Incorporate with designomics model, these jewelleries will assist in uplifting their mood, relax their overthinking mind and bring out their inner confidence. The objective of this research is to investigate the type of healing jewellery that can encourage positive behaviour with the usage of the healing stones and design aesthetics. Its aim to examine the properties of jewellery that affect minor depression and to produce signature jewellery of feel and heal for minor depression. This research will benefit psychiatrists, doctors, family members and jewellery designers and potentially benefit for individual with minor depression. Keywords: healing jewellery; jewellery design; designomics; gemstones eISSN: 2398-4287 © 2022. The Authors. Published for AMER ARA cE-Bs by e-International Publishing House, Ltd., UK. This is an open access article under the CC BYNC-ND license (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/). Peer–review under responsibility of AMER (Association of Malaysian Environment-Behaviour Researchers), ABRA (Association of Behavioural Researchers on Asians) and cE-Bs (Centre for Environment-Behaviour Studies), Faculty of Architecture, Planning & Surveying, Universiti Teknologi MARA, Malaysia. DOI: https://doi.org/10.21834/ebpj.v7iSI7%20(Special%20Issue).3785

AbstractA hoard of objects found at the early Roman colony at Colchester in a small hole scraped into the floor of a house destroyed during the Boudican revolt includes a group of high-quality gold jewellery, three silver military awards, a bag of coins, an unusual silver-clad wooden box and other items. Buried in haste as the British approached, they provide a remarkably clear image of one couple's background, achievements, taste and social standing. Abullashows that the man was a Roman citizen, the awards that he was a veteran soldier of some distinction, while parallels for the woman's jewellery suggest that it was acquired in Italy.

The application of nature in traditional Malay jewellery motifs has been practiced since time immemorial as the main element of decoration and design variations. In this study, the traditional jewellery chosen is dokoh, one of the favourites of the Malays worn on the neck with kebaya. This study aims to identify the application of natural elements in design motifs in Malaysia. Qualitative research involving observation, description, and composition analysis are applied using a formal analytical approach. This research helps to preserve Malaysia's heritage and become a reference for future generations regarding extrinsic and intrinsic values. Keywords: Dokoh; Motif; Malay, Traditional Jewellery eISSN: 2398-4287 © 2022. The Authors. Published for AMER ABRA cE-Bs by e-International Publishing House, Ltd., UK. This is an open access article under the CC BYNC-ND license (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/). Peer–review under responsibility of AMER (Association of Malaysian Environment-Behaviour Researchers), ABRA (Association of Behavioural Researchers on Asians) and cE-Bs (Centre for Environment-Behaviour Studies), Faculty of Architecture, Planning & Surveying, Universiti Teknologi MARA, Malaysia. DOI: https://doi.org/10.21834/ebpj.v7iSI7%20(Special%20Issue).3796

This paper presents the rationale of the continuous improvement (CI) system to be applied for the small-scale jewellery industry in the state of Kelantan State of Malaysia. The manufacturer’s inefficiency during the fabrication process directly contributes to the potentially lost gold in scrap (waste) form that would eventually affect the producer's profit margin and may lead to a compromised quality of end products. Hence, the adoption of appropriate quality management applications and good practices are key to enhance business and operational efficiency towards sustainability of gold scrap and waste handling that may lead to potential economic loss. Keywords: Sustainability; gold waste; continuous improvement (CI); jewellery industry eISSN: 2398-4287© 2021. The Authors. Published for AMER ABRA cE-Bs by e-International Publishing House, Ltd., UK. This is an open access article under the CC BY-NC-ND license (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/). Peer–review under responsibility of AMER (Association of Malaysian Environment-Behaviour Researchers), ABRA (Association of Behavioural Researchers on Asians/Africans/Arabians) and cE-Bs (Centre for Environment-Behaviour Studies), Faculty of Architecture, Planning & Surveying, Universiti Teknologi MARA, Malaysia. DOI: https://doi.org/10.21834/ebpj.v6iSI4.2899

I was born on 6 June 1902, in Handsworth, a borough in Staffordshire, which in 1911 became part of Greater Birmingham. Handsworth, in those Edwardian days, could be described as a dormitory suburb of Birmingham. Its character is now vastly changed and today it houses large numbers of our immigrant population. My father, William John Roxbee Cox, is described on his marriage certificate as a master jeweller and indeed was, at the time of his wedding, working with his father, Samuel James Cox, a reasonably prosperous manufacturing jeweller in Birmingham. Samuel had married an American lady, Emily Power Jones, who was, I believe, distantly related to him, and my father was their only child. My mother was Amelia Stern, the third child of Henry Stern, a Pole who became a naturalised Englishman. My memory of him is vague but pleasant. I think he must have been a nice man. He was an engraver on glass. He died of pneumonia in 1904 at the age of 54. His brother Louis became a Church of England parson, but did not achieve major preferment.

Traveling for trade The territory of the inland of the Roman province of Dalmatia or the territory of present-day Bosnia and Herzegovina holds clear evidence that people had travelled for the purpose of healthcare, religion, trade, and relaxation. We can assume that the majority of the travels was for the purpose of business, but such type of travellingis more difficult to corroborate with material evidence. Exception is trade activities that have been unquestionably proven on the basis of discovered objects such as amphoras, jewellery, terra sigillata, lamps, and other objects. We can trace trade activities through uncovered fragments of Mycenaean pottery all the way from prehistoric period (Table 8). Travelling for healthcare The facts that point out to medical “tourism” primarily refer to numerous spas and hot baths, and the existence of hospices and thermae in the territory of presentday Bosnia and Herzegovina (Tables 2, 3, 4, and 5). A part these refer to simple hot baths, mineral springs, earth springs, alkaline mineral water, salty and muriatic mineral springs, sulphate mineral springs, iron and sulphur springs and others. Some of the prominent springs in Bosnia and Herzegovina are sites near Podgradina near Mrkonjić Grad, Gornja Vogošća, ancient Domavia or present – day Srebrenica, Crni Guber, Crvena Rijeka, sulfuric acid spring in Srebrenica, Mala and Velika Kiselica, Ilidža near Sarajevo, Gornji Šeher and Slatina – Ilidža, Kiseljaci near Banja Luka, Gata near Bihać, Vrućica near Teslić, Slanac potok and Kulaši near Tešanj, Gradačac, Olovo, Kiseljak and Fojnica, Banja near Višegrad, Žepče, Ljeskovica and Orahovica, Rječica near Maglaj, Sočkovac near Gračanica, Bokavića – Šervar, Slanica and Dragunja near Tuzla, Dubnica and Jasenica near Zvornik, Rasol near Teočak, Jelovac near Prijedor and many others. Travelling for religious purposes Religious travels and pilgrimages can be assumed with much certainty on the ba- sis of temples where religious ceremonies had been conducted. Such buildings must have assumed the arrival of believers from remote areas. In our case, we can single out the temple of Mithras in Jajce, the temple of Liber in Herzegovina, the temples of Minerva and Jupiter and many others (Tables 6 and 7). Prostitution as a possible cause of travelling An interesting object that paints intimate life is a spintria discovered at the site of Mogorjelo. This object probably served as a token for public houses and confirms the travels of population to bigger urban areas where such facilities existed. The object that was brought back represented a memory of a travel and the experience (Table 9). The existence of road stations as an evidence of travelling Road stations with multiple purposes are another evidence of travelling activities. Such facilities near roads helped travellers to get some rest, as well as offered a place of residence for smaller military units that took care of the road security and prevent robberies on the road. We assume that road stations of different categories existed in the territory of present-day Bosnia and Herzegovina. These are mansiones, mutations and beneficiarial military – traffic stations. Some of the known road stations were located near the left bank of the Trebišnjica, in the plain below Crkvina, at the site of Ukšići in Ljubomir in Herzegovina. Traces of buildings suggest the existence of a road station Ad Zizio at the site of Lištana or southern part of the Livno municipality, at several assumed sites in the Mrkonjić Grad municipality, near Skelani and Domavia, near village Halapić in Glamoč municipality, in Sarajevo, Runovići, Bigesta and many other locations. Mode of transportation Travelling assumed two basic modes of transportation. The first and very common mode of transportation was by foot, and the second one was organized by means of animals such as horses, mules and alike. The presence of such mode of transportation was recorded though horseshoes that could have been used (Table 1).

This study discussed the luxurious life style in Kevin Kwan's novel Crazy Rich Asians. The analysis focused on the lifestyle and characteristics of Asian rich people in Singapore. Twelve pieces of data are found, and the quotations are taken from the Crazy Rich Asians novel. It would be good evidence to expose the luxurious lifestyle represented by the Asian rich in Singapore. In collecting data, the theory from Raharjo and Silalahi was used, and some understanding and explanations from another expert. To analyse the data, the qualitative research method was applied. Therefore, this research method is considered very suitable for studying social phenomena such as the luxurious lifestyle depicted in the novel. There are four characteristics of a luxurious lifestyle depicted in Asian rich people. They are luxurious goods, luxurious activities, convenience, privacy, and exclusivity. Luxury goods as a feature of a luxurious lifestyle can be seen in the penchant of Asian rich people to buy luxury goods and jewellery, and to own luxury properties. Luxurious activity can be seen from the several activities. Convenience as the characteristic of luxurious activity can be seen from the use of luxurious facilities. The exclusive party at young’s family house, and the exclusivity of Nick’s house are presented to show privacy and exclusivity.

A research team of the Institute of Archaeological Sciences of the Eötvös Loránd University continued the fieldwork between 1 September 2022 and 31 December 2023 on two Early and Middle Iron Age sites, Dédestapolcsány-Verebce-bérc and Dédestapolcsány-Várerdő, in the frame of a project investigating Early Iron Age crises. New excavation trenches were opened at the fortified settlement in the north of the Bükk Mountains (Northern Hungary). One was an extension of a trench opened in 2022, where remains of a burnt house had been identified. Metal detector surveys recovered some new fascinating stray metal finds (e.g., an akinakes, battle axes, and the bronze protective sheath of a sword) and new assemblages (iron tool deposits and a hoard of gold jewellery and amber beads). Eleven more graves were excavated in the cemetery (Várerdő) north of the coeval settlement. The most interesting grave was the burial of an adult man with rich grave goods such as an ironworking toolkit, pottery, and other items.

Human beings possess human rights, fundamental rights, statutory rights and natural rights. Property may be tangible, intangible, movable, immovable etc. Properties like house, land, jewellery, utensils etc can be seen and we can store movable properties somewhere safe. Some properties or rights human beings are entitled to, which cannot be seen or kept in safe places and these properties are the creation of human mind known as intellectual property. For the overall development of a nation, granting of intellectual property rights (IPR) is inevitable. But IPRs are being subjected to various criticisms like it is against human rights, equality, human dignity, ethics, competition law etc. This paper is an attempt to analyse the different IPRs, legislative frameworks, criticisms levelled against IPRs and also some suggestions for the proper balancing of IPRs and rights of the society. The work is completed using various text books on IPR, web sites, cases of various courts, international documents and statutes. The outcome expected is to create awareness and a clear knowledge about the various IPRs, the rights of IPR holders, remedies for infringement of rights etc.

Modern day businesses are largely dependent on digital technologies. People prefer viewing the reviews before making any decisions. It applies to all consumables like buying Electronic items, Clothing, Travel, Guest-House, Restaurant, Rental, Housing, Automobile, Cosmetics, Jewellery, Movies, etc. Online services like Mantra, Yelp, Amazon, Facebook, Google My Business, Trip Advisor offer great services to the customer. However, drawbacks of these systems are fake reviews, negative reviews and sometimes even tampering of the reviews given by the customers, which has a huge impact on the business leading to huge financial losses. Sometimes a competitor in the business might also influence the ratings being provided. The centralized storage of these reviews also leads to problems like tampering or manipulation of the data being stored. In this paper we propose an application in the restaurant industry that solves all these drawbacks by making use of the Ethereum blockchain. The food reviews given by the customers are stored as smart contracts in the blockchain, which can't be altered, thus guaranteeing the authenticity of the reviews. Validity of the reviews is ensured because it is difficult for the restaurants to delete or create new accounts to wipe away the bad reviews given. Blockchain is immutable so we ensure that the reviews are genuine and the system is trustable.

Natural asphalt (or bitumen) deposits, oil seepage and liquid oil shows are widespread in the Middle East, especially in the Zagros mountains of Iran. Ancient people from northern Iraq, south–west Iran and the Dead Sea area extensively used this ubiquitous natural resource until the Neolithic period (7000 to 6000 BC). Evidence of earlier use has been recently documented in the Syrian desert near (Boëda et al. 1996) near El Kown, where bitumen–coated flint implements, dated to 40,000 BC (Mousterian period), have been unearthed. This discovery at least proves that bitumen was used by Neanderthal populations as hafting material to fix handles to their flint tools. Numerous testimonies, proving the importance of this petroleum–based material in Ancient civilizations, were brought to light by the excavations conducted in the Near East as of the beginning of the century. Bitumen remains show a wide range of uses that can be classified under several headings. First of all, bitumen was largely used in Mesopotamia and Elam as mortar in the construction of palaces (e.g. the Darius Palace in Susa), temples, ziggurats (e.g. the so–called ‘Tower of Babel’ in Babylon), terraces (e.g. the famous ‘Hanging Gardens of Babylon’) and exceptionally for roadway coating (e.g. the processional way of Babylon). Since the Neolithic, bitumen served to waterproof containers (baskets, earthenware jars, storage pits), wooden posts, palace grounds (e.g. in Mari and Haradum), reserves of lustral waters, bathrooms, palm roofs, etc. Mats, sarcophagi, coffins and jars, used for funeral practices, were often covered and sealed with bitumen. Reed and wood boats were also caulked with bitumen. Abundant lumps of bituminous mixtures used for that particular purpose have been found in storage rooms of houses at Ra's al–Junayz in Oman. Bitumen was also a widespread adhesive in antiquity and served to repair broken ceramics, fix eyes and horns on statues (e.g. at Tell al–Ubaid around 2500 BC). Beautiful decorations with stones, shells, mother of pearl, on palm trees, cups, ostrich eggs, musical instruments (e.g. the Queen's lyre) and other items, such as rings, jewellery and games, have been excavated from the Royal tombs in Ur. They are on view in the British Museum. With a special enigmatic material, commonly referred to as ‘bitumen mastic’, the inhabitants of Susa sculpted masterpieces of art which are today exhibited in the Louvre Museum in Paris. This unique collection is presented in a book by Connan and Deschesne (1996). Last, bitumen was also considered as a powerful remedy in medical practice, especially as a disinfectant and insecticide, and was used by the ancient Egyptians to prepare mixtures to embalm the corpses of their dead. Modern analytical techniques, currently applied in the field of petroleum geochemistry, have been adapted to the study of numerous archaeological bituminous mixtures found in excavations. More than 700 bituminous samples have been analysed during the last decade, using gas chromatography alone and gas chromatography coupled with mass spectrometry and isotopic chemistry (carbon and hydrogen mainly). These powerful tools, focused on the detailed analysis of biomarkers in hydrocarbon fractions, were calibrated on various well–known natural sources of bitumen in Iraq, Syria, Iran, Bahrain and Kuwait. These reference studies have made it possible to establish the origins of bitumen from numerous archaeological sites and to document the bitumen trade routes in the Middle East and the Arabo–Persian Gulf. Using a well–documented case history, Tell el ‘Oueili (5800 to 3500 BC) in South Mesopotamia, we will illustrate in this paper how these new molecular and isotopic tools can help us to recognize different sources of bitumen and to trace the ancient trade routes through time. These import routes were found to vary with major cultural and political changes in the area under study. A second example, referring to the prehistoric period, describes bitumen traces on flint implements, dated from Mousterian times. This discovery, from the Umm El Tlel excavations near El Kown in Syria, was reported in 1996 in Boëda et al . At that time, the origin of the bitumen had not been elucidated due to contamination problems. Last year, a ball of natural oil–stained sands, unearthed from the same archaeological layer, allowed us to determine the source of the bitumen used. This source is regional and located in the Jebel Bichri, nearly 40 km from the archaeological site. The last case history was selected to illustrate another aspect of the investigations carried out. Recent geochemical studies on more than 20 balms from Egyptian mummies from the Intermediate, Ptolemaic and Roman periods have revealed that these balms are composed of various mixtures of bitumen, conifer resins, grease and beeswax. Bitumen occurs with the other ingredients and the balms studied show a great variety of molecular compositions. Bitumen from the Dead Sea area is the most common source but some other sources (Hit in Iraq?) are also revealed by different molecular patterns. The absolute amount of bitumen in balms varies from almost zero to 30% per weight.

The eastern staircase of Apadana – the Royal Achaemenid Audience Hall at Persepolis was decorated with numerous reliefs depicting various people subjected to the king’s rule, paying homage and bringing gifts. Among these, the Lydian group is one of the delegations carved in the lower part of the staircase. This group was led by one of the officers of the Achaemenid court. The participants carried amphorae, bowls and armlets and were also bringing horses and a chariot. The amphorae and arm rings were represented distinctly with beautiful and unique animal decorations. The purpose of the following research was to identify the metal prototypes of the goods represented as carried by the Lydian group (amphorae, bowls, arm rings) and to illustrate them with artefacts housed in important museums of the world. This research was carried out by descriptive, analytical, comparative and field visit methods. It also used the method of referring to domestic museums and websites of foreign museums, reviewing documents and historical texts. The research concludes that the gifts carried by the Lydian group on the eastern staircase of Apadana, including amphorae, bowls and arm rings, had ceremonial usage, sometimes also being used in important court parties. Animal decorations in the form of griffins were used on the handles of amphorae and rings, which have their roots in the mythology of ancient Iran and other Achaemenid nations. Achaemenid artists developed it after modelling this type of decoration from other nations. This type of decoration (griffin) has been used to decorate jewellery, luxury items, seals, textiles, reliefs etc. The goods carried by the Lydian group as represented on the eastern staircase and some of its metal prototypes were used by the wealthy class of Iranian society in the Achaemenid period.

Everyday Life in the Things of the Late Emilia Majerowa, Neé Friedlein. A Posthumous Inventory Dated 1842 The manuscript collections of the Scientific Library of the PAAS and the PAS in Cracow (manuscript 3906) include an inventory prepared after the death of Emilia Majerowa, neé Friedlein, who died in Cracow in 1842. Her husband was Wojciech, a lawyer, and her brother-in-law was Józef Majer, the president of the Academy of Arts and Sciences. The inventory of movables was drawn up after their owner’s death; their evaluation played an important role in inheritance proceedings. The reliability of such a document is not questionable. Today it provides information about the material culture of the epoch and social class concerned – in this case, a wealthy intellectual house from the times of the Free City of Cracow. The posthumous inventory of Emilia Majerowa’s property is quite large, containing thoroughly described and evaluated home equipment, clothes, jewellery, a large library for the standards of those times, and financial documents. The edition of the inventory was preceded by a preface with facts about the Majer family, as well as information concerning the characteristics of the posthumous inventory as a legal document. The paper ends with a glossary of Old Polish terms that were still used at that time and are a characteristic part of the 19th-century vocabulary.

AbstractThis is a short report on a selection of the small finds from the excavations of a Roman house which lies to the west of the theatre at Lepcis Magna. The pottery and coins from the current levels of excavation have been dated to the late 5th and early 6th centuries AD; however, many of the objects seem to be residual. One of the most interesting finds was a solid bronze ring, decorated with two female figures. The object seems to have been functional, with the ring and the bars on which the woman are seated being attached to a soft material such as leather. These characteristics, which can be found on parallel examples, along with other bronze artefacts from the site suggest that the former was part of the decoration of a horse drawn carriage. Several pieces of jewellery were found including two gemstones which were once part of a finger ring, dating from the 2nd century AD. The first is a garnet and shows the goddess Artemis/Diane in her role of huntress, holding a bow and arrow. The second, which is a cornelian, is decorated with a portrait of a youth and may well be a local copy of a type circulating at the time. Many pieces of locally crafted bone and ivory were also found, including a bone plaque with a floral decoration which was originally intended as a decorative inlay for a small object such as a box. A similar piece from Egypt has been dated to around the 3rd or 4th centuries AD.

This article concerns the post-war fate of elements of historical furnishings of the Lubomirski family palace in Przeworsk owned by successive Tenants-in-Possession, who were also literary curators of the Ossolineum. The ownership structure of the collections stored in the palace and outbuildings was uneven. Some items belonged to the Przeworsk Entailed Estate, and some were personal property of Andrzej Lubomirski. A significant share belonged to his wife, Eleonora née Hussarzewska and originated from her family’s collection, and from a donation her husband made in 1932. The outbreak of the Second World War initiated the process of dispersing items that had survived in the Przeworsk residence of the Lubomirski family until the autumn of 1939. After the looting perpetrated by the Nazis, land reform proved equally painful in its consequences. As a result, the so-called Museum Storehouse was set up in the Lubomirski residence in Przeworsk to house its nationalised equipment. It was a temporary repository for the remaining elements of the Tenants-in-Possession and family collection in Przeworsk. The decision by the communist central authorities led to the dispersion of the most valuable items, distributed among museums in Warsaw (antiquities), Łańcut (paintings, graphics, furniture and artistic craftsmanship) and Rzeszów (jewellery for the Polish costume). The pieces considered useful were left in place. This text, along with its accompanying tables, represents an attempt to wrap up the existing knowledge regarding the post-war fate of the items that remained in the Przeworsk Palace until 1944 and can serve as a starting point for further detailed investigations. This text could also serve as a starting point for deeper reflection on the political and administrative mechanisms of dispersal of the land owners’ and aristocrats’ collections and the establishment of new museum collections after the Second World War.

In the article the marble relief of the Thracian Horseman, discovered in 1961 in Tyras, and dated by the first half of the 3rd century AD, is analyzed. The relief was found together with another limestone relief in room no. 29 of the large house no. ІІІ. It depicts a complex scene with multiple members. In the middle of the relief a rider is depicted. He moves to the right, facing full face. The rider holds a spear in his raised right hand. His horse slowly approaches the kneeling bull with its head down. The dog under the body of the horse attacks the bull. The photo and the drawing show Hercules on the right and the man with the torch on the left. In the background (behind the horse’s tail) stands a man with a torch and a tympanum (?). There is an object that looks like a seashell above the man. The author of the article suggests the following interpretation of the scene: the kneeling bull with bowed head is a sacrificial animal, the rider is a priest preparing to perform or performing a sacrifice, and Hercules is the recipient of the sacrifice. The rhyton held by Hercules emphasizes the meaning of the scene, since this vessel is intended for making or receiving a libation. The man standing on the right with ritual attributes is a dedicant. The shell above the man can be a symbol of rebirth after death. The complete analogies to the scenes depicted on the relief haven’t been known yet. However, there are several reliefs with similar individual elements, in particular, those depicting a sacrificial bull. There is no dedicatory inscription on the plate, so nothing is known about the social status and ethnic origin of the dedicant, nor about the name and epithet of the god to whom it was addressed. We can only make the following assumptions: 1. The house in which votive plates were found belonged to a wealthy family. This is evidenced by finds of coins and gold jewellery. The head of the family obviously belonged to the local elite. 2. Perhaps the owner of the house was Thracian by origin. He could have been a veteran of the Roman army or his descendant. It is known that in the 2nd — the first half of the 3rd centuries AD the Roman garrison was located in Tyras. It was recruited in Lower Moesia. 3. Perhaps a marble relief was made to order. In this case, the customer could choose the plot himself, which reflected an episode from his personal experience, in particular, participation in mysteries. The room in which votive plates were discovered probably served as a home sanctuary (a place where the family performed certain religious activities and placed offerings to the gods).

To gain further insight into the use of native gold and intentional gold alloys during the Bronze Age in Northwest Portugal, jewellery in the collections of three Portuguese museums was studied using an in-house built portable X-ray fluorescence spectrometer. Among the analysed objects are the Late Bronze Age bracelet from Monte Airoso (Viseu) and the Iron Age tubular bracelet from Regoufe (Aveiro). To shed more light on the manufacture of gold bracelets, have also been analysed all the components (bracelets, wires and bands) of the hoard of Arnozela (Braga), so far incompletely studied. The results obtained show that from the Middle Bronze Age onwards gold containing 8-11 wt.% silver is used, to which gradually increasing amounts of copper seem to have been added over time. These results support a heterogeneous chronology for the components of the hoard of Arnozela and show that the bracelet from Monte Airoso is made from an intentional gold alloy used in the Portuguese area during the Late Bronze Age. On the contrary, the bracelet from Regoufe is made from native gold without addition of copper. This could indicate that at least during a certain period the goldsmiths used both native gold as found and intentional alloys.Two other objects, discussed on the light of the data obtained for the bracelets, complete the study. One of them is one of the two Portuguese Early Bronze Age gold sheet ornaments with cut parallel bands (so-called gargantilha de tiras), found in Braga. Without obvious signs of use-wear like other ornaments of the same type, and made, as expected, with gold hammered into sheet, this ornament is made from an alloy that seems to correspond to a later period using gold from another origin. Finally, the composition of some of the components of the Late Bronze Age-Iron Age string from Malhada (Vila Real), a set of gold decorated plaques made from punched gold sheet by using different and asymmetrical punches, supports the addition of small amounts of copper to gold to produce intentional alloys.

“Getting even with Mr. Augsburgian”. Cost estimates for making the silverware and gold statue of Madonna and Child by Jan Wawrzyniec Wodzicki and donated to Saint Mary’s Basilica in Kraków Until 1794, silverware and gold statue of Madonna and Child funded as a votive offering for blessings received by Jan Warzyniec Wodzicki, the Deputy Cup-bearer of Warsaw, was kept in Saint Mary’s Basilica in Kraków. Wodzicki donated several items to his parish church: in 1690 he made a gift of six altar candlesticks, in 1692 a gold statue of a Madonna and Child on a gilt silver pedestal and a pair of kneeling angels on pedestals identical to the pedestal of the Madonna statue, and on 12 July 1694 a five-piece silver antependium. In the Archive of the Wodzicki Family from Kościelniki, kept in the Ossolineum Library in Wrocław, the author of this article has found two cost estimates for making the above mentioned silverware, except for the antependium, issued in Warsaw on 9 May 1694 by Rad & Hößlin, a trading house from Augsburg. Christopher von Rad I and Bartholomäus Hößlin (Hösslin), jewellers and goldsmiths from Augsburg, established their company in 1690. The documents found by the author are the first ones to confirm that the above mentioned jewellers from Augsburg operated in Poland. The first cost estimate (Annex I) tells us that Wodzicki gave 1,100 ducats (1,114 Augsburg ducats) for the figure of Madonna and Child. The labour cost of both figures, a case and a travelling bag was 559 imperial thalers and 11 kreutzers (the cost of a wax model and forming the body out of gold sheet cost 35 imperial thalers, whereas the repoussage of the body cost 498 imperial thalers and 11 kreutzers). In accordance with the second specification (Annex II), the goldsmith was paid 1,847 imperial thalers and 30 kreutzers for the candlesticks. The labour cost of making two statues of angels on pedestals was 536 imperial thalers and 22½kreutzers, whereas making the pedestal for the statue of the Madonna and Child cost 182 imperial thalers and 78 kreutzers. The cost estimate of the silver antependium for the main altar has not survived. The inventory of Saint Mary’s Basilica in Kraków shows that the five-piece antependium weighed 206 grzywnas (ancient Polish measure of weight) and cost 14,856 tymf (Polish silver coins). The works were most probably the result of one workshop, and were perhaps by Abraham II Drentwett (1647–1729), a goldsmith, wax sculptor and draughtsman from Augsburg. During the Kościuszko Uprising in 1794, the above mentioned silverware, except for the statues of angels, were taken from the treasury of the basilica by the Order Committee established by Tadeusz Kościuszko and melted down to support the uprising. In 1807, the two statues of angels funded by Wodzicki were sold to goldsmiths from Kraków.

“Getting even with Mr. Augsburgian”. Cost estimates for making the silverware and gold statue of Madonna and Child by Jan Wawrzyniec Wodzicki and donated to Saint Mary’s Basilica in Kraków Until 1794, silverware and gold statue of Madonna and Child funded as a votive offering for blessings received by Jan Warzyniec Wodzicki, the Deputy Cup-bearer of Warsaw, was kept in Saint Mary’s Basilica in Kraków. Wodzicki donated several items to his parish church: in 1690 he made a gift of six altar candlesticks, in 1692 a gold statue of a Madonna and Child on a gilt silver pedestal and a pair of kneeling angels on pedestals identical to the pedestal of the Madonna statue, and on 12 July 1694 a five-piece silver antependium. In the Archive of the Wodzicki Family from Kościelniki, kept in the Ossolineum Library in Wrocław, the author of this article has found two cost estimates for making the above mentioned silverware, except for the antependium, issued in Warsaw on 9 May 1694 by Rad & Hößlin, a trading house from Augsburg. Christopher von Rad I and Bartholomäus Hößlin (Hösslin), jewellers and goldsmiths from Augsburg, established their company in 1690. The documents found by the author are the first ones to confirm that the above mentioned jewellers from Augsburg operated in Poland. The first cost estimate (Annex I) tells us that Wodzicki gave 1,100 ducats (1,114 Augsburg ducats) for the figure of Madonna and Child. The labour cost of both figures, a case and a travelling bag was 559 imperial thalers and 11 kreutzers (the cost of a wax model and forming the body out of gold sheet cost 35 imperial thalers, whereas the repoussage of the body cost 498 imperial thalers and 11 kreutzers). In accordance with the second specification (Annex II), the goldsmith was paid 1,847 imperial thalers and 30 kreutzers for the candlesticks. The labour cost of making two statues of angels on pedestals was 536 imperial thalers and 22½kreutzers, whereas making the pedestal for the statue of the Madonna and Child cost 182 imperial thalers and 78 kreutzers. The cost estimate of the silver antependium for the main altar has not survived. The inventory of Saint Mary’s Basilica in Kraków shows that the five-piece antependium weighed 206 grzywnas (ancient Polish measure of weight) and cost 14,856 tymf (Polish silver coins). The works were most probably the result of one workshop, and were perhaps by Abraham II Drentwett (1647–1729), a goldsmith, wax sculptor and draughtsman from Augsburg. During the Kościuszko Uprising in 1794, the above mentioned silverware, except for the statues of angels, were taken from the treasury of the basilica by the Order Committee established by Tadeusz Kościuszko and melted down to support the uprising. In 1807, the two statues of angels funded by Wodzicki were sold to goldsmiths from Kraków.

People live amidst objects, things, articles, items, artefacts, materials, substances, and stuff – described in social sciences and humanities as material culture, which denotes both natural and human-made entities, which form our physical environment. We, humans, relate to this environment by using, depicting, interacting with or thinking about various material objects or their representations. In other words, material culture is never just about things in themselves, it is also about various ideas, representations, experiences, practices and relations. In contemporary theorising about material culture, the watershed between the tangible and intangible has started to disappear as all the objects have multiple meanings. This paper theorises objects mostly in terms of contemporary socio-cultural anthropology and ethnology by first giving an overview of the development of the material culture studies and then focusing upon consumption studies, material agency, practice theory and the methods for studying material culture. Both anthropology and ethnology in the beginning of the 20th century were dealing mostly with ‘saving’; that is, collecting the ethnographical objects from various cultures for future preservation as societies modernised. The collecting of the everyday items of rural Estonians, which had begun in the 19th century during the period of national awakening, gained its full momentum after the establishment of the Estonian National Museum in 1909. During the museum’s first ten years, 20,000 objects were collected (Õunapuu 2007). First, the focus was on the identification of the historical-geographical typologies of the collected artefacts. In 1919, the first Estonian with a degree in ethnology, Helmi Reiman-Neggo (2013) stressed the need for ethnographical descriptions of the collected items and the theoretical planning of the museum collections. The resulting vast ethnographical collection of the Estonian National Museum (currently about 140,000 items) has also largely influenced ethnology and anthropology as academic disciplines in Estonia (Pärdi 1993). Even though in the first half of the 20th century the focus lay in the systematic collection and comparative analysis of everyday items and folk art, there were studies that centred on meaning already at the end of 19th century. Austrianethnologist Rudolf Meringer suggested in 1891 that a house should be studied as a cultural individual and analysed within the context of its functions and in relation to its inhabitants. Similarly, the 1920s and 1930s saw studies on the roles of artefacts that were not influenced by Anglo-American functionalism: Mathilde Hain (1936) studied how folk costumes contribute to the harmonious functioning of a ‘small community’, and Petr Bogatyrev (1971) published his study on Moravian costumes in 1937. This study, determining the three main functions – instrumental, aesthetic and symbolic – of the folk costume, and translated into English 30 years after first publication, had a substantial influence on the development of material culture studies. The 1970s saw the focus of material culture studies in Western and Northern Europe shifting mainly from the examination of (historical) rural artefacts to the topics surrounding contemporary culture, such as consumption. In Soviet Estonian ethnology, however, the focus on the 19th century ethnographic items was prevalent until the 1980s as the topic was also partially perceived as a protest against the direction of Soviet academia (see Annist and Kaaristo 2013 for a thorough overview). There were, of course, exceptions, as for instance Arved Luts’s (1962) studies on everyday life on collective farms. Meanwhile, however, the communicative and semiotic turn of the 1970s turned European ethnology’s focus to the idea of representation and objects as markers of identity as well as means of materialising the otherwise intangible and immaterial relationships and relations. The theory of cultural communication was established in Scandinavian ethnology and numerous studies on clothing, housing and everyday items as material expressions of social structures, hierarchies, values and ideologies emerged (Lönnqvist 1979, Gustavsson 1991). The Scandinavian influences on Estonia are also reflected in Ants Viires’s (1990) suggestion that ethnologists should study clothing (including contemporary clothing) in general and not just folk costumes, by using a semiotic approach. Löfgren’s (1997) clarion call to bring more ‘flesh and blood’ to the study of material culture was a certain reaction to the above focus. Researchers had for too long focused exclusively upon the meaning and, as Löfgren brought forth, they still did not have enough understanding of what exactly it was that people were actually and practically doing with their things. Ingold’s (2013) criticism on the studies focusing on symbolism, and the lack of studies on the tangible materiality of the materials and their properties, takes a similar position. In the 1990s, there was a turn toward the examination of material-cultural and those studies that were written within the framework of ‘new materialism’ (Hicks 2010, Coole and Frost 2010) started to pay attention to objects as embodied and agentive (Latour 1999, Tilley et al 2006). Nevertheless, as Olsen (2017) notes, all materialities are not created equal in contemporary academic research: while items like prostheses, Boyle’s air pumps or virtual realities enjoy increased attention, objects such as wooden houses, fireplaces, rakes and simple wooden chairs are still largely unexamined. The traditional material culture therefore needs new studying in the light of these post-humanist theories. Where does this leave Estonian ethnology? In the light of the theoretical developments discussed above, we could ask, whether and how has the material Making sense of the material culture turn affected research in Estonia? Here we must first note that for a significant part of the 20th century, Estonian ethnology (or ethnography as the discipline was called before 1990s) has mostly been centred on the material culture (see the overview of the main topics from vehicles to folk costumes in Viires and Vunder 2008). Partly because of this aspect of the discipline’s history, many researchers actually felt the need to somewhat distance themselves from these topics in the 1990s (Pärdi 1998). Compared to topics like religion, identity, memory, oral history and intangible heritage, study of material culture has largely stayed in the background. There are of course notable exceptions such as Vunder’s (1992) study on the history of style, which includes analysis of theirsymbolic aspects. It is also interesting to note that in the 1990s Estonian ethnology, the term ‘material culture’ (‘materiaalne kultuur’) – then seen as incorporating the dualism between material and immaterial – was actually replaced with the Estonian translation of German ‘Sachkultur’ (‘esemekultuur’, literally ‘artefact culture’). Nevertheless, it was soon realised that this was actually a too narrow term (with its exclusion of natural objects and phenomena as well as the intangible and social aspects of culture), slowly fell out of general usage, and was replaced with ‘material culture’ once again. Within the past three decades, studies dealing with material culture have discussed a wide variety of topics from the vernacular interior design (Kannike 2000, 2002, 2012), everyday commodities (Kõresaar 1999b) and spiritual objects (Teidearu 2019), traditional rural architecture (Pärdi 2012, Kask 2012, 2015), museum artefacts (Leete 1996), clothing, textiles and jewellery (Kõresaar 1999a; Järs 2004; Summatavet 2005; Jõeste 2012; Araste and Ventsel 2015), food culture (Piiri 2006; Bardone 2016; Kannike and Bardone 2017), to soviet consumer culture (Ruusmann 2006, Rattus 2013) and its implications in life histories (Kõresaar 1998, Jõesalu and Nugin 2017). All of these these studies deal with how people interpret, remember and use objects. The main keywords of the studies of European material culture have been home, identity and consumption (but also museology and tangible heritage, which have not been covered in this article). Material culture studies are an important part of the studies of everyday life and here social and cultural histories are still important (even though they have been criticised for focusing too much on symbols and representation). Therefore, those studies focusing on physical materials and materialites, sensory experiences, embodiment, and material agency have recently become more and more important. This article has given an overview of the three most prevalent thematic and theoretical strands of the study of material culture: objects as symbols especially in the consumer culture, material agency and practice theory as well as discussing some methodological suggestions for the material culture studies. To conclude, even though on the one hand we could argue that when it comes to the study of material culture there indeed exists a certain hierarchy of „old“ topics that relate to museums or traditional crafts and „new“ and modern materialities, such as smart phones or genetically modified organisms. However, dichotomies like this are often artificial and do not show the whole picture: contemporary children are often as proficient in playing cat’s cradle as they are with video games (Jackson 2016). Thus, studying various (everyday) material objects and entities is still topical and the various theories discussed in this article can help to build both theoretical and empirical bridge between different approaches. Therefore, there is still a lot to do in this regard and we invite researchers to study objects form all branches of material culture, be they 19th century beer mugs in the collections of the Estonian National Museum that can help us to better give meaning to our past, or the digital and virtual design solutions that can give our academic research an applied direction. Keywords: material culture, artefacts, consumption, practice, agency, research methods

A group of mounds near Kvindvad in Western Jutland The group of mounds in question is situated near Kvindvad in Western Jutland, a little more than ten kilometres from the town of Herning (Figs. 1-3). It is the only known group of mounds from the late Neolithic Age in Denmark. It consists of four mounds situated close together on the western side of a ridge. All the graves are dagger graves, and two of them are tiered graves.In mound no.1 (Figs. 4-6), a rectangular east-west orientated tiered grave was identified. It had been dug 0.6 metres into the subsoil and had a filling of earth and stones. The grave structure was covered by a stone paving. Grave A, which contained a flint dagger of type IA, was dug 0.4 metres into the subsoil. Grave B, also containing a flint dagger of type IA, was found at the bottom of grave A. This grave had faint traces of a wooden coffin.Mound 2 (Figs. 7-8) had been built over just one burial. This grave had a northeast-southwest orientation and was filled with stones. Colouring of the earth showed that the grave had contained a wooden coffin. The grave contained a flint for striking fire, recycled from a flint dagger of type Ix.Mound 3 (Figs. 9-10) had a diameter of 8 to 10 metres and a height of 0.25 to 0.30 metres. It had been constructed above a deep dagger grave with the faint remains of a wooden coffin. The grave was filled in with earth and stones. In the southwestern corner of the grave, a small heap of cremated bones and a pottery sherd were found a little above the bottom of the grave.Mound 4 (Figs. 11-15) had a diameter of 10 metres and a height of 0.25 to 3.0 metres. It had been constructed over a stone paving, which covered a tiered grave. The grave had a northwest-southeast orientation and was filled with stones. At a depth of 0.4 metres were the faint remains of a wooden coffin (grave A). It contained a flint dagger of type IA/B and a slate whetstone pendant. At the bottom of the grave (grave B) was a carefully made stone paving, on top of which yet another coffin had been resting. Two arrowheads with a concave base belong to this grave. The construction of the mounds corresponds to the older mounds known from the single grave culture. All four mounds contained so-called “deep dagger graves,” i.e. graves dug at least 1 metre into the subsoil. Almost all deep dagger graves are found in Northern and Central Jutland, with a marked concentration in Northwestern Jutland. Almost all deep dagger graves date from the late Neolithic Age A, with just a few dating from the late Neolithic Age B.The structures in two of the mounds are so-called tiered graves, which are characterized by having two burials in the same hole, one on top of the other. This is a very special burial custom, which occurs sporadically in the early and the late Neolithic Age across large parts of North and Central Europe.As is the case in the mounds at Kvindvad (Figs. 16-18), flint daggers are in general the most common grave goods in late Neolithic male graves. Slate pendants, on the other hand, occur only sporadically. The arrowheads with a concave base probably represent yet another weapon, i.e. the bow and arrow. These arrowheads are defined by a length not exceeding 8 cm, and by their concave base. This type occurs at the beginning of the late Neolithic Age and continues until period V of the Bronze Age (2400-600BC). So far, no one has succeeded in creating a typological and chronological classification of them. Generally, the arrows have a length of 2 to 6 cm and a thickness of 5 mm.Arrowheads with a concave base often occur in graves (some may even be the cause of death). Their numbers vary from one to twelve (Fig. 21). They occur in at least 57 late Neolithic closed graves. In 31 cases they occur together with flint daggers of type I, in seven cases in combination with daggers of type II.The burial custom of sending the dead to the grave with a bow and arrows thus seems to be primarily from the late Neolithic period A, but it continues into period B. In the later periods, the arrows occur more sporadically as grave goods. Graves containing arrows with a concave base show a clear concentration in Northern Jutland, where they occur mainly in the area surrounding the western Limfjord (Figs. 19-20).Ebbe Lomborg (1973 – cf. 1959 and 1968) divided the country into two geographic zones. Zone I comprised Northern Jutland and the islands, zone II comprised Southern Jutland and Schleswig-Holstein. The boundary between the two areas ran across Central Jutland.The grave types and burial customs described here occur across this boundary and in both zones. Moreover, neither the distribution nor the use of late Neolithic jewellery provides any evidence to support the traditional zone division.The same applies to grave forms and burial customs.The most frequently found burial custom in the late Neolithic Age is the burial of the dead in the old megalith graves. This burial custom is known from all over the country and throughout the age.Stone cists can be divided into at least two different types, which can be separated chronologically and geographically: 1. Small, north-south oriented stone cists (“stenkister” in Danish), which occur only in Northern Jutland during the early part of the late Neolithic Age. They probably originate from the early Neolithic stone cists, and were also built during the late Neolithic Age. 2. The so-called “Zealandic stone cists”, which are known only from Eastern Denmark, with a marked concentration in Northern Zealand. Almost all date from period C of the late Neolithic Age. These stone cists should be regarded as part of a larger context including Western Sweden and other areas of the Scandinavian Peninsula. They are connected to the late Western European megalith tradition, which became widespread in Western Sweden primarily during the end of the late Neolithic Age, but which also involved nearby parts of Denmark. It is noteworthy that these Western European contacts passed directly from Western Europe to Western Sweden – for the most part without passing through Denmark.Late Neolithic burial mounds are almost exclusively a Jutland phenomenon, although primary mound graves are rare. Among these, the deep dagger graves have an important position, as shown above.Among the “secondary” mound graves, the so-called “upper graves” are the most frequent form. In these, the coffin is surrounded by stone packing and is placed in the upper part of an old burial mound, usually an old single grave mound. The type is therefore almost exclusively found in the area where single grave mounds occur.Flat burials occur sporadically all over the country, with a characteristic concentration in Eastern Zealand.Late Neolithic cremation graves occur only randomly in Northern Jutland, and in an early part of the age.As neither the grave types nor the burial customs support Ebbe Lomborg’s zone grouping, this has to be rejected as regards the late Neolithic Age. As regards the early Bronze Age, the division of Denmark into zones has been justified by the fact that Southern Jutland had connections with the Sögel-Wohlde-circle and the western mound grave culture, whereas the rest of the country had direct contacts to Central Europe. The regional differences known from Northern Germany, as recognized from the bronze objects, thus applied in Denmark as well during the Bronze Age. In relation to the period prior to this they must be rejected.During the late Neolithic Age, Denmark consisted of small geographical ­areas, each with its own characteristics, just as was the case during the early and middle Neolithic Age. By the beginning of the late Neolithic Age, the area surrounding the Limfjord was the most important of these local ­areas. This is mainly expressed in the pottery, which is decorated in the Myrhøj style. It is possible that important elements of the late Neolithic culture came into existence in the area by the beginning of this age.The late Neolithic Age spans a very long period of time with a very rich and versatile source material. According to the C-14 datings, this age lasted for approximately 700 years, from c.2400 to c.1700 BC.The flint daggers which appear at the beginning of this age dominate. They are used as a stabbing weapon, as a stone for striking fire, and as a knife. The spearheads also represent a new weapon type. Other new items by the beginning of the age are spoon-shaped scrapers, and food knives. Crescent-shaped flint sickles (type I is symmetrical, type II is asymmetrical, i.e. they have their widest point near one of the tips) replace flint flake sickles. An important novelty by the early Neolithic Age is also the vertical loom and a general change in style of dress. By and large, the early Neolithic houses are unknown, and so it is impossible to determine whether the large longhouses from the late Neolithic Age also represent a novelty.The evidence suggests that the changes at the beginning of the late Neolithic Age happened very quickly, probably within a generation. After that, late Neolithic society was marked by conservatism that was extreme, even in the context of Stone Age peasant society. The changes during the nearly 700 year long period are few and insignificant.Denmark in the late Neolithic Age must be characterized as a tribal society. No decisive social differences are recognizable. The basic occupation was farming, primarily animal husbandry. Apart from this, a small late-Neolithic element known from the old kitchen middens from the Ertebølle culture provides indications of some sea hunting and fishing. The very large late-Neolithic houses indicate that all inhabitants of a settlement lived under the same roof.Most likely, power within the society lay in the hands of the old men, which would explain the extreme conservatism. Development was slow and kept within the framework already created during period A of the late Neolithic Age. Bronze Age phenomena from Western and Central Europe were adopted with huge delays and adapted to local traditions.These conditions only changed slowly during C/Per I of the late Neolithic Age. It was not until Bronze Age period II that the old pattern was broken and Danish society developed into a new society ruled by chieftains.Klaus EbbesenHørsholmTranslated by Annette Lerche Trolle

This paper follows a narrow definition of agri-products that include products of agriculture, horticulture, floriculture, animal husbandry, and poultry. Like most other states in India, Gujarat has also prepared several reports and policy papers assessing the potential for agro-processing, identifying constraints in the development and exports of agri-products, suggesting or announcing several important policy measures for removing physical and financial infrastructural bottlenecks, and promoting R&D activities in the sector. However, these exercises lack realistic assessment of the potential, important features of agri-exports from the state, and Gujarat's comparative advantage over the rest of the country in specific product categories. This paper addresses these aspects. A recent survey of exports originating from Gujarat conducted by the Gujarat Industrial Technical Consultancy Organization (GITCO) estimated that, during the year 2000–01, Gujarat contributed Rs 495 billion (or 20.8%) out of the total national exports of Rs 2,385 billion. However, excluding gems and jewellery and petroleum products, Gujarat's share in the national exports is only 9.2 per cent. Compared to this overall proportion, Gujarat's share in national exports in commodities like groundnut, oil-meals, castor oil, poultry, dairy products, spices, sesame and niger seeds, and processed food, fruits, and vegetables is much higher indicating Gujarat's revealed comparative advantage in these product categories. Some important features of the exports activity in Gujarat are: Only 20 per cent are pure traders in the export business. Only a quarter of the units have ‘export house’ or upward status for special benefits. More than 40 per cent of the exporting units have come up after 1991–92. Two-thirds of the exporters belong to small and medium enterprises. Export intensity of Gujarat's agricultural sector is about 12 per cent. Agri-exports represent excess supply and hence highly volatile and fluctuating activity over time. Agri-exports are price elastic. Agri-exports would be highly responsive to exchange rate depreciation. In recent years, Gujarat's agriculture shows considerable dynamic characteristics in contrast to the gloomy official income estimates in the sector. Nineteen out of 30 crops show significant positive time trend in area while five crops show significant negative trend. The cropping pattern in Gujarat has been shifting away from the low value traditional crops to high value commercial crops with business and export potential. A detailed consideration of yield rates of different crops in the state and other states over the past three decades indicates a realistic potential of 5 per cent per annum growth rate for agriculture in Gujarat over the next eight to ten years. In order to ensure exclusive and regular supply to the export market, quality standards have to be according to the foreign destination and not the domestic market. This calls for large-scale production, assured input supplies, good logistics, infrastructural facilities, R&D activities, and technological upgradation. This involves giving priority to investments in several infrastructural facilities and agricultural R&D besides perfecting agricultural land market and encouraging contract farming in the state.

In 2012, in the village Davidovac situated in south Serbia, 9.5 km south-west from Vranje, archaeological investigations were conducted on the site Crkviste. The remains of the smaller bronze-age settlement were discovered, above which a late antique horizon was later formed. Apart from modest remains of a bronze-age house and pits, a late antique necropolis was also excavated, of which two vaulted tombs and nine graves were inspected during this campaign. During the excavation of the northern sector of the site Davidovac-Crkviste the north-eastern periphery of the necropolis is detected. Graves 1-3, 5 and 6 are situated on the north?eastern borderline of necropolis, while the position of the tombs and the remaining four graves (4, 7-9) in their vicinity point that the necropolis was further spreading to the west and to the south?west, occupying the mount on which the church of St. George and modern graveyard are situated nowadays. All graves are oriented in the direction SW-NE, with the deviance between 3? and 17?, in four cases toward the south and in seven cases toward the north, while the largest part of those deviations is between 3? and 8?. Few small finds from the layer above the graves can in some way enable the determination of their dating. Those are two roman coins, one from the reign of emperor Valens (364-378), as well as the fibula of the type Viminacium-Novae which is chronologically tied to a longer period from the middle of the 5th to the middle of the 6th century, although there are some geographically close analogies dated to the end of the 4th or the beginning of the 5th century. Analogies for the tombs from Davidovac can be found on numerous sites, like in Sirmium as well as in Macvanska Mitrovica, where they are dated to the 4th-5th century. Similar situation was detected in Viminacium, former capital of the roman province of Upper Moesia. In ancient Naissus, on the site of Jagodin Mala, simple rectangular tombs were distributed in rows, while the complex painted tombs with Christian motifs were also found and dated by the coins to the period from the 4th to the 6th century. Also, in Kolovrat near Prijepolje simple vaulted tombs with walled dromos were excavated. During the excavations on the nearby site Davidovac-Gradiste, 39 graves of type Mala Kopasnica-Sase dated to the 2nd-3rd century were found, as well as 67 cist graves, which were dated by the coins of Constantius II, jewellery and buckles to the second half of the 4th or the first half of the 5th century. Based on all above mentioned it can be concluded that during the period from the 2nd to the 6th century in this area existed a roman and late antique settlement and several necropolises, formed along an important ancient road Via militaris, traced at the length of over 130 m in the direction NE-SW. Data gained with the anthropological analyses of 10 skeletons from the site Davidovac-Crkviste don't give enough information for a conclusion about the paleo-demographical structure of the population that lived here during late antiquity. Important results about the paleo-pathological changes, which do not occur often on archaeological sites, as well as the clearer picture about this population in total, will be acquired after the osteological material from the site Davidovac-Gradiste is statistically analysed.

Vanda Juhansoo. Artist or Eccentric Woman?Estonian Museum of Applied Art and Design18.01.–01.03.2020, Tartu City Museum 19.06.–26.09.2021.Exhibition curated by: Andreas Kalkun (Estonian Literary Museum)and Rebeka Põldsam, graphic design: Stuudio Stuudio. Vanda Juhansoo (1889–1966) was by education a porcelain painter and furniture designer; she was, however, known as a textile and craft artist, traveller, polyglot, notable art teacher, interior decorator, advocate of women’s craft, soroptimist and gardener. Sometimes she was also known as the ‘Witch of Valgemetsa’. She graduated from the Central School of Applied Arts Ateneum in Finland, which makes her one of the first Estonian women artists with a higher education at the beginning of the 20th century. Even though Vanda Juhansoo specialised in ceramics and furniture design, as a student she received the most recognition (as well as travel grants) for her embroidery. From then on, Vanda spent her next thirty summers travelling in Europe. Between 1912 and 1945, she exhibited her ceramics, embroidered doilies and curtains in various places, including the first ever Estonian women artists’ show in 1939. Vanda Juhansoo worked with the Kodukäsitöö limited company, that had been established in 1927 with the aim of reducing unemployment among women. Alongside craft and women’s magazines, the Kodukäsitöö was the most significant promoter of women’s craft in Estonia, regularly organising exhibition-sales and taking Estonian craft to international shows. Unfortunately, most of Vanda Juhansoo’s oeuvre was so ephemeral that there is very little trace of it now. The Karilatsi Open Air Museum near Vanda’s home in Valgemetsa and the collection of the Estonian National Museum hold items given to the museum by Vanda’s cousin’s family, which Vanda herself most likely wore – these are made to fit her petite size and there are photos of Vanda wearing these garments. Her signature style used floral motifs embroidered onto the thin textiles she wove herself. Like a painter, she spent hours embroidering, casting ethnographic patterns aside when creating her original designs. Even though the Estonian National Museum has exhibited Vanda Juhansoo’s embroidered cardigans as examples of Estonian folk art, these are, in fact, clearly original artistic designs. After World War II, Vanda stopped exhibiting and publishing her patterns in craft magazines. Instead, she committed herself to teaching drawing and supervised a number of children’s art classes in Tartu that produced many wellknown artists. The memory of Vanda has largely been kept alive by her students, who remember her as a particularly bright and optimistic person. In addition to her embroidery, Vanda’s original style remained visible as she expressed it in her memorable multicoloured hair nets and abundant jewellery, as well as in the striking Valgemetsa summer house and garden. The curators tried to trace back and recreate some of the wonderful world that Vanda created all around herself with her designs, handicraft, paintings, photos and memories from museums, archives, and from people who knew her. Looking at the life, work and legacy of Vanda Juhansoo, the exhibition asked: What were the choices for women artists in Estonia at the beginning of the 20th century? Why are Vanda’s works found mainly in the collections of ethnographic memory institutions rather than in art museums? Why did Vanda become the so-called ‘Witch of Valgemetsa’ and not a recognised applied artist? In the present review, the reception of the exhibition is summarised and juxtaposed with the few studies on Vanda Juhansoo’s textile work from the perspective of craft studies and the history of applied art.

Vanda Juhansoo. Artist or Eccentric Woman?Estonian Museum of Applied Art and Design18.01.–01.03.2020, Tartu City Museum 19.06.–26.09.2021.Exhibition curated by: Andreas Kalkun (Estonian Literary Museum)and Rebeka Põldsam, graphic design: Stuudio Stuudio. Vanda Juhansoo (1889–1966) was by education a porcelain painter and furniture designer; she was, however, known as a textile and craft artist, traveller, polyglot, notable art teacher, interior decorator, advocate of women’s craft, soroptimist and gardener. Sometimes she was also known as the ‘Witch of Valgemetsa’. She graduated from the Central School of Applied Arts Ateneum in Finland, which makes her one of the first Estonian women artists with a higher education at the beginning of the 20th century. Even though Vanda Juhansoo specialised in ceramics and furniture design, as a student she received the most recognition (as well as travel grants) for her embroidery. From then on, Vanda spent her next thirty summers travelling in Europe. Between 1912 and 1945, she exhibited her ceramics, embroidered doilies and curtains in various places, including the first ever Estonian women artists’ show in 1939. Vanda Juhansoo worked with the Kodukäsitöö limited company, that had been established in 1927 with the aim of reducing unemployment among women. Alongside craft and women’s magazines, the Kodukäsitöö was the most significant promoter of women’s craft in Estonia, regularly organising exhibition-sales and taking Estonian craft to international shows. Unfortunately, most of Vanda Juhansoo’s oeuvre was so ephemeral that there is very little trace of it now. The Karilatsi Open Air Museum near Vanda’s home in Valgemetsa and the collection of the Estonian National Museum hold items given to the museum by Vanda’s cousin’s family, which Vanda herself most likely wore – these are made to fit her petite size and there are photos of Vanda wearing these garments. Her signature style used floral motifs embroidered onto the thin textiles she wove herself. Like a painter, she spent hours embroidering, casting ethnographic patterns aside when creating her original designs. Even though the Estonian National Museum has exhibited Vanda Juhansoo’s embroidered cardigans as examples of Estonian folk art, these are, in fact, clearly original artistic designs. After World War II, Vanda stopped exhibiting and publishing her patterns in craft magazines. Instead, she committed herself to teaching drawing and supervised a number of children’s art classes in Tartu that produced many wellknown artists. The memory of Vanda has largely been kept alive by her students, who remember her as a particularly bright and optimistic person. In addition to her embroidery, Vanda’s original style remained visible as she expressed it in her memorable multicoloured hair nets and abundant jewellery, as well as in the striking Valgemetsa summer house and garden. The curators tried to trace back and recreate some of the wonderful world that Vanda created all around herself with her designs, handicraft, paintings, photos and memories from museums, archives, and from people who knew her. Looking at the life, work and legacy of Vanda Juhansoo, the exhibition asked: What were the choices for women artists in Estonia at the beginning of the 20th century? Why are Vanda’s works found mainly in the collections of ethnographic memory institutions rather than in art museums? Why did Vanda become the so-called ‘Witch of Valgemetsa’ and not a recognised applied artist? In the present review, the reception of the exhibition is summarised and juxtaposed with the few studies on Vanda Juhansoo’s textile work from the perspective of craft studies and the history of applied art.

Detector finds and settlement – The Eastern Limfjord in Late Iron Age and Viking timesDuring the past 30 years Danish fields have formed the backdrop for a silent revolution. Since the appearance of the metal detector in the 1970s, detector enthusiasts have succeeded in increasing dramatically the number of finds and known archaeological sites, especially from the Late Iron Age and Early Medieval period. This growth in the archaeological record has, among other things, led to a new understanding of settlement patterns and the general development of society.Despite scepticism in the beginning, and a few misleading incidents involving illegal use of metal detectors, the liberal Danish legislation concerning the private use of metal detectors must therefore be termed “a success”.This has indeed also been the case in Northern Jutland, around the Limfjord. Since the very beginning of the detector adventure the Aalborg area has yielded more new finds year on year than most other areas of Denmark, being only surpassed by Bornholm and Southeast Funen. However, despite the results they have amassed, the efforts of Northern Jutland’s detectorists do not seem to have been appreciated, and co-operation with the detectorists has not increased and improved in the manner seen in Southeastern Denmark.The many detector finds from along the Limfjord have, of course, received some attention from Danish archaeologists. ­Esp­ecially so after excavations were carried out at a couple of the major sites, Sebbersund and Bejsebakken. However, a num­ber of other sites have not yet received the same attention, even though they have yielded, and continue to yield, a substantial number of detector finds. These sites have been overlooked both in the field and in the archaeological literature. This article is an attempt to improve on the latter situation. It offers a presentation of the finds recovered so far and a preliminary analysis of the material.The material recovered by detector from the region contains a great number of single stray finds. However, several sites clearly orientated towards the coasts of the Limfjord are characterised by much richer find assemblages (fig. 1). These sites are the main subject of this article, with particular focus on Late Iron Age material.In general, the detector sites seem all to represent settlements, but when trying to analyse the detector finds and sites we are still faced with some fundamental questions. For example, it is obvious today that there is remarkably poor correlation bet­ween the overall distribution of metal obj­ects and the settlement structures on the sites.Thanks to the detectorists it is now possible to draw a fairly credible picture of the Late Iron Age settlement pattern around the Eastern Limfjord. This picture shows a remarkably dense concentration of rich settlements in a generally densely populated coastal zone. However, when compared to the areas rich in detector finds in the southeastern part of Denmark and Scania, this picture reveals one remarkable difference: the lack of a main centre.The landscape and the sitesApart from drainage of low-lying meadows and a few shallow areas along the coast, the landscape alongside the Eastern Limfjord in the Late Iron Age resembled that of the present day. The eastern part of the Limfjord formed a narrow, winding channel, and both the northern and the southern coast consisted of wide foreshores, replaced a little further inland by moraine hills. The hills stood isolated from each other and the mainland by small rivers and low-lying, wet meadows which were flooded by the sea in the Stone Age. Øland and Gjøl actually remained islands until the 19th century when farmers succeeded in draining the shallow waters between the hills and the mainland.North of the fjord, the lowlands behind the hills continued for several kilometres. South of the fjord, these wet meadows were, after a few hundred metres, typically replaced by a hilly landscape dissected by river valleys.Further to the west, the fjord at that time apparently offered two different sailing routes in and out: one to the west and a one to the northwest, through the Sløjenkanal.The latter has completely disappeared today and investigations suggest that the mouth of this channel silted up during the 1st century AD. However, place names, historical records and archaeological finds indicate that the channel still played an import role during the Viking Age. Most likely the ships where simply carried over the sand bank at its mouth.The rich detector sites dealt with in this article are Øland, Gjøl, Lindholm Høje, Humlebakken, Postgården, Thulebakken, Bejsebakken, Sofiendal/Gammel Hasseris, Nørholm, Mellemholm and Sebbersund. All but one are located on the top of the distinctive moraine hills along the Limfjord, lying typically between 1 and 3 km from the actual coast. In contrast to the other sites, Sebbersund is located on a small pen­insula directly on the coast of the Limfjord, by the entrance to a small lagoon.The extent to which the sites have been subjected to archaeological investigation varies considerably. Extensive excavations have been carried out at Lindholm Høje, Sebbersund, Postgården and Bejsebakken. The latter has been almost totally excavated.Minor excavations have been carried out at Humlebakken, Thulebakken and Sofiendal/Gammel Hasseris – whereas the history of Øland, Gjøl, Mellemholm and Nørholm is characterised by an almost total lack of archaeological activity, apart from the topsoil surveys performed by the detectorists.The metal finds – chronological tendenciesSince the only properly registered detector finds from the sites on the Eastern Limfjord are those designated as treasure trove, only these finds are included in this analysis. However, changing criteria for the designation of treasure trove have clearly affected the composition of the find material in question. The increasing number of detector finds has forced the National Museum to tighten up the designation criteria. This has led to the situation where many finds which previously were declared as treasure trove are now returned to local museums and the finders (fig. 4). Consequently, fewer finds from the more recently discovered detector sites have been declared treasure trove, making comparison with the finds from “older” sites very difficult.Bronze brooches constitute by far the greatest part of the material chosen for this study. Out of 709 finds, 478 are brooches – corresponding to 67.5 %. The earlier detector finds available show little typological variation, whereas variation clearly increases in finds from the later part of Late Iron Age and, especially, the Viking Age, from which there is a wide range of metal artefacts (fig. 5).In order to compare the chronological composition of the material from the different sites, I have produced a series of diagrams based on the number and dating of the brooches from each site (fig. 6.). With a few exceptions, the diagrams give an impression of marked continuity in the flow of metal objects at the sites and, in most cases, an increasing circulation of metal objects during the Late Iron Age, reaching a peak in the Late Germanic Iron Age. However, this peak is somewhat artificial since it is mainly due to the fact that only brooches have been included in the analysis. Had the entire range of finds been included, this would have shown that circulation of metals continued to grow through­­­out the Viking Age.Øland, Gjøl and Sebbersund do not fit this picture of continuity. The detector finds from these sites consist, almost exclusively, of objects from the Late Germanic Iron Age and Viking Age. However, Øland and Gjøl belong to the most recently discovered detector sites and the finds from them can hardly be expected to give a fully representative picture of the metal objects present in the soil here.In contrast, Sebbersund is a well-known “old” site and a similar, but more thorough, analysis of the brooches from the site, including the ones recovered during excavations, has produced the very same result. Activities at Sebbersund seem, therefore, to have been very limited in the Germanic Iron Age, before blossoming in the Viking Age and then ceasing almost completely around AD 1100.Furthermore, on the topic of continuity, the finds from all the rich detector sites on the Eastern Limfjord also include various amounts of medieval artefacts and, in most cases, early medieval churches or monasteries are located nearby. Activities on these sites carried on well into the medieval period.The distribution of the finds – size and structure of the sitesHalf of the rich detector sites on the Eastern Limfjord have been subjected to excavation and in all cases settlement remains were revealed. Similar excavations in other parts of Denmark have shown the same pattern and it seems safe to assume that the metal items present in the topsoil at the rich detector sites analysed in this article are the result of settlement remains under degradation.Furthermore, since cremation graves were the dominant burial type during a major part of Late Iron Age in Northern Jutland, one would expect to find a large number of fire-damaged metal objects among the detector finds if these originated from burial sites. This is not the case.The quality of the information on find site varies greatly from find to find and the recorded geographical information presents little opportunity for inferences to be made concerning the structure of each site. However, the overall distribution of the finds clearly poses an interesting problem. On all of the rich sites, with the exception of Sebbersund, the metal objects lie scattered over huge areas. These are far greater than those which can be expected to conceal traces of prehistoric settlement. The detector site on Nørholm hill is the largest so far, covering approximately 400 acres.The Bejsebakken case underlines the phenomenon; this settlement has been almost totally excavated. If the extent of the settlement is compared with the distribution of detector finds from the hill it is obvious that there is a concentration of metal objects recovered from the topsoil above the remains of the settlement, but it is equally clear that a considerable number of finds have been detected outside this area (fig. 7).The large number of metal objects found outside the area with archaeological remains of the settlement probably reflects some sort of adjacent activity area connected to the farmsteads on the top of the hill. However, the area in question covers several acres. In my opinion it seems most likely that the surprisingly wide distribution of the metal objects is due to the use of settlement waste as manure on the fields in the vicinity of the farmsteads.A wide distribution of the detector finds is, incidentally, a very common phenomenon. Along with a similar topographic setting, this feature is shared by almost all the large detector sites on the Eastern Lim­fjord. It therefore seems likely that agriculture played an important role in the economy of these settlements.Only the settlement at Sebbersund does not conform to this picture. In contrast to the other sites, the detector finds here seem to be concentrated within an extremely limited area. This situation, however, corresponds well with the excavation results from the 1980s which led to the interpretation of the settlement structures as remains of a trading place without traces of any ordinary agrarian settlement.Crafts and TradeObviously, only a very limited number of the activities which took place at the Iron Age settlements can be revealed by the use of metal detectors. However, a few of the metal objects indicate the presence of metal crafts and trade.Generally, the direct indicators of trade are sparse. Means of payment such as coins and pieces of silver are rare and only Sebbersund has yielded a significant number of balance weights. Furthermore, all of the finds belonging to this category are from the Viking Age. However, a substantial number of foreign metal objects clearly point to the fact that the sites on the Lim­fjord were part of a far-reaching communication network (figs. 8 and 9). Excavations at several of the sites have also recovered various imported goods, and trade must have been a common phenomenon.The imported finds seem to reflect a contact network which evolved through time. In the Germanic Iron Age, the network seems mainly to have covered the rest of Scandinavia, whereas the British Isles and the northwestern part of Continental Europe, especially the area around the mouth of the Rhine, were clearly also included in the Viking Age. However, not only the direction of the traffic seems to have evolved. When looking at the number and character of the objects found on the sites, it seems obvious that the traffic increased in the course of the Late Iron Age and that trade in bulk goods began and expanded through the Viking age.Crafts are generally poorly represented in the detector finds. A few items, such as raw materials in the form of small pieces of gold and silver, half-finished brooches, a matrix for the production of bracteates and three identical brooches at one site, indicates the in situ production of jewellery at the sites. This conclusion is also supported by the fact that several types of brooches and some ornamental elements exclusively or mainly occur on the Eastern Limfjord.As could be expected, a much broader spectrum of crafts has been demonstrated through excavations at some of the sites and, apart from showing the traditional variation of crafts, the excavation results generally seem to demonstrate a marked focus on the production of textiles. At Sebbersund and Bejsebakken the number of pit-houses exceeds several hundreds and the majority of these were clearly used for the production of textiles. This production must definitely have exceeded what could possibly have been needed loc­ally.Regional settlement pattern and interpretation of the rich sitesAt present, it is only possible to draw a fairly credible picture of the Late Iron Age settlement pattern on the Eastern Lim­fjord by including the considerable number of single detector finds from the region. On this basis, the area seems to have been quite densely populated with a series of richer settlements along the coasts of the fjord (fig. 11).The lack of inland settlements equally rich in metal finds seems to indicate that the coast-near settlements on the fjord served, in some respects, as central places relative to the settlements further inland.It is obvious that the circulation of metal objects varied considerably from settlement to settlement and from period to per­iod. Despite these variations, none of the detector sites has so far yielded an assemblage which allows us to assign any of the settlements to a position elevated markedly above the others in the settlement system for the region. However, the considerable variation in the number of finds from the different sites clearly points to the fact that some settlements were more successful than others. This seems to have been very much the case on the Nørholm and the Bejsebakken hills, especially in the Late Germanic Iron Age, during which the circulation of metal objects here accelerated markedly relative to the other sites.The lack of a pronounced main centre in a generally wealthy region stands in remarkable contrast to contemporary settlement patterns known from the southeastern part of Denmark and Scania. These latter areas were apparently characterised by a society of a much more hierarchical nature and by settlement patterns including easily recognisable centres mainly characterised by extreme concentrations of rich gold and silver finds along with the presence of unusual imports.The development of a highly stratified society seems, therefore, to have proceeded at a somewhat slower pace in the Lim­fjord region. Together with the growing importance of the Limfjord for communication, this led to the characteristic settlement pattern which included a large number of settlements of centre-like character located along the coasts of the eastern part of the fjord in the Late Iron Age.Torben Trier ChristiansenAalborg Historiske Museum

This article presents a review of the leading jewellery companies in Yekaterinburg. We present a comparative analysis of the range of products, focussing on the new stylistic design techniques and technological features of the jewellery collections and stone-cutting works produced by the leading jewellery houses. Examples of the most significant works in the premium class segment are discussed. We demonstrate how modern Russian jewellery art creatively combines and develops Russian and European historical jewellery tradition while striving to absorb and utilize cutting-edge techniques, materials and technologies. The wide range of resulting artworks and approaches to modern jewellery-making highlights the successful combination of historical and modern approaches. More sophisticated technology allows the jewellery artists to implement new ideas while creating increasingly technically complex works. We analyse the works by the leading Yekaterinburg jewellery houses: MOISEIKIN, CHAMOVSKIKH, Natasha Libelle, Ringo, Maxim Demidov, Jewellers of Ural. Keywords: jewellery collection, design, translation method, quatation method, transformation

The settlement of Elephantine in southern Egypt is one of the few places where a local jewellery production made from different materials can be documented. In particular, semiproducts and production waste suggest the manufacture of bracelets and beads from stone and faience from the late Old Kingdom onwards. The production waste also allows for the reconstruction of the way hippopotamus ivory was cut into bracelets. A jewellery workshop can be identified as one of the functions of a large building dating to the Thirteenth Dynasty. Here, raw materials from the surrounding desert regions, i.e., amethyst and ostrich eggshells, were processed into beads, pendants, and scarabs. Various stages of a production line show how the ostrich eggshells were made into beads. The raw material and an unfinished scarab indicate the manufacture of amethyst objects. Semiproducts in the neighbouring houses show that in that area, pendants were also cut from mother of pearl.

Immovable 3D cultural heritage objects are an important part of the history and culture in Europe and provide a tangible connection with the past for current societies. These objects comprise religious buildings, castles and fortified buildings, palaces and historic houses, as well as engineering structures such as bridges and waterways. In many cases the buildings contain historic objects, including paintings, furniture, household items, as well as personal items such as jewellery and clothes. The structure of these buildings must be maintained to preserve both the building itself but also its contents. Cultural heritage objects are exposed to weather, changing climate, deterioration of materials, e.g. corrosion, moisture ingress, biological attack, pollution, wear and tear by use and sometimes vandalism. One of the challenges for heritage conservation is to combine the current detailed knowledge with an holistic approach to assessing the overall condition of the object. These parameters are necessarily subjective and comprise deterioration that causes a visual impact on the object, loss of function or loss of authenticity. This requires an interdisciplinary approach comprising the expertise of conservators, scientists, engineers and working in combination with stakeholders such as owners of heritage objects, local authorities and the public. This paper proposes the use of spatial referencing of chemical, biological and structural damage functions to enhance the prognosis capability in heritage science. The current situation is that these individual damage functions are either assessed separately or combined in an ad hoc way. The paper contains an example of immovable cultural heritage at risk in Europe, scientific approaches for the measurement and prognosis of chemical, biological, climate-related and structural damage, together with analysis tools to identify spatial regions with multiple degradation process indicators present.

In the middle of the eighteenth century, the so-called Koopmanshuis (Merchant’s House) at Rechter Rottekade 405-407 in Rotterdam underwent a substantial renovation that resulted in the present facade, staircase, and first-floor reception room with decorative paintings. The iconography of the paintings raises questions about their meaning, maker and client. In order to elucidate the artistic programme this article investigates the house, the painter, the client and the political-economic context. The research provides insight into the deeper meaning of the paintings while also increasing our knowledge of Rotterdam’s middle-class architectural and domestic culture in this period. Built largely in the period 1718-1735, the house has the typical layout of Rotterdam merchant houses, with business operations at street level and living spaces on the floors above. In 1756 the front elevation was rebuilt. The same period saw the installation of a rococo staircase and the creation of an elegant reception room, also in rococo style. It is here that the artworks – an overmantel painting and a ceiling painting – are to be found. The overmantel painting is an allegory on the virtues of Fidelity and Prudence. The ceiling painting consists of four corner tableaus depicting personifications of the four continents and a central tableau featuring personifications of Trade and Freedom and a composite personification of Victory, Plenty, Peace and Munificence. The iconography is derived in part from the emblem books of Cesare Ripa and Hubert Poot. They are neither signed nor dated. Stylistic and iconographic similarities with two paintings by Dirk Anthony Bisschop (1708-1785) suggest that this artist was also responsible for the paintings in the Koopmanshuis. Bisschop made decorative artworks, paintings, topographical drawings, armorials and family trees, and decorated carriages and jewellery. Several of his works display the same idiosyncratic kind of iconography as found in the Koopmanshuis. Bisschop was a highly regarded painter whose clients included many prominent families. The paintings and the rococo interior were done at the behest of the Remonstrant merchant Antonetta Verkanten (1702-1774). She traded in tea, coffee, wool and furs, products sourced in part from the Dutch colonies. The new interior was a reflection of her growing affluence and social ambitions. The subject matter of the paintings refers not just to Verkanten’s commercial activities, but was also influenced by contemporary international, political and economic threats to commerce, such as the Seven Years’ War and international competition in overseas trade. Based on this, the ceiling painting can be interpreted as an allegory of intercontinental free trade, and an appeal for peace in order that trade might flourish and generate prosperity. It also encourages the sharing of the resulting abundance. The virtues depicted in the overmantel work are crucial to successful commerce. The paintings and the interior demonstrate that it was not just the elite, but also the well-to-do middle class who commissioned elegant salons furnished in accordance with the latest fashion and decorated with allegorical figurations. The totality expressed the economic position, ambitions and ideas of the client. The painter, Bisschop, possessed the intellectual capacity to render the message in a unique iconography. Paintings like those in the Koopmanshuis, which can be difficult to interpret without knowing their background, are both interesting and relevant to the history of Dutch decorative painting.

Cars crest the rise behind the truck stop and drop cones of light over the highway. Ryan dunks his head under a tap. He rubs red dust from his pores and tries to drink some water, but it slides down his throat like a length of wire.His older brother Josh fills their drink bottles. “Wanna get some chips or something?”Ryan shakes his head. He’s sick of watching Josh’s pulpy tongue poke his broken tooth. Their dad never left visible marks before—Ryan used to wish for a cut or bruise, so someone at school could see it. He shivers and clutches his coat tight. Josh says, “We got money.”Ryan wonders how Josh stole it. He didn’t know there was anything to steal. He stares back down the road.“Fine, fuck, I’ll get—”Ryan nudges him and he looks over his shoulder. A square silhouette approaches. The brothers stand back as a two-storey house pulls up in front of them, strapped to the back of a truck. The house is cut in half, patched with pale afterimages of furniture and light fittings. A door slams and a tattooed man with a white wedge of beard climbs out of the cabin. He stretches and heads for the toilets. Josh sidles up to the house and runs his hands along the straight, fresh edge of the floorboards. Sawdust settles onto his hoodie. He laughs and hurls his bag into one of the rooms. “Shit yeah. You coming?” Ryan hesitates. He remembers the time Josh’s Torana—a windowless wreck, used for drifting in paddocks and chasing kangaroos—broke down at the back of their property. Ryan and their dad towed Josh in the four-wheel drive while he sat in the Torana, steering with his knees. He started swinging wide, bouncing the back of the car off tree trunks, until he overshot and hit an old gum headfirst. The cable snapped, jerking the four-wheel drive to a halt. Ryan’s head smacked against the dash. Josh emerged from the smoking Torana with a bloody nose, laughing hysterically—thumping the bonnet and laughing hysterically—even after his dad came over and hit him on the back of the head. Through a window in the far wall they watch the driver eat a sausage roll. Ryan follows Josh upstairs and they stand on the edge of the second floor, where the distorted acoustics amplify the traffic sounds. From this angle, the outback barely conceals the curvature of the earth. The moon is a globe of bone amongst the clouds, a ball and socket. Ryan thinks they’re in a kid’s bedroom; a mural on the far wall depicts the bottom of the ocean and a tinted window spreads faded colours on the floor. He tries to imagine the room with all its walls in place. The brothers hide in a back room when they hear the driver's footsteps. The driver slides a torch over the house and light filters through the floorboards in front of them. They press themselves against the wall. Ryan starts shivering again and Josh elbows him in the ribs. The truck eases onto the road and the house groans, its unsupported floorboards dipping and lifting like piano keys. Signs and lights flick past. The brothers creep downstairs, struggling to stay upright on the vibrating staircase. Josh opens two tins of baked beans. A string of cold sauce as thick as an artery spills down Ryan’s neck. They place the empty tins on the floor and bet on which one will roll off the edge first. Josh wins. He grabs Ryan’s head and rubs his knuckles into it. Josh runs into the bathroom, which juts out over the edge of the trailer. Ryan hangs back in the doorway. Instead of a toilet Josh finds a small circle cut out of the floor. He steadies himself and pisses in it. Ryan sprints into the other room and pisses out the window. They laugh and piss until a horn blares behind them. Ryan ducks. Urine splatters on the sill. He scrabbles with his pants. He’s pissed on someone’s windscreen. The horn’s still going. Headlights hit the trees beside him. Josh comes in from the toilet and Ryan grabs him and pulls him to the ground. A four-wheel drive appears beside them. There’s barely enough room on the road; the truck swerves away and a branch scrapes along the roof of the house. The passengers hang out the windows, screaming abuse. Josh stumbles onto his feet and gives them the finger. Someone hurls an empty coke can and it lands on the second floor. Then the car is gone and only the wind remains, filling the house with the whining roar of a depressurised aircraft. The trees are a smear of static. Josh smacks Ryan on the back of the head. Ryan swings instinctively. Josh deflects his fist and knocks him to the floor and Ryan’s head hits the skirting board. Something crumbles. Ryan presses his thumb into Josh’s black eye and Josh twists his arm behind his back. When they were kids Josh pinned Ryan in this position and shoved gravel into his mouth. Ryan remembers the stones scratching his teeth, the bloody mud he spat out. Josh lets him up and Ryan scrambles into the corner, sick with sudden panic. He kicks his bag away. Josh wipes his mouth and laughs. He crouches down and stares at the spot where Ryan’s head hit the wall. One of the panels has collapsed inwards. Josh snorts. “Look what your fucking head did!” He pulls out the panel and tosses it onto the road. He shines his torch into the space behind it, brushes away the cobwebs and extracts a cheap gold box. “Well, well, well,” he mutters. He sets it on the ground and dusts the lid off. He tries to pry it open it but it’s locked. Ryan looks over. Josh grips the box in both hands and pulls. For a moment his top teeth dig into his lip and then the box bursts open, scattering pieces of silver. Ryan reaches out his hand, expecting jewellery, but he jerks it back when he finds a razor near his foot. The floor is littered with needles and knives. Josh picks up a brown glass bottle and squints at the label. “Iodine.” They stare at the blades in silence. A sand bank slides past as steadily as a sine wave. Josh carves the word FUCK into the floor with a scalpel. Ryan cringes but doesn’t dare warn him about diseases. On long-distance drives Ryan often stares out the window and imagines his vision is a laser-beam, cutting cleanly through cities, forests, passers-by. Now he pictures a wrecking ball swinging into the darkness and colliding with a run-down rollercoaster. He imagines the ball smashing through the tangle of struts and tracks; wrapping around and around a corkscrew section like a yoyo; sending a train of carriages hurtling through the remains of a loop. A few hours later the house passes through a town surrounded by silos and steel windmills. The brothers retreat to the mural room. Streetlights slide on and off them: orange, black, orange, black, orange, black. Josh waves at the people on the balcony of the pub. In a slouched house over a hardware store Ryan glimpses, through half-closed curtains, a topless woman sitting on the edge of a bed, combing her hair. He tries to make out the name of the town on the shopfronts. Josh lights a joint, indifferent. Ryan slides his torch over the door frame, which is marked with the family’s heights. The vibrations blur the words, but he makes out the name “Molly” at eye level. He wonders if this is her room. He stares at the underwater scene and remembers reading somewhere that squids lay eggs via a funnel under their eyes, so their offspring emerge like hard, heavy tears. Josh offers the joint to Ryan, who snatches it and takes a shallow drag. Josh brushes dandruff off his sleeves. Ryan drops the joint when a siren starts to wail: they scramble to their feet and run over to the back window, fearing the police, but the road’s empty. Josh looks up and shouts, “Smoke detector!” Ryan starts waving his jacket to clear the smoke, but Josh just rips the detector from the ceiling and hurls it into a dam beside the road. Once the houses thin out the brothers climb back downstairs and unroll their sleeping bags. Ryan uses his pack as a pillow but Josh’s is still full of tins. Dark branches clasp the stars. Ryan gets up and tugs at his penis in the toilet, watching the bitumen slide under the hole like a belt sander. He tries to remember the scene above the hardware store—the line of tea lights on the windowsill, the mosquito net over the bed, the woman’s small, pale breasts—but his mind keeps replaying the image of a young girl pressing a razor into her thigh. They're woken a few hours later by footsteps. Ryan opens his eyes. Josh is already on his feet. “What the hell is that?” The ceiling creaks again and Josh picks up the torch and the scalpel. “I'm gonna take a look.” They creep upstairs. The hall is empty. Something shuffles in one of the rooms and slams against the wall. Josh whispers, “There ain’t no doors on that side of the hall. The fucking door's in the other half of the house.' He grabs the end of the wall and leans out, struggling to see around it. The wind blasts him back and he cups his hands over his black eye. He pushes the torch into Ryan’s chest. “Go. You go.” Ryan tries to turn away but Josh blocks him and says, “Don’t be a dickhead. Just see what’s over there.” The dark, crinkled skin around his eye shines with tears. “Fuck’s sake, my eye’s killing me. I can’t go.” He pushes Ryan again. With his free hand Ryan feels for the frame behind the plaster. He swings his leg around the wall, plants his foot on the other side, presses his chest against the end of the wall and edges into the other room. It’s empty. Sliding doors in the far wall conceal a walk-in wardrobe. A door on the right leads to an en suite. His foot crunches on the coke can and he kicks it onto the road. He pushes the bathroom door open and the torch beam slides over the tiles. He glimpses movement behind him in the mirror, but it’s only the trees. The tiles remind him of the killing floor on their chicken farm. When he and Josh were little their dad just cut the chickens’ heads off with an axe and let them run around spurting blood out of their necks, but a few years ago he got new machinery installed. Now the chickens were strung up by their feet on an overhead conveyor belt that carried them to a trough filled with electrified water, which killed them as soon as their heads hit it. He walks back into the bedroom and stares at the sliding doors. “Oi hurry up!” Josh shouts from the hall. “Fuck you.” “Fuck you, dickhead!” Ryan pushes a sliding door open and shines his torch in. A man crouches in the darkness, gripping a bottle of colourless liquid in both hands. His clothes are stuffed with newspapers; his beard clings to his chin like clotted blood caked together. He stares at Ryan and shouts, “Bastards! Leave me alone ya bastards! Get outta here! Get out!” He hurls the bottle and it smacks into Ryan’s shoulder. The bottle smashes on the floor; shards of glass cascade onto the highway. The man stumbles out of the wardrobe, lunging at Ryan, grabbing at his jacket. Ryan reaches around the wall and Josh pulls him over. The man slams his fists rhythmically, like pistons, into the other side of the wall. They scramble downstairs and Ryan takes off his jacket and waves it over the edge, screaming to get the driver’s attention. He looks up and sees the man shouting at him, tears streaming sideways across his face. Josh pulls Ryan back but he struggles free. Ryan crouches near the edge and stares at the scrub racing past. There’s a hill ahead and the truck’s slowing down. Josh sees what he’s thinking and calls him an idiot, but he’s already leaning forwards, judging the distance, waiting for the driver to downshift. Josh grabs him by the collar and hisses something but he doesn’t listen and pulls away and jumps. His head smacks solidly against a root and his arm twists under his torso, grinding into the gravel. He lies on his back and spits out black dust. Blood dribbles out of his arm. When the house reaches the top of the hill something flies out and bounces along the side of the road. Ryan gets to his feet and limps towards it. He searches through the bushes and finds his bag with half the tins in it. The roof of the house disappears over the top of the hill and he imagines Josh reaching his destination, perhaps a few hours after dawn, on a small hill out in the bush somewhere, where the morning light is as sallow as blood plasma and the other half of the house is already waiting.

Born in 1710, Robert Dingley was the eldest surviving son of Susanna and Robert Dingley, a prosperous jeweller and goldsmith of Bishopsgate Street, London. He and his brother Charles were made free of the Russia Company on 3 August 1731; Charles established himself at St Petersburg and Robert traded from Bishopsgate. In 1741, by then a court assistant, Robert helped secure an Act of Parliament enabling the Russia Company to import Persian silk, via Russia, on better terms. Robert Dingley’s early interest in the arts is shown by his active membership of the Society of Dilettanti from its inception in the 1730s and the Society of Antiquaries from December 1734. He was first introduced at the Royal Society in November 1738 by Peter Filenius (F.R.S.), Professor of Oriental Languages at Åbo (Turku) and an honorary Fellow of the Antiquaries. In 1744 he married Elizabeth, daughter of Henry Thompson of Kirby Hall, Yorkshire, at Somerset House Chapel. Martin Folkes, the President, communicated to the Royal Society in May 1747 an impressive paper by Dingley on the classical art of engraving gems. Resigning from the Society of Antiquaries on 13 June 1748, Dingley was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society on 3 November and admitted on 10 November. Five signatories of his certificate were influential members of the Antiquaries.

Introduction Tiffany and Co. is an American luxury jewellery and specialty retailer with its headquarters in New York City. Each piece of jewellery, symbolically packaged in a blue box and tied with a white bow, encapsulates the brand’s unique diamond pieces, symbolic origin story, branded historical contributions and representations in culture. Cultural brands are those that live and thrive in the minds of consumers (Holt). Their brand promise inspires loyalty and trust. These brands offer experiences, products, and personalities and spark emotional connotations within consumers (Arvidsson). This case study uses Tiffany & Co. as a successful example to reveal the importance of understanding consumers, the influential nature of media culture, and the efficacy of strategic branding, advertising, and marketing over time (Holt). It also reveals how Tiffany & Co. earned and maintained its place as an iconic cultural brand within consumer culture, through its strong association with New York and products from abroad. Through its trademarked logo and authentic luxury jewellery, encompassed in the globally recognised “Tiffany Blue” boxes, Tiffany & Co.’s cultural significance stems from its embodiment of the expected makings of a brand (Chernatony et al.). However, what propels this brand into what Douglas Holt terms “iconic territory” is that in its one hundred and seventy-nine years of existence, Tiffany’s has lived exclusively in the minds of its consumers.Tiffany & Co.’s intuitive prowess in reaching its target audience is what allows it to dominate the luxury jewellery market (Halasz et al.). This is not only a result of product value, but the alluring nature of the “Tiffany's from New York” brand imagery and experience (Holt et al.), circulated and celebrated in consumer culture through influential depictions in music, film and literature over time (Knight). Tiffany’s faithfully participates in the magnetic identity myth embodied by the brand and city, and has become globally sought after by consumers near and far, and recognised for its romantic connotations of love, luxury, and New York (Holt). An American Dream: New York Affiliation & Diamond OriginsIt was Truman Capote’s characterisation of Holly Golightly in his book (1958) and film adaption, Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961) that introduced the world to New York as the infatuating “setting,” upon which the Tiffany’s diamond rested. It was a place, that enabled the iconic Holly Golightly to personify the feeling of being abroad in New York and to demonstrate the seductive nature of a Tiffany’s store experience, further shaping the identity myth encompassed by the brand and the city for their global audience (Holt). Essentially, New York was the influential cultural instigator that propelled Tiffany & Co. from a consumer product, to a cultural icon. It did this by circulating its iconography via celebrity affiliations and representations in music, film, and literature (Knight), and by guiding strong brand associations in the minds of consumers (Arvidsson). However, before Tiffany’s became culturally iconic, it established its place in American heritage through historical contributions (Tiffany & Co.) and pledged an association to New York by personifying the American Dream (Mae). To help achieve his dream in a rapidly evolving economy (Elliott), Charles Lewis Tiffany purportedly brought the first substantial gemstones into America from overseas, and established the first American jewellery store to sell them to the public (Halasz et al.). The Tiffany & Co. origin story personifies the alluring nature of products from abroad, and their influence on individuals seeking an image of affluence for themselves. The ties between New York, Tiffany’s, and its consumers were further strengthened through the established, invaluable and emblematic nature of the diamond, historically launched and controlled by South African Diamond Cartel of De Beers (Twitchell). De Beers manipulated the demand for diamonds and instigated it as a status symbol. It then became a commoditised measurement of an individual’s worth and potential to love (Twitchell), a philosophy, also infused in the Tiffany & Co. brand ideology (Holt). Building on this, Tiffany’s further ritualised the justification of the material symbolisation of love through the idealistic connotations surrounding its assorted diamond ring experiences (Lee). This was projected through a strategic product placement and targeted advertising scheme, evident in dominant culture throughout the brand’s existence (Twitchell). Idealistically discussed by Purinton, this is also what exemplified, for consumers, the enticing cultural symbolism of the crystal rock from New York (Halasz et al.). Brand Essence: Experience & Iconography Prior to pop culture portraying the charming Tiffany’s brand imagery in mainstream media (Balmer et al.), Charles Tiffany directed the company’s ascent into luxury jewellery (Phillips et al.), fashioned the enticing Tiffany’s “store experience”, and initiated the experiential process of purchasing a diamond product. This immediately intertwined the imagery of Tiffany’s with New York, instigating the exclusivity of the experience for consumers (Holt). Tiffany’s provided customers with the opportunity to participate in an intricately branded journey, resulting in the diamond embodiment which declared their love most accurately; a token, packaged and presented within an iconic “Tiffany Blue” box (Klara). Aligning with Keller’s branding blueprint (7), this interactive process enabled Tiffany & Co. to build brand loyalty by consistently connecting with each of its consumers, regardless of their location in the world. The iconography of the coveted “blue box” was crafted when Charles Tiffany trademarked the shade Pantone No. 1837 (Osborne), which he coined for the year of Tiffany’s founding (Klara). Along with the brand promise of containing quality luxury jewellery, the box and that particular shade of blue instantly became a symbol of exclusivity, sophistication, and elegance, as it could only be acquired by purchasing jewellery from a Tiffany’s store (Rawlings). The exclusive packaging began to shape Tiffany’s global brand image, becoming a signifier of style and superiority (Phillips et al.), and eventually just as iconic as the jewellery itself. The blue box is still the strongest signifier of the brand today (Osborne). Ultimately, individuals want to participate in the myth of love, perfection and wealth (Arvidsson), encompassed exclusively by every Tiffany’s “blue box”. Furthermore, Tiffany’s has remained artistically significant within the luxury jewellery landscape since introducing its one-of-a-kind Tiffany Setting in 1886. It was the first jewellery store to fully maximise the potential of the natural beauty possessed of diamonds, while connotatively reflecting the natural beauty of every wearer (Phillips et al.). According to Jeffrey Bennett, the current Vice President of Tiffany & Co. New York, by precisely perching the “Tiffany Diamond” upon six intricately crafted silver prongs, the ring shines to its maximum capacity in a lit environment, while being closely secured to the wearer’s finger (Lee). Hence, the “Tiffany Setting” has become a universally sought after icon of extravagance and intricacy (Knight), and, as Bennett further describes, even today, the setting represents uncompromising quality and is a standard image of true love (Lee). Alluring Brand Imagery & Influential Representations in CultureEmpirical consumer research, involving two focus groups of married and unmarried, ethnically diverse Australian women and conducted in 2015, revealed that even today, individuals accredit their desire for Tiffany’s to the inspirational imagery portrayed in music, movies and television. Through participating in the Tiffany's from New York store experience, consumers are able to indulge in their fantasies of what it would feel like to be abroad and the endless potential a city such as New York could hold for them. Tiffany’s successfully disseminated its brand ideology into consumer culture (Purinton) and extended the brand’s significance for consumers beyond the 1960s through constant representation of the expensive business of love, lust and marriage within media culture. This is demonstrated in such films as Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953), Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961), Sleepless in Seattle (1993), Legally Blonde (2001), Sweet Home Alabama (2002), The Great Gatsby (2013), and in the influential television shows, Gossip Girl (2007—2012), and Glee (2009—2015).The most important of these was the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961), and the iconic embodiment of Capote’s (1958) Holly Golightly by actress Audrey Hepburn (Wasson). Hepburn’s (1961) portrayal of the emotionally evocative connotations of experiencing Tiffany’s in New York, as personified by her romantic dialogue throughout the film (Mae), produced the image that nothing bad could ever happen at a Tiffany’s store. Thus began the Tiffany’s from New York cultural phenomenon, which has been consistently reiterated in popular media culture ever since.Breakfast at Tiffany’s also represented a greater struggle faced by women in the 1960s (Dutt); that of gender roles, women’s place in society, and their desire for stability and freedom simultaneously (Sheehan). Due to Hepburn’s accurate characterisation of this struggle, the film enabled Tiffany & Co. to become more than just jewellery and a symbol of support (Torelli). Tiffany’s also allowed filming to take place inside its New York flagship store to which Capote’s narrative so idealistically alludes, further demonstrating its support for the 1960s women’s movement at an opportune moment in history (Torelli). Hence, Tiffany’s from New York became a symbol for the independent materialistic modern woman (Wasson), an ideal, which has become a repeated motif, re-imagined and embodied by popular icons (Knight) such as, Madonna in Material Girl (1985), and the characterisations of Carrie Bradshaw by Sarah Jessica Parker, Charlotte York by Kristin Davis (Sex and the City), and Donna Paulsen by Sarah Rafferty (Suits). The iconic television series Sex and the City, set in New York, boldly represented Tiffany’s as a symbol of friendship when a fellow female protagonist parted with her lavish Tiffany’s engagement ring to help her friend financially (Sex and the City). This was similarly reimagined in the popular television series Suits, also set in New York, where a protagonist is gifted two Tiffany Boxes from her female friend, as a token of congratulations on her engagement. This allowed Tiffany & Co. to add friendship to its symbolic repertoire (Manning), whilst still personifying a symbol of love in the minds of its consumers who were tactically also the target audiences of these television shows (Wharton).The alluring Tiffany’s image was presented specifically to a male audience through the first iconic Bond Girl named Tiffany Case in the novel Diamonds Are Forever (Fleming). The film adaption made its cultural imprint in 1971 with Sean Connery portraying James Bond, and paired the exaggerated brand of “007” with the evocative imagery of Tiffany’s (Spilski et al.). This served as a reminder to existing audiences about the powerful and seductive connotations of the blue box with the white ribbon (Osborne), as depicted by the enticing Tiffany Case in 1956.Furthermore, the Tiffany’s image was similarly established as a lyrical status symbol of wealth and indulgence (Knight). Portrayed most memorably by Marilyn Monroe’s iconic performance of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Gentlemen Prefer Blondes). Even though the song only mentions Tiffany’s lyrically twice (Vito et al.), through the celebrity affiliation, Monroe was introduced as a credible embodiment of Tiffany’s brand essence (Davis). Consequently, she permanently attached her image to that of the alluring Tiffany Diamonds for the target audience, male and female, past and present (Vito et al.). Exactly thirty-two years later, Monroe’s 1953 depiction was reinforced in consumer culture (Wharton) through an uncanny aesthetic and lyrical reimagining of the original performance by Madonna in her music video Material Girl (1985). This further preserved and familiarised the Tiffany’s image of glamour, luxury and beauty by implanting it in the minds of a new generation (Knight). Despite the shift in celebrity affiliation to a current cultural communicator (Arvidsson), the influential image of the Tiffany Diamond remains constant and Tiffany’s has maintained its place as a popular signifier of affluence and elegance in mainstream consumer culture (Jansson). The main difference, however, between Monroe’s and Madonna’s depictions is that Madonna aspired to be associated with the Tiffany’s brand image because of her appreciation for Marilyn Monroe and her brand image, which also intrinsically exuded beauty, money and glamour (Vito et al.). This suggests that even a musical icon like Madonna was influenced by Tiffany & Co.’s hold on consumer culture (Spilski et al.), and was able to inject the same ideals into her own loyal fan base (Fill). It is evident that Tiffany & Co. is thoroughly in tune with its target market and understands the relevant routes into the minds of its consumers. Kotler (113) identifies that the brand has demonstrated the ability to reach its separate audiences simultaneously, with an image that resonates with them on different levels (Manning). For example, Tiffany & Co. created the jewellery that featured in Baz Luhrmann’s 2013 cinematic adaption of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novel, The Great Gatsby (1925). Through representing a signifier of love and lust induced by monetary possessions (Fitzgerald), Tiffany’s truthfully portrayed its own brand image and persuaded audiences to associate the brand with these ideals (Holt). By illustrating the romantic, alluring and powerful symbolism of giving or obtaining love, armed with a Tiffany’s Diamond (Mae), Tiffany’s validated its timeless, historical and cultural contemporary relevance (Greene).This was also most recently depicted through Tiffany & Co.’s Will You (2015) advertising campaign. The brand demonstrated its support for marriage equality, by featuring a real life same-sex couple to symbolise that love is not conditional and that Tiffany’s has something that signifies every relationship (Dicker). Thus, because of the brand’s rooted place in central media culture and the ability to appeal to the belief system of its target market while evolving with, and understanding its consumers on a level of metonymy (Manning), Tiffany & Co. has transitioned from a consumer product to a culturally relevant and globally sought-after iconic brand (Holt). ConclusionTiffany & Co.’s place-based association and representational reflection in music, film, and literature, assisted in the formation of loyal global communities that thrive on the identity building side effects associated with luxury brand affiliation (Banet-Weiser et al.). Tiffany’s enables its global target market to revel in the shared meanings surrounding the brand, by signifying a symbolic construct that resonates with consumers (Hall). Tiffany’s inspires consumers to eagerly exercise their brand trust and loyalty by independently ritualising the Tiffany’s from New York brand experience for themselves and the ones they love (Fill). Essentially, Tiffany & Co. successfully established its place in society and strengthened its ties to New York, through targeted promotions and iconographic brand dissemination (Nita).Furthermore, by ritualistically positioning the brand (Holt), surrounding and saturating it in existing cultural practices, supporting significant cultural actions and becoming a symbol of wealth, luxury, commitment, love and exclusivity (Phillips et al.), Tiffany’s has steadily built a positive brand association and desire in the minds of consumers near and far (Keller). As a direct result, Tiffany’s earned and kept its place as a culturally progressive brand in New York and around the world, sustaining its influence and ensuring its survival in today’s contemporary consumer society (Holt).Most importantly, however, although New York has become the anchor in every geographically exemplified Tiffany’s store experience in literature, New York has also become the allegorical anchor in the minds of consumers in actuality (Arvidsson). Hence, Tiffany & Co. has catered to the needs of its global target audience by providing it with convenient local stores abroad, where their love can be personified by purchasing a Tiffany Diamond, the ultimate symbol of authentic commitment, and where they can always experience an allusive piece of New York. ReferencesArvidsson, Adam. Brands: Meaning and Value in Media Culture. New York: Routledge, 2006.Balmer, John M.T., Stephen A. 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If the home is traditionally considered to be a space of safety associated with the warm and cosy feeling of the familial hearth, it is also continuously portrayed as a space under threat from the outside from which we must secure ourselves and our families. Securing the home entails a series of material, discursive and performative strategies, a host of precautionary measures aimed at regulating and ultimately producing security. When I was eleven my family returned home from the local fruit markets to find our house had been ransacked. Clothes were strewn across the floor, electrical appliances were missing and my parents’ collection of jewellery – wedding rings and heirlooms – had been stolen. Few things remained untouched and the very thought of someone else’s hands going through our personal belongings made our home feel tainted. My parents were understandably distraught. As Filipino immigrants to Australia the heirlooms were not only expensive assets from both sides of my family, but also signifiers of our homeland. Added to their despair was the fact that this was our first house – we had rented prior to that. During the police interviews, we discovered that our area, Sydney’s Western suburbs, was considered ‘high-risk’ and we were advised to install security. In their panic my parents began securing their home. Grills were installed on every window. Each external wooden door was reinforced by a metal security door. Movement detectors were installed at the front of the house, which were set to blind intruders with floodlights. Even if an intruder could enter the back through a window a metal grill security door was waiting between the backroom and the kitchen to stop them from getting to our bedrooms. In short, through a series of transformations our house was made into a residential fortress. Yet home security had its own dangers. A series of rules and regulations were drilled into me ‘in case of an emergency’: know where your keys are in case of a fire so that you can get out; remember the phone numbers for an emergency and the work numbers of your parents; never let a stranger into the house; and if you need to speak to a stranger only open the inside door but leave the security screen locked. Thus, for my Filipino-migrant family in the 1990s, a whole series of defensive behaviours and preventative strategies were produced and disseminated inside and around the home to regulate security risks. Such “local knowledges” were used to reinforce the architectural manifestations of security at the same time that they were a response to the invasion of security systems into our house that created a new set of potential dangers. This article highlights “the interplay of material and symbolic geographies of home” (Blunt and Varley 4), focusing on the relation between urban fears circulating around and within the home and the spatial practices used to negotiate such fears. In exploring home security systems it extends the exemplary analysis of home technologies already begun in Lynn Spigel’s reading of the ‘smart home’ (381-408). In a similar vein, David Morley’s analysis of mediated domesticity shows how communications technology has reconfigured the inside and outside to the extent that television actually challenges the physical boundary that “protects the privacy and solidarity of the home from the flux and threat of the outside world” (87). Television here serves as a passage in which the threat of the outside is reframed as news or entertainment for family viewing. I take this as a point of departure to consider the ways that this mediated fear unfolds in the technology of our homes. Following Brian Massumi, I read the home as “a node in a circulatory network of many dimensions (each corresponding to a technology of transmission)” (85). For Massumi, the home is an event-space at the crossroads of media technologies and political technologies. “In spite of the locks on the door, the event-space of the home must be seen as one characterized by a very loose regime of passage” (85). The ‘locked door’ is not only a boundary marker that defines the inside from the outside but another technology that leads us outside the home into other domains of inquiry: the proliferation of security technologies and the mundane, fearful intimacies of the home. In this context, we should heed Iris Marion Young’s injunction to feminist critics that the home does provide some positives including a sense of privacy and the space to build relationships and identities. Yet, as Colomina argues, the traditional domestic ideal “can only be produced by engaging the home in combat” (20). If, as Colomina’s comment suggests, ontological security is at least partially dependent on physical security, then this article explores the ontological effects of our home security systems. Houses at War: Targeting the Family As Beatriz Colomina reminds us, in times of war we leave our homelands to do battle on the front line, but battle lines are also being drawn in our homes. Drawing inspiration from Virilio’s claim that contemporary war takes place without fighting, Colomina’s article ‘Domesticity at War’ contemplates the domestic interior as a “battlefield” (15). The house, she writes, is “a mechanism within a war where the differences between defense [sic] and attack have become blurred” (17). According to the Home Security Precautions, New South Wales, October 1999 report conducted by the Australian Bureau of Statistics, 47% of NSW dwellings were ‘secure’ (meaning that they either had a burglar alarm, or all entry points were secured or they were inside a security block) while only 9% of NSW households had no home security devices present (Smith 3). In a similar report for Western Australia conducted in October 2004, an estimated 71% of WA households had window security of some sort (screens, locks or shutters) while 67% had deadlocks on at least one external door (4). An estimated 27% had a security alarm installed while almost half (49%) had sensor lights (Hubbard 4-5). This growing sense of insecurity means big business for those selling security products and services. By the end of June 1999, there were 1,714 businesses in Australia’s security services industry generating $1,395 million of income during 1998-99 financial year (McLennan 3; see also Macken). This survey did not include locksmith services or the companies dealing with alarm manufacturing, wholesaling or installing. While Colomina’s article focuses on the “war with weather” and the attempts to control environmental conditions inside the home through what she calls “counterdomesticity” (20), her conceptualisation of the house as a “military weapon” (17) provides a useful tool for thinking the relation between the home, architecture and security. Conceiving of the house as a military weapon might seem like a stretch, but we should recall that the rhetoric of war has already leaked into the everyday. One hears of the ‘war on drugs’ and the ‘war on crime’ in the media. ‘War’ is the everyday condition of our urban jungles (see also Diken and Lausten) and in order to survive, let alone feel secure, one must be able to defend one’s family and home. Take, for example, Signal Security’s website. One finds a panel on the left-hand side of the screen to all webpages devoted to “Residential Products”. Two circular images are used in the panel with one photograph overlapping the other. In the top circle, a white nuclear family (stereotypical mum, dad and two kids), dressed in pristine white clothing bare their white teeth to the internet surfer. Underneath this photo is another photograph in which an arm clad in a black leather jacket emerges through a smashed window. In the foreground a black-gloved hand manipulates a lock, while a black balaclava masks an unrecognisable face through the broken glass. The effect of their proximity produces a violent juxtaposition in which the burglar visually intrudes on the family’s domestic bliss. The panel stages a struggle between white and black, good and bad, family and individual, security and insecurity, recognisability and unidentifiability. It thus codifies the loving, knowable family as the domestic space of security against the selfish, unidentifiable intruder (presumed not to have a family) as the primary reason for insecurity in the family home – and no doubt to inspire the consumption of security products. Advertisements of security products thus articulate the family home as a fragile innocence constantly vulnerable from the outside. From a feminist perspective, this image of the family goes against the findings of the National Homicide Monitoring Program, which shows that 57% of the women killed in Australia between 2004 and 2005 were killed by an intimate partner while 17% were killed by a family member (Mouzos and Houliaras 20). If, on the one hand, the family home is targeted by criminals, on the other, it has emerged as a primary site for security advertising eager to exploit the growing sense of insecurity – the family as a target market. The military concepts of ‘target’ and ‘targeting’ have shifted into the benign discourse of strategic advertising. As Dora Epstein writes, “We arm our buildings to arm ourselves from the intrusion of a public fluidity, and thus our buildings, our architectures of fortification, send a very clear message: ‘avoid this place or protect yourself’” (1997: 139). Epstein’s reference to ‘architectures of fortification’ reminds us that the desire to create security through the built environment has a long history. Nan Ellin has argued that fear’s physical manifestation can be found in the formation of towns from antiquity to the Renaissance. In this sense, towns and cities are always already a response to the fear of foreign invaders (Ellin 13; see also Diken and Lausten 291). This fear of the outsider is most obviously manifested in the creation of physical walls. Yet fortification is also an effect of spatial allusions produced by the configuration of space, as exemplified in Fiske, Hodge and Turner’s semiotic reading of a suburban Australian display home without a fence. While the lack of a fence might suggest openness, they suggest that the manicured lawn is flat so “that eyes can pass easily over it – and smooth – so that feet will not presume to” (30). Since the front garden is best viewed from the street it is clearly a message for the outside, but it also signifies “private property” (30). Space is both organised and lived, in such a way that it becomes a medium of communication to passers-by and would-be intruders. What emerges in this semiotic reading is a way of thinking about space as defensible, as organised in a way that space can begin to defend itself. The Problematic of Defensible Space The incorporation of military architecture into civil architecture is most evident in home security. By security I mean the material systems (from locks to electronic alarms) and precautionary practices (locking the door) used to protect spaces, both of which are enabled by a way of imagining space in terms of risk and vulnerability. I read Oscar Newman’s 1972 Defensible Space as outlining the problematic of spatial security. Indeed, it was around that period that the problematic of crime prevention through urban design received increasing attention in Western architectural discourse (see Jeffery). Newman’s book examines how spaces can be used to reinforce human control over residential environments, producing what he calls ‘defensible space.’ In Newman’s definition, defensible space is a model for residential environments which inhibits crime by creating the physical expression of a social fabric that defends itself. All the different elements which combine to make a defensible space have a common goal – an environment in which latent territoriality and sense of community in the inhabitants can be translated into responsibility for ensuring a safe, productive, and well-maintained living space (3). Through clever design space begins to defend itself. I read Newman’s book as presenting the contemporary problematic of spatialised security: how to structure space so as to increase control; how to organise architecture so as to foster territorialism; how to encourage territorial control through amplifying surveillance. The production of defensible space entails moving away from what he calls the ‘compositional approach’ to architecture, which sees buildings as separate from their environments, and the ‘organic approach’ to architecture, in which the building and its grounds are organically interrelated (Newman 60). In this approach Newman proposes a number of changes to space: firstly, spaces need to be multiplied (one no longer has a simple public/private binary, but also semi-private and semi-public spaces); secondly, these spaces must be hierarchised (moving from public to semi-public to semi-private to private); thirdly, within this hierarchy spaces can also be striated using symbolic or material boundaries between the different types of spaces. Furthermore, spaces must be designed to increase surveillance: use smaller corridors serving smaller sets of families (69-71); incorporate amenities in “defined zones of influence” (70); use L-shaped buildings as opposed to rectangles (84); use windows on the sides of buildings to reveal the fire escape from outside (90). As he puts it, the subdivision of housing projects into “small, recognisable and comprehensible-at-a-glance enclaves is a further contributor to improving the visual surveillance mechanism” (1000). Finally, Newman lays out the principle of spatial juxtaposition: consider the building/street interface (positioning of doors and windows to maximise surveillance); consider building/building interface (e.g. build residential apartments next to ‘safer’ commercial, industrial, institutional and entertainment facilities) (109-12). In short, Newman’s book effectively redefines residential space in terms of territorial zones of control. Such zones of influence are the products of the interaction between architectural forms and environment, which are not reducible to the intent of the architect (68). Thus, in attempting to respond to the exigencies of the moment – the problem of urban crime, the cost of housing – Newman maps out residential space in what Foucault might have called a ‘micro-physics of power’. During the mid-1970s through to the 1980s a number of publications aimed at the average householder are printed in the UK and Australia. Apart from trade publishing (Bunting), The UK Design Council released two small publications (Barty, White and Burall; Design Council) while in Australia the Department of Housing and Construction released a home safety publication, which contained a small section on security, and the Australian Institute of Criminology published a small volume entitled Designing out Crime: Crime prevention through environmental design (Geason and Wilson). While Newman emphasised the responsibility of architects and urban planners, in these publications the general concerns of defensible space are relocated in the ‘average homeowner’. Citing crime statistics on burglary and vandalism, these publications incite their readers to take action, turning the homeowner into a citizen-soldier. The householder, whether he likes it or not, is already in a struggle. The urban jungle must be understood in terms of “the principles of warfare” (Bunting 7), in which everyday homes become bodies needing protection through suitable architectural armour. Through a series of maps and drawings and statistics, the average residential home is transformed into a series of points of vulnerability. Home space is re-inscribed as a series of points of entry/access and lines of sight. Simultaneously, through lists of ‘dos and don’ts’ a set of precautionary behaviours is inculcated into the readers. Principles of security begin codifying the home space, disciplining the spatial practices of the intimate, regulating the access and mobility of the family and guests. The Architectural Nervous System Nowadays we see a wild, almost excessive, proliferation of security products available to the ‘security conscious homeowner’. We are no longer simply dealing with security devices designed to block – such as locks, bolts and fasteners. The electronic revolution has aided the production of security devices that are increasingly more specialised and more difficult to manipulate, which paradoxically makes it more difficult for the security consumer to understand. Detection systems now include continuous wiring, knock-out bars, vibration detectors, breaking glass detectors, pressure mats, underground pressure detectors and fibre optic signalling. Audible alarm systems have been upgraded to wire-free intruder alarms, visual alarms, telephone warning devices, access control and closed circuit television and are supported by uninterruptible power supplies and control panels (see Chartered Institution of Building Service Engineers 19-39). The whole house is literally re-routed as a series of relays in an electronic grid. If the house as a security risk is defined in terms of points of vulnerability, alarm systems take these points as potential points of contact. Relays running through floors, doors and windows can be triggered by pressure, sound or dislocation. We see a proliferation of sensors: switching sensors, infra-red sensors, ultrasonic sensors, microwave radar sensors, microwave fence sensors and microphonic sensors (see Walker). The increasing diversification of security products attests to the sheer scale of these architectural/engineering changes to our everyday architecture. In our fear of crime we have produced increasingly more complex security products for the home, thus complexifying the spaces we somehow inherently feel should be ‘simple’. I suggest that whereas previous devices merely reinforced certain architectural or engineering aspects of the home, contemporary security products actually constitute the home as a feeling, architectural body capable of being affected. This recalls notions of a sensuous architecture and bodily metaphors within architectural discourse (see Thomsen; Puglini). It is not simply our fears that lead us to secure our homes through technology, but through our fears we come to invest our housing architecture with a nervous system capable of fearing for itself. Our eyes and ears become detection systems while our screams are echoed in building alarms. Body organs are deterritorialised from the human body and reterritorialised on contemporary residential architecture, while our senses are extended through modern security technologies. The vulnerable body of the family home has become a feeling body conscious of its own vulnerability. It is less about the physical expression of fear, as Nan Ellin has put it, than about how building materialities become capable of fearing for themselves. What we have now are residential houses that are capable of being more fully mobilised in this urban war. Family homes become bodies that scan the darkness for the slightest movements, bodies that scream at the slightest possibility of danger. They are bodies that whisper to each other: a house can recognise an intrusion and relay a warning to a security station, informing security personnel without the occupants of that house knowing. They are the newly produced victims of an urban war. Our homes are the event-spaces in which mediated fear unfolds into an architectural nervous system. If media plug our homes into one set of relations between ideologies, representations and fear, then the architectural nervous system plugs that back into a different set of relations between capital, fear and the electronic grid. The home is less an endpoint of broadcast media than a node in an electronic network, a larger nervous system that encompasses the globe. It is a network that plugs architectural nervous systems into city electronic grids into mediated subjectivities into military technologies and back again, allowing fear to be disseminated and extended, replayed and spliced into the most banal aspects of our domestic lives. References Barty, Euan, David White, and Paul Burall. Safety and Security in the Home. London: The Design Council, 1980. Blunt, Alison, and Ann Varley. “Introduction: Geographies of Home.” Cultural Geographies 11.1 (2004): 3-6. Bunting, James. The Protection of Property against Crime. Folkestone: Bailey Brothers & Sinfen, 1975. Chartered Institution of Building Service Engineers. Security Engineering. London: CIBSE, 1991. Colomina, Beatriz. “Domesticity at War.” Assemblage 16 (1991): 14-41. Department of Housing and Construction. Safety in and around the Home. Canberra: Australian Government Publishing Service, 1981. Design Council. The Design Centre Guide to Domestic Safety and Security. London: Design Council, 1976. Diken, Bülent, and Carsten Bagge Lausten. “Zones of Indistinction: Security and Terror, and Bare Life.” Space and Culture 5.3 (2002): 290-307. Ellin, Nan. “Shelter from the Storm or Form Follows Fear and Vice Versa.” Architecture of Fear. Ed. Nan Ellin. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1997. Epstein, Dora. “Abject Terror: A Story of Fear, Sex, and Architecture.” Architecture of Fear. Ed. Nan Ellin. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1997. Fiske, John, Bob Hodge, and Graeme Turner. Myths of Oz: Reading Australian Popular Culture. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1987. Geason, Susan, and Paul Wilson. Designing Out Crime: Crime Prevention through Environmental Design. Canberra: Australian Institute of Criminology, 1989. Hubbard, Alan. Home Safety and Security, Western Australia. Canberra: Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2005. Jeffery, C. Ray. Crime Prevention through Environmental Design. Beverley Hills: Sage, 1971. Macken, Julie. “Why Aren’t We Happier?” Australian Financial Review 26 Nov. 1999: 26. Mallory, Keith, and Arvid Ottar. Architecture of Aggression: A History of Military Architecture in North West Europe, 1900-1945. Hampshire: Architectural Press, 1973. Massumi, Brian. Parables of the Virtual: Movement, Affect, Sensation. Durham: Duke University Press, 2002. McLennan, W. Security Services, Australia, 1998-99. Canberra: Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2000. Morley, David. Home Territories: Media, Mobility and Identity. London and New York: Routledge, 2000. Mouzos, Jenny, and Tina Houliaras. Homicide in Australia: 2004-05 National Homicide Monitoring Program (NHMP) Annual Report. Research and Public Policy Series 72. Canberra: Australian Institute of Criminology, 2006. Newman, Oscar. Defensible Space: Crime Prevention through Urban Design. New York: Collier, 1973. Puglini, Luigi. HyperArchitecture: Space in the Electronic Age. Basel: Bikhäuser, 1999. Signal Security. 13 January 2007 http://www.signalsecurity.com.au/securitysystems.htm>. Smith, Geoff. Home Security Precautions, New South Wales, October 1999. Canberra: Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2000. Spigel, Lynn. Welcome to the Dreamhouse: Popular Media and Postwar Suburbs. Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2001. Thomsen, Christian W. Sensuous Architecture: The Art of Erotic Building. Munich and New York: Prestel, 1998. Walker, Philip. Electronic Security Systems: Better Ways to Crime Prevention. London: Butterworths, 1983. Young, Iris Marion. “House and Home: Feminist Variations on a Theme.” Feminist Interpretations of Martin Heidegger. Eds. Nancy J. Holland and Patricia Huntington. University Park, Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State UP, 2001. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Caluya, Gilbert. "The Architectural Nervous System: Home, Fear, Insecurity." M/C Journal 10.4 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/05-caluya.php>. APA Style Caluya, G. (Aug. 2007) "The Architectural Nervous System: Home, Fear, Insecurity," M/C Journal, 10(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/05-caluya.php>.

My father killed the boar when he was 16. He’d dreamed of killing the boar for some time. My father’s brother had killed a boar when he was only fifteen. My father’s brother was five years older than him. Like most big brothers, he treated his little brother with intolerant contempt. He’d been saying for months that my father would never kill a boar. He was too weak. He was a girl. He was useless. And, just the day before, he told him he was so worthless he better finish the fence on the bottom paddock before dusk or he could expect a kicking. The family farm was gradually being cleared from the bush and the fencing slow and arduous. My father finished the fence. My father was very good with his hands and in truth a much better fencer than his brother, which didn’t help matters between them. That night my father didn’t go to sleep in the room he shared with his brother. Instead he went out into the bush past the bottom paddock, where the boars roamed, his rifle strapped over his shoulder and a knife in his ankle scabbard. The cleared ground was rough and uneven, a broken landscape created by the eruptions and outpourings of the volcanoes Ruapehu, Ngauruhoe and Tongariro. In the bush, the terrain was even rougher, jagged rises and deep gullies, all ripe with the verdant vegetation flourishing on the rich volcanic soil. My father found himself a niche in a cliff on the edge of the bush above a small clearing near the creek. He huddled there in his woollen coat and dungarees and waited. He’d brought the dogs with him and they drove the boar out of the bush and into the clearing among the tree ferns just before dawn. By then my father was hunched on a rock, out of the way. The dogs worried the boar. They grabbed its tail, snapped at its balls, sank their teeth into its legs. The boar fought back. It lashed at them with its tusks. It caught one and tossed it into a tree fern, the dog yelping from the pain of its ripped rib cage. The boar roared, stomping and rooting. The dogs continued to circle. My father had waited all night in the cold, his rifle loaded and the safety catch off. My father was a very good shot. Better than his brother. That was why his parents had splurged on his birthday gift and bought him a .303 rifle. His brother had a .22, but he couldn’t shoot pigeons or ducks. My father, though, could use his brother’s gun to bring down a brace of ducks. Another reason his brother treated him like a piece of dirt. But out in the bush he couldn’t shoot the boar for fear of killing one of the dogs. He slipped the catch on and laid the gun down beside him. He took a knife from the scabbard on his belt. He waited until the boar was facing away from him, dogs in front and behind it. He jumped from the rock, and kicked the boar’s right hind leg out. The boar went down. My father threw himself on its back and plunged the knife in between the shoulders. Deep, to cut the spine and throat. The boar squealed, thrashed and subsided. My father thrust himself upright, knife still in blood-soaked hand, and stood away from the boar. The boar rolled over, the dogs still nipping at it. My father used the knife again, slashing deep across the boar’s throat. It screamed and lunged at him with head and tusks. He leapt away, falling over one of the dogs. The boar didn’t die straight away. It thrashed about on the ground, snorting and sighing at first, then whimpering as blood gushed out, steamed on the cold ground and coagulated in the crushed ferns. Eventually it was just panting, and slowly at that. Finally it was dead. My father shooed the dogs away. He cut off the boar’s balls and pizzle and tossed them to the dogs. He slit the boar from arse to belly and began the process of removing its warm innards, first working with the bladder to attempt to keep its contents from having too much contact with his game. His hands reached right inside to disentangle the intestines. His shirt and jacket were soaked with its blood. His hands were greasy with blood and shit. He washed himself as best as he could in the freezing water of the creek. He manoeuvred the boar so that it was half sitting on the ground then he lowered himself down and backed between the boar’s front legs, his head under its chin. Taking the weight of the beast on his shoulders, he slowly stood and began to trudge out of the bush and through the rough paddocks towards his family home on the top of the rise. The dogs kept him company for a bit, but the lure of home was too much for them and they took off up the hill in a barking frenzy. All except the one that had been tossed by the boar. It slunk at his heels, blood on its flank where the tusk had ripped through. His father and brother were waiting for him on the veranda. His brother glared and yelled at him because he had missed the morning milking of the cows, but his father told him to take the boar to the meat shack. This was behind the house. It was a rough weatherboard structure on the cool, south-side. It was secure against dogs and vermin and big enough to hang several carcases. A sheep and legs of ham were already there. The shack had a smooth stone floor with drainage channels grooved into it. My father laid the boar on the floor of the shack. He cut the hock of each hind leg just behind the tendon to make a space for the gambrel hook. He inserted the hook then used the hoist in the shack to raise the boar up to the rail that ran down the centre of the room and from which the meat hung. My father then began to skin the boar, stripping back the black bristled outer flesh as much as possible in one piece. Once it was scrubbed of the bristles and tanned, the skin would be soft and supple, suitable for a purse or for covering a saddle. He washed the carcass. Later, when the day’s farm work was over, the whole family would work on preparing and preserving the boar. His mother had already fired up the copper to boil water for the cleaning and salting. Lastly, he sawed off the boar’s head. He placed it on the butcher’s block in the shack and worked at the tusks. On this big beast the tusks were almost five inches long, curved and very sharp. They were much larger than the tusks from his brother’s boar. Once he had the tusks out of the boar’s mouth, he stripped of all but his underpants and washed himself as best as he could at the tap of the water tank at the back of the house. The water was icy and there was a stiff breeze from the snow on the mountains. It was still winter. But my father hardly noticed. He was still warm from the blood of the boar and the sight of his brother’s face when he had seen the size of it. Two months later, he took the tusks into the town of Taumaranui. He sought advice from the jeweller in the main street, who had made a speciality of working with tusks. The jeweller was known all over the King Country. The jeweller talked about how the tusks might be mounted. He suggested a band of gold, edges engraved with delicate leaves, to join the tusks base to base, so that the points formed a semicircle. Just below the points, he suggested two gold bands joined with a delicate gold chain, from which the tusks could be hung. And that is what my father agreed to. The jeweller took one month then my father claimed his tusks and took them home to mount on his bedroom wall, where his brother was forced to see them every day. My father signed up for the Air Force when he was 18. He wanted to fly away from his brother and the cows and the fencing and digging the rocks out of the paddock and that is exactly what he did. He learned to fly, something he’d dreamed of doing, same as he had dreamed of killing a boar. My father was a great dreamer. He left the tusks at home with his mother. She took them out of the bedroom them and placed them on the wall of the family room to remind her of him. His brother would turn them back to front. My father sent home photographs of himself: one from Cairo with him in tropical gear, sparkling eyes and a jaunty smile under his new moustache; another from Waddingham in his Sergeant pilot’s uniform standing with his crew in front of their Lancaster as it is loaded with bombs; a last one from an unknown place but he is wearing his Flying Officer’s uniform for he had been promoted and there are ribbons on his chest, too, but his eyes do not shine and he does not smile. As they arrived from the other side of the world in the slow mail his mother placed these photographs on the sideboard in the family room under my father’s tusks. In a mood after the Sunday roast his brother would turn them face down, saying my father wouldn’t be coming back so why did he have to be reminded of him. But he did come back, which even his brother had to acknowledge. He was 23. He was a shell of the boy who had killed the boar. He had been gutted by the war, though he showed no outward signs of the mutilation. It was all within, deep within, embedded in him like tusks in the jaw of a boar. My father began studying to be a veterinarian when he was 25. As part of his repatriation package, he was paid to study at the University of Sydney. He took the tusks down from his mother’s wall and packed them into one of the suitcases he and my mother took with them on the flying boat to Sydney. The tusks hung on the wall of the semi in Enmore they lived in for the five years he studied. Then after he had graduated they went back across the Tasman and my father began his work with animals. The animals received his ministrations with passive indifference and helped resolve the horror in his head, an unremitting memory of the perilous flights under attack across black skies and terrain, the fires unleashed by the phosphorous bombs released from his plane’s bomb bay let alone the destruction from other ordnance, the morning briefings after what was left of the squadron had returned and he learned which of his mates was no longer. He drank a bit. Maybe too much, but nobody ever sat down with him and talk about what he had been through. He had some medals and his old flying jacket and it was expected that he just get on with life. Which he did, overall. Once my parents were back in New Zealand, he set up practice in Waikato, with dairy cattle his most frequent patients. The Waikato district lies to the north of the King Country where my father had killed the boar. His family were not so far away, but he didn’t visit them that often. His brother was running things down there. His brother held vets in contempt and made that clear on the rare occasions my father did visit. Then his father, my grandfather, died. The farm went to his older brother as was the custom of those times. His widowed mother moved up to Auckland, so my father had no reason to visit the farm or his brother any more. Maybe it was only a matter of moving away from his brother but he lost and found himself in Australia. Maybe it was also the fact that a few years after he had made the move, the phone rang one night and he found he was talking to his brother’s wife. His brother had shot himself down in the bottom paddock that morning. It seems my father’s brother was never a very good farmer. From that time on my father mellowed, relaxed and began to enjoy himself. The tusks, though, were always on his bedside table, reminding him of that night he spent out in the bush and killed the boar. My father died three weeks before he was to turn 80. His death was long and painful to those of us who had to watch it, though for him it was ameliorated by painkillers and palliative care given him. It was my job to arrange the details of his funeral. Since his death was no surprise, all of his family, his three sons and his two daughters, grandsons and grand-daughters and his great grand children as well, had already gathered to say goodbye to him. But everybody was now under pressure to get back to jobs and other commitments. I spoke to the undertakers. They arranged the funeral the day following my father’s death in their own chapel. My mother wanted an open casket so my father had to be dressed in his best clothes. My mother and I selected the clothes and I took them to the undertakers. The next morning, before the ceremony, the undertakers called me and asked me to come to their rooms behind the chapel. They asked me to check that my father looked as much as we wanted him to look. He lay in the coffin, only his head and hands showing, the rest of him expertly trussed and dressed for this last display. His hair was neatly brushed and there was a bristle or two of whiskers on his cheek and chin. His eyes were closed and the skin on his face waxy, but cold from wherever he had been stored. I kissed him on his forehead. Then I placed the tusks on his chest, just under his neck and over the tie and jacket my mother had decided he should wear. My father was ready. I drove my mother down to the chapel just before 2 pm. She and I were the last people to be seated. We were both to sit in the front row. She walked straight up the aisle past the other mourners to my father’s coffin and she stood there for a moment looking at her husband of nearly sixty years. She stretched out her arm and stroked the tusks on his chest. Then she turned and I reached out and guided her to her seat. “He’ll like having them,” she whispered to me. Then we sang “There’s a hole in the bucket”. My father always liked that song. The crematorium was miles away. My father travelled there alone. Just as he had faced the boar. References De Hek, Danny. “Hunting regions—King Country: The home of wild pig hunting in New Zealand.” New Zealand’s Information Network 16 Aug. 2010 . Dick, Tim. “The boar wars.” WAtoday.com.au 13 Nov. 2008. 16 Aug. 2010 . Rushmer, Miles. “Bush surfing: That’s a New Zealand pig hunt.” ESPN Outdoors 28 Apr. 2005. 16 Aug. 2010 . Walrond, Carl. “Pig hunting.” Te Ara: The Encyclopaedia of New Zealand 1 Mar. 2009. 16 Aug. 2010 .

Introduction In the elite space of Haute Couture, fashion is presented through a theatrical array of dynamics—the engagement of specific bodies performing for select audiences in highly curated spaces. Each element is both very precise in its objectives and carefully selected for impact. In this way, the production of Haute Couture makes itself accessible to only a few select members of society. Globally, there are only an estimated 4,000 direct consumers of Haute Couture (Hendrik). Given this limited market, the work of elite couturiers relies on other forms of artistic media, namely film, photography, and increasingly, museum spaces, to reach broader audiences who are then enabled to participate in the fashion ‘space’ via a process of visual consumption. For these audiences, Haute Couture is less about material consumption than it is about the aspirational consumption and contestation of notions of identity. This article uses qualitative textual analysis and draws on semiotic theory to explore symbolism and values in Haute Couture. Semiotics, an approach popularised by the work of Roland Barthes, examines signifiers as elements of the construction of metalanguage and myth. Barthes recognised a broad understanding of language that extended beyond oral and written forms. He acknowledged that a photograph or artefact may also constitute “a kind of speech” (111). Similarly, fashion can be seen as both an important signifier and mode of communication. The model of fashion as communication is one extensively explored within culture studies (e.g. Hall; Lurie). Much of the discussion of semiotics in this literature is predicated on sender/receiver models. These models conceive of fashion as the mechanism through which individual senders communicate to another individual or to collective (and largely passive) audiences (Barnard). Yet, fashion is not a unidirectional form of communication. It can be seen as a dialogical and discursive space of encounter and contestation. To understand the role of Haute Couture as a contested space of identity and socio-political discourse, this article examines the work of Chinese couturier Guo Pei. An artisan such as Guo Pei places the results of needle and thread into spaces of the theatrical, the spectacular, and, significantly, the powerfully socio-political. Guo Pei’s contributions to Haute Couture are extravagant, fantastical productions that also serve as spaces of socio-cultural information exchange and debate. Guo Pei’s creations bring together political history, memory, and fantasy. Here we explore the socio-cultural and political semiotics that emerge when the humble stitch is dramatically amplified onto the Haute Couture runway. We argue that Guo Pei’s work speaks not only to a cultural imaginary but also to the contested nature of gender and socio-political authority in contemporary China. The Politicisation of Fashion in China The majority of literature regarding Chinese fashion in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries has focussed on the use of fashion to communicate socio-political messages (Finnane). This is most clearly seen in analyses of the connections between dress and egalitarian ideals during Mao Zedong’s Cultural Revolution. As Zhang (952-952) notes, revolutionary fashion emphasised simplicity, frugality, and homogenisation. It rejected style choices that reflected both traditional Chinese and Western fashions. In Mao’s China, fashion was utilised by the state and adopted by the populace as a means of reinforcing the regime’s ideological orientations. For example, the ubiquitous Mao suit, worn by both men and women during the Cultural Revolution “was intended not merely as a unisex garment but a means to deemphasise gender altogether” (Feng 79). The Maoist regime’s intention to create a type of social equality through sartorial homogenisation was clear. Reflecting on the ways in which fashion both responded to and shaped women’s positionality, Mao stated, “women are regarded as criminals to begin with, and tall buns and long skirts are the instruments of torture applied to them by men. There is also their facial makeup, which is the brand of the criminal, the jewellery on their hands, which constitutes shackles and their pierced ears and bound feet which represent corporal punishment” (Mao cited in Finnane 23). Mao’s suit—the homogenising militaristic uniform adopted by many citizens—may have been intended as a mechanism for promoting equality, freeing women from the bonds of gendered oppression and all citizens from visual markers of class. Nonetheless, in practice Maoist fashion and policing of appearance during the Cultural Revolution enforced a politics of amnesia and perversely may have “entailed feminizing the undesirable, by conflating woman, bourgeoisie, and colour while also insisting on a type of gender equality that the belted Mao jacket belied” (Chen 161). In work on cultural transformations in the post-Maoist period, Braester argues that since the late 1980s Chinese cultural products—here taken to include artefacts such as Haute Couture—have similarly been defined by the politics of memory and identity. Evocation of historically important symbols and motifs may serve to impose a form of narrative continuity, connecting the present to the past. Yet, as Braester notes, such strategies may belie stability: “to contemplate memory and forgetting is tantamount to acknowledging the temporal and spatial instability of the post-industrial, globalizing world” (435). In this way, cultural products are not only sites of cultural continuity, but also of contestation. Imperial Dreams of Feminine Power The work of Chinese couturier Guo Pei showcases traditional Chinese embroidery techniques alongside more typically Western fashion design practices as a means of demonstrating not only Haute Couturier craftsmanship but also celebrating Chinese imperial culture through nostalgic fantasies in her contemporary designs. Born in Beijing, in 1967, at the beginning of the Chinese Cultural Revolution, Guo Pei studied fashion at the Beijing Second Light Industry School before working in private and state-owned fashion houses. She eventually moved to establish her own fashion design studio and was recognised as “the designer of choice for high society and the political elite” in China (Yoong 19). Her work was catapulted into Western consciousness when her cape, titled ‘Yellow Empress’ was donned by Rihanna for the 2015 Met Gala. The design was a response to an era in which the colour yellow was forbidden to all but the emperor. In the same year, Guo Pei was named an invited member of La Federation de la Haute Couture, becoming the first and only Chinese-born and trained couturier to receive the honour. Recognition of her work at political and socio-economic levels earned her an award for ‘Outstanding Contribution to Economy and Cultural Diplomacy’ by the Asian Couture Federation in 2019. While Maoist fashion influences pursued a vision of gender equality through the ‘unsexing’ of fashion, Guo Pei’s work presents a very different reading of female adornment. One example is her exquisite Snow Queen dress, which draws on imperial motifs in its design. An ensemble of silk, gold embroidery, and Swarovski crystals weighing 50 kilograms, the Snow Queen “characterises Guo Pei’s ideal woman who is noble, resilient and can bear the weight of responsibility” (Yoong 140). In its initial appearance on the Haute Couture runway, the dress was worn by 78-year-old American model, Carmen Dell’Orefice, signalling the equation of age with strength and beauty. Rather than being a site of torture or corporal punishment, as suggested by Mao, the Snow Queen dress positions imagined traditional imperial fashion as a space for celebration and empowerment of the feminine form. The choice of model reinforces this message, while simultaneously contesting global narratives that conflate women’s beauty and physical ability with youthfulness. In this way, fashion can be understood as an intersectional space. On the one hand, Guo Pei's work reinvigorates a particular nostalgic vision of Chinese imperial culture and in doing so pushes back against the socio-political ‘non-fashion’ and uniformity of Maoist dress codes. Yet, on the other hand, positioning her work in the very elite space of Haute Couture serves to reinstate social stratification and class boundaries through the creation of economically inaccessible artefacts: a process that in turn involves the reification and museumification of fashion as material culture. Ideals of femininity, identity, individuality, and the expressions of either creating or dismantling power, are anchored within cultural, social, and temporal landscapes. Benedict Anderson argues that the museumising imagination is “profoundly political” (123). Like sacred texts and maps, fashion as material ephemera evokes and reinforces a sense of continuity and connection to history. Yet, the belonging engendered through engagement with material and imagined pasts is imprecise in its orientation. As much as it is about maintaining threads to an historical past, it is simultaneously an appeal to present possibilities. In his broader analysis, Anderson explores the notion of parallelity, the potentiality not to recreate some geographically or temporally removed place, but to open a space of “living lives parallel …] along the same trajectory” (131). Guo Pei’s creations appeal to a similar museumising imagination. At once, her work evokes both a particular imagined past of imperial grandeur, against instability of the politically shifting present, and appeals to new possibilities of gendered emancipation within that imagined space. Contesting and Complicating East-West Dualism The design process frequently involves borrowing, reinterpretation, and renewal of ideas. The erasure of certain cultural and political aspects of social continuity through the Chinese Cultural Revolution, and the socio-political changes thereafter, have created fertile ground for an artist like Guo Pei. Her palimpsest reaches back through time, picks up those cultural threads of extravagance, and projects them wholesale into the spaces of fashion in the present moment. Cognisance of design intentionality and historical and contemporary fashion discourses influence the various interpretations of fashion semiotics. However, there are also audience-created meanings within the various modes of performance and consumption. Where Kaiser and Green assert that “the process of fashion is inevitably linked to making and sustaining as well as resisting and dismantling power” (1), we can also observe that sartorial semiotics can have different meanings at different times. In the documentary, Yellow Is Forbidden, Guo Pei reflects on shifting semiotics in fashion. Speaking with a client, she remarks that “dragons and phoenixes used to represent the Chinese emperor—now they represent the spirit of the Chinese” (Brettkelly). Once a symbol of sacred, individual power, these iconic signifiers now communicate collective national identity. Both playing with and reimagining not only the grandeur of China’s imperial past, but also the particular role of the feminine form and female power therein, Guo Pei’s corpus evokes and complicates such contestations of power. On the one hand, her work serves to contest homogenising narratives of identity and femininity within China. Equally important, however, are the ways in which this work, which is possible both through and in spite of a Euro-American centric system of patronage within the fashion industry, complicates notions of East-West dualism. For Guo Pei, drawing on broadly accessible visual signifiers of Chinese heritage and culture has been critical in bringing attention to her endeavours. Her work draws significantly from her cultural heritage in terms of colour selections and traditional Chinese embroidery techniques. Symbols and motifs peculiar to Chinese culture are abundant: lotus flowers, dragons, phoenixes, auspicious numbers, and favourable Chinese language characters such as buttons in the shape of ‘double happiness’ (囍) are often present in her designs. Likewise, her techniques pay homage to traditional craft work, including Peranakan beading. The parallelity conjured by these choices is deliberate. In staging Guo Pei’s work for museum exhibitions at museums such as the Asian Civilizations Museum, her designs are often showcased beside the historical artefacts that inspired them (Fu). On her Chinese website, Guo Pei, highlights the historical connections between her designs and traditional Chinese embroidery craft through a sub-section of the “Spirit” header, entitled simply, “Inheritance”. These influences and expressions of Chinese culture are, in Guo Pei's own words her “design language” (Brettkelly). However, Guo Pei has also expressed an ambivalence about her positioning as a Chinese designer. She has maintained that she does not want “to be labelled as a Chinese storyteller ... and thinks about a global audience” (Yoong). In her expression of this desire to both derive power through design choices and historically situated practices and symbols, and simultaneously move beyond nationally bounded identity frameworks, Guo Pei positions herself in a space ‘betwixt and between.’ This is not only a space of encounter between East and West, but also a space that calls into question the limits and possibilities of semiotic expression. Authenticity and Legitimacy Global audiences of fashion rely on social devices of diffusion other than the runway: photography, film, museums, and galleries. Unique to Haute Couture, however, is the way in which such processes are often abstracted, decontextualised and pushed to the extremities of theatrical opulence. De Perthuis argues that to remove context “greatly reduce[s] the social, political, psychological and semiotic meanings” of fashion (151). When iconic motifs are utilised, the western gaze risks falling back on essentialising reification of identity. To this extent, for non-Chinese audiences Guo Pei’s works may serve not so much to problemitise historical and contemporary feminine identities and inheritances, so much as project an essentialisation of Chinese femininity. The double-bind created through Guo Pei’s simultaneous appeal to and resistance of archetypical notions of Chinese identity and femininity complicates the semiotic currency of her work. Moreover, Guo Pei’s work highlights tensions concerning understandings of Chinese culture between those in China and the diaspora. In her process of accessing reference material, Guo Pei has necessarily been driven to travel internationally, due to her concerns about a lack of access to material artefacts within China. She has sought out remnants of her ancestral culture in both the Chinese diaspora as well as material culture designed for export (Yoong; Brettkelly). This borrowing of Chinese design as depicted outside of China proper, alongside the use of western influences and patronage in Guo’s work has resulted in her work being dismissed by critics as “superficial … export ware, reimported” (Thurman). The insinuation that her work is derivative is tinged with denigration. Such critiques question not only the authenticity of the motifs and techniques utilised in Guo Pei’s designs, but also the legitimacy of the narratives of both feminine and Chinese identity communicated therein. Questions of cultural ‘authenticity’ serve to deny how culture, both tangible and intangible, is mutable over time and space. In his work on tourism, Taylor suggests that wherever “the production of authenticity is dependent on some act of (re)production, it is conventionally the past which is seen to hold the model of the original” (9). In this way, legitimacy of semiotic communication in works that evoke a temporally distant past is often seen to be adjudicated through notions of fidelity to the past. This authenticity of the ‘traditional’ associates ‘tradition’ with ‘truth’ and ‘authenticity.’ It is itself a form of mythmaking. As Guo Pei’s work is at once quintessentially Chinese and, through its audiences and capitalist modes of circulation, fundamentally Western, it challenges notions of authenticity and legitimacy both within the fashion world and in broader social discourses. Speaking about similar processes in literary fiction, Colavincenzo notes that works that attempt to “take on the myth of historical discourse and practice … expose the ways in which this discourse is constructed and how it fails to meet the various claims it makes for itself” (143). Rather than reinforcing imagined ‘truths’, appeals to an historical imagination such as that deployed by Guo Pei reveal its contingency. Conclusion In Fashion in Altermodern China, Feng suggests that we can “understand the sartorial as situating a set of visible codes and structures of meaning” (1). More than a reductionistic process of sender/receiver communication, fashion is profoundly embedded with intersectional dialogues. It is not the precision of signifiers, but their instability, fluidity, and mutability that is revealing. Guo Pei’s work offers narratives at the junction of Chinese and foreign, original and derivative, mythical and historical that have an unsettled nature. This ineffable tension between construction and deconstruction draws in both fashion creators and audiences. Whether encountering fashion on the runway, in museum cabinets, or on magazine pages, all renditions rely on its audience to engage with processes of imagination, fantasy, and memory as the first step of comprehending the semiotic languages of cloth. References Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. Rev. ed. London: Verso, 2016. Barnard, Malcolm. "Fashion as Communication Revisited." Fashion Theory. Routledge, 2020. 247-258. Barthes, Roland. Mythologies. London: J. Cape, 1972. Braester, Yomi. "The Post-Maoist Politics of Memory." A Companion to Modern Chinese Literature. Ed. Yingjin Zhang. London: John Wiley and Sons. 434-51. Brettkelly, Pietra (dir.). Yellow Is Forbidden. Madman Entertainment, 2019. Chen, Tina Mai. "Dressing for the Party: Clothing, Citizenship, and Gender-Formation in Mao's China." Fashion Theory 5.2 (2001): 143-71. Colavincenzo, Marc. "Trading Fact for Magic—Mythologizing History in Postmodern Historical Fiction." Trading Magic for Fact, Fact for Magic. Ed. Marc Colavincenzo. Brill, 2003. 85-106. De Perthuis, Karen. "The Utopian 'No Place' of the Fashion Photograph." Fashion, Performance and Performativity: The Complex Spaces of Fashion. Eds. Andrea Kollnitz and Marco Pecorari. London: Bloomsbury, 2022. 145-60. Feng, Jie. Fashion in Altermodern China. Dress Cultures. Eds. Reina Lewis and Elizabeth Wilson. London: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2022. Finnane, Antonia. Changing Clothes in China: Fashion, History, Nation. New York: Columbia UP, 2008. Fu, Courtney R. "Guo Pei: Chinese Art and Couture." Fashion Theory 25.1 (2021): 127-140. Hall, Stuart. "Encoding – Decoding." Crime and Media. Ed. Chris Greer. London: Routledge, 2019. Hendrik, Joris. "The History of Haute Couture in Numbers." Vogue (France), 2021. Kaiser, Susan B., and Denise N. Green. Fashion and Cultural Studies. London: Bloomsbury, 2021. Lurie, Alison. The Language of Clothes. London: Bloomsbury, 1992. Taylor, John P. "Authenticity and Sincerity in Tourism." Annals of Tourism Research 28.1 (2001): 7-26. Thurman, Judith. "The Empire's New Clothes – China’s Rich Have Their First Homegrown Haute Couturier." The New Yorker, 2016. Yoong, Jackie. "Guo Pei: Chinese Art and Couture." Singapore: Asian Civilisations Museum, 2019. Zhang, Weiwei. "Politicizing Fashion: Inconspicuous Consumption and Anti-Intellectualism during the Cultural Revolution in China." Journal of Consumer Culture 21.4 (2021): 950-966.

Introduction“Chav” is a social phenomenon that gained significant popular media coverage and attention in the United Kingdom in the early 2000s. Chavs are often characterised, by others, as young people from a background of low socioeconomic status, usually clothed in branded sportswear. All definitions of Chav position them as culturally anomalous, as Other.This article maps out a multidisciplinary definition of the Chav, synthesised from 21 published academic publications: three recurrent themes in scholarly discussion emerge. First, this research presents whiteness as an assumed and essential facet of Chav identity. When marginalising Chavs because of their “incorrect whiteness”, these works assign them a problematic and complex relationship with ethnicity and race. Second, Chav discourse has previously been discussed as a form of intense class-based abhorrence. Chavs, it would seem, are perceived as anomalous by their own class and those who deem themselves of a higher socioeconomic status. Finally, Chavs’ consumption choices are explored as amplifying such negative constructions of class and white ethnic identities, which are deemed as forming an undesirable aesthetic. This piece is not intended to debate whether or not Chav is a subculture, clubculture or neotribe. Although Greg Martin’s discussion around the similarities between historical subcultures and Chavs remains pertinent and convincing, this article discusses how young people labelled as Chavs are excluded on a variety of fronts. It draws a cross-disciplinary mapping of the Chav, providing the beginnings of a definition of a derogatory label, applied to young people marking them anomalous in British society.What Is a Chav?The word Chav became officially included in the English language in the UK in 2003, when it was inducted into the Oxford English Dictionary (OED). The current OED entry offers many points for further discussion, all centred upon a discriminatory positioning of Chav:chav, n. Etymology: Probably either < Romani čhavo unmarried Romani male, male Romani child (see chavvy n.), or shortened < either chavvy n. or its etymon Angloromani chavvy. Brit. slang (derogatory). In the United Kingdom (originally the south of England): a young person of a type characterized by brash and loutish behaviour and the wearing of designer-style clothes (esp. sportswear); usually with connotations of a low social status.Chav was adopted by British national media as a catch-all term encompassing regional variants. Many discussions have likened Chav to groups such as “Bogans” in Australia and “Trailer Trash” in the US. Websites such as UrbanDictionary and Chavscum have often, informally, defined Chav through a series of derogatory “backcronyms” such as Council Housed And Violent or Council House Associated Vermin, positioning it as a derogatory social label synonymous with notions of perceived criminality, poverty, poor taste, danger, fear, class, and whiteness.Chav came to real prominence in the early 2000s in mainstream British media, gaining visibility through television shows such as Shameless (2004-2013), Little Britain (2003-2006), and The Catherine Tate Show (2004-2009). The term exploded across the tabloid press, as noted by Antoinette Renouf in 2005. Extensive tabloid press coverage drove the phenomenon to front-page coverage in TIME magazine in 2008. Chavs were observed as often wearing Burberry check-patterned clothing. For the first time since its founding in 1856, and due to the extent of Chav’s negative media coverage, Burberry decided to largely remove its trademark check pattern between 2001 and 2014 from sale. Chavs in AcademiaThe rubric of the Chav did not emerge in academia with the same vigour as it did in popular media, failing to gain the visibility of previous youth social formations such as Punks, Mods, et al. Rather, there has been a modest but consistent number of academic publications discussing this subject: 1-3 publications per year, published between 2006-2015. Of the 22 academic texts explicitly addressing and discussing Chavs, none were published prior to 2006. Extensive searches on databases such as EBSCO, JSTOR and ProQuest, yielded no further academic publications on this subject since Joanne Heeney’s 2015 discussion of Chav and its relationship to contested conceptualisations of disability.From a review of the available literature, the following key thematic groupings run through the publications: Chavs’ embodiment of a "wrong" type of white identity; their embodiment of a "wrong" type of working-class identity; and finally, their depiction as flawed consumers. I will now discuss these groupings, and their implications for future research, in order to chart a multidisciplinary conceptualisation of the Chav. Ultimately, my discussion will evidence how "out of place" Chavs appear to be in terms of race and ethnicity, class, and consumption choices. Chavs as “Wrong” WhitesThe dividing practices (Foucault) evident in UK popular media and websites such as Urbandictionary in the early 2000s distinctly separated “hypervisible ‘filthy whites’” (Tyler) from the “respectable whiteness” of the British middle-class. As Imogen Tyler puts it, “the cumulative effect of this disgust is the blocking of the disenfranchised white poor from view; they are rendered invisible and incomprehensible”, a perspective revisited in relation to the "celebrity chav" by Tyler and Joe Bennett. In a wider discussion of ethnicity, segregation and discrimination, Colin Webster discusses Chav and “white trash”, within the context of discourses that criminalise certain forms of whiteness. The conspicuous absence of whiteness in debates regarding fair representation of ethnicity and exclusion is highlighted here, as is the difficulty that social sciences often encounter in conceptualising whiteness in terms exceeding privilege, superiority, power, and normality. Bennett discusses Chavspeak, as a language conceived as enacting combinations of well-known sociolinguistic stereotypes. Chavspeak derives from an amalgamation of Black English vernaculars, potentially identifying its speakers as "race traitors". Bennett's exploration of Chavs as turncoats towards their own whiteness places them in an anomalous position of exclusion, as “Other” white working-class people. A Google image search for Chav conducted on 8th July 2020 yielded, in 198 of the first 200 images, the pictures of white youth. In popular culture, Chavs are invariably white, as seen in shows such as Little Britain, The Catherine Tate Show and, arguably, also in Paul Abbott’s Shameless. There is no question, however, that whiteness is an assumed and essential facet of Chav identity. Explorations of class and consumption may help to clarify this muddy conceptualisation of ethnicity and Chavs. Chavs as “Wrong” Working ClassChav discourse has been discussed as addressing intense class-based abhorrence (Hayward and Yar; Tyler). Indeed, while focussing more upon the nexus between chavs, class, and masculinity, Anoop Nayak’s ethnographic approach identifies a clear distinction between “Charver kids” (a slang term for Chav found in the North-East of England) and “Real Geordies” (Geordie is a regional term identifying inhabitants from that same area, most specifically from Newcastle-upon-Tyne). Nayak identified Chavs as rough, violent and impoverished, against the respectable, skilled and upwardly mobile working-class embodied by the “Real Geordies” (825). Similar distinctions between different types of working classes appear in the work of Sumi Hollingworth and Katya Williams. In a study of white, middle-class students from English urban state comprehensive schools in Riverside and Norton, the authors found that “Chav comes to represent everything about whiteness that the middle-classes are not” (479). Here, Chav is discussed as a label that school-age children reserve for “others”, namely working-class peers who stand out because of their clothing, their behaviour, and their educational aspirations. Alterity is a concept reinforced by Bennett’s discussion of Chavspeak, as he remarks that “Chavs are other people, and Chavspeak is how other people talk” (8). The same position is echoed in Sarah Spencer, Judy Clegg, and Joy Stackhouse’s study of the interplay between language, social class, and education in younger generations. Chavspotting is the focus of Bennett’s exploration of lived class experiences. Here, the evocation of the Chav is seen as a way to reinforce and reproduce dominant rhetoric against the poor. Bennett discusses the ways in which websites such as Chavscum.com used towns, cities and shopping centres as ideal locations to practice Chav-spotting. What is evident, however, is that behind Chavspotting lies the need for recontextualisation of normalising social practices which involve identification of determinate social groups in social spaces. This finding is supported by the interviews conducted by Ken McCullock et al (548) who found the Chav label, along with its regional variant of Charva, to be an extension of these social practices of identification, as it was applied to people of lower socioeconomic status as a marker of difference: “Chav/Charva … it’s what more posh people use to try and describe thugs and that” (McCulloch et al., 552).The semi-structured interview data gathered by Spencer, Clegg, and Stackhouse reveals how the label of Chav trickled down from stereotypes in popular culture to the real-life experiences of school-aged children. Here, Chavs are likened by school children to animals, “the boys are like monkeys, and the girls are like squeaky squirrels who like to slap people if they even look at you” (136) and their language is defined as lacking complexity. It bears relevance that, in these interviews, children in middle-class areas are once again “othering” the Chav, applying the label to children from working-class areas. Heeney’s discussion of the Chav pivots around questions of class and race. This is particularly evident as she addresses the media contention surrounding glamour model Katie Price, and her receipt of disability welfare benefits for her son. Ethnicity and class are key in academic discussion of the Chav, and in this context they prove to be interwoven and inexorably slippery. Just as previous academic discussions surrounding ethnicity challenge assumptions around whiteness, privilege and discrimination, an equally labyrinthine picture is drawn on the relationship between class and the Chavs, and on the practices of exclusion and symbolic to which they are subject. Chavs as “Wrong” ConsumersKeith Hayward and Majid Yar’s much-cited work points to a rethinking of the underclass concept (Murray) through debates of social marginality and consumption practices. Unlike previous socio-cultural formations (subcultures), Chavs should not be viewed as the result of society choosing to “reject or invert mainstream aspirations or desires” but simply as “flawed” consumers (Hayward and Yar, 18). The authors remarked that the negative social construction and vilification of Chav can be attributed to “a set of narrow and seemingly irrational and un-aesthetic consumer choices” (18). Chavs are discussed as lacking in taste and/or educational/intelligence (cultural capital), and not in economic capital (Bourdieu): it is the former and not the latter that makes them the object of ridicule and scorn. Chav consumption choices are often regarded, and reported, as the wrong use of economic capital. Matthew Adams and Jayne Rainsborough also discuss the ways in which cultural sites of representation--newspapers, websites, television--achieve a level of uniformity in their portrayal of Chavs as out of place and continually framed as “wrong consumers", just as Nayak did. In their argument, they also note how Chavs have been intertextually represented as sites of bodily indiscretion in relation to behaviours, lifestyles and consumption choices. It is these flawed consumption choices that Paul Johnson discusses in relation to the complex ways in which the Chav stereotype, and their consumption choices, are both eroticised and subjected to a form of symbolic violence. Within this context, “Council chic” has been marketed and packaged towards gay men through themed club events, merchandise, sex lines and escort services. The signifiers of flawed consumption (branded sportswear, jewellery, etc), upon which much of the Chav-based subjugation is centred thus become a hook to promote and sell sexual services. As such, this process subjects Chavs to a form of symbolic violence, as their worth is fetishised, commodified, and further diminished in gay culture. The importance of consumption choices and, more specifically, of choices which are considered to be "wrong" adds one final piece to this map of the Chav (Mason and Wigley). What was already noted as discrimination towards Chavs centred upon notions of class, socioeconomic status, and, ethnicity, is amplified by emphasis on consumption choices deemed to be aesthetically undesirable. This all comes together through the “Othering” of a pattern of consumerist choices that encompasses branded clothes, sportswear and other garments typically labelled as "chavvy". Chav: Not Always a LabelIn spite of its rare occurrence in academic discourse on Chavs, it is worth noting here that not all scholarly discussions focus on the notion of Chav as assigned identity, as the work of Kehily, Nayak and Young clearly demonstrates.Kehily and Nayak’s performative approach to Chav adopts an urban ethnography approach to remark that, although these socio-economic-racial labels are felt as pejorative, they can be negotiated within immediate contexts to become less discriminatory and gain positive connotations of respectability in given situations. Indeed, such labels can be enacted as a transitional identity to be used and adopted intermittently. Chav remains an applied label, but a flexible label which can be negotiated and adapted. Robert Young challenges many established conceptualisations of Chav culture, paying particular attention to notions of class and self-identification. His study found that approximately 15% of his 3,000 fifteen-year old respondents, all based in the Glasgow area, self-identified as Chav or "Ned" (a Scottish variant of Chav). The cultural criminological approach taken by Young does not clearly specify what options were given to participants when selecting "Neds or popular" as self-identification. Young’s work is of real value in the discussion of Chav, since it constitutes the only example of self-identification as Chav (Ned); future work reasserting these findings is required for the debate to be continued in this direction. Conclusion: Marginalised on All Fronts?Have Chavs been ostracised for being the wrong type of white person? Much has been discussed around the problematic role of ethnicity in Chav culture. Indeed, many scholars have discussed how Chav adopted the language, dress and style of ethnic minority groups. This assimilation of non-white identities leaves the Chav stranded on two fronts: (1) they are marked as Other by predominantly white social groups and vilified as race/ethnicity traitors (Bennett, Chavspeak); (2) they stand apart from ethnic minority identities through a series of exaggerated and denigrated consumption choices – adopting a bricolage identity that defines them against other groups surrounding them. Are Chavs the wrong type of white, working-class consumer? We know from the seminal works of Dick Hebdige and Stuart Hall that subcultural styles can often convey a range of semiotic messages to the outside world. If one were to bear in mind the potentially isolated nature of those considered Chavs, one could see in their dress a consumption of "status" (McCulloch et al., 554). The adoption of a style predominantly consisting of expensive-looking branded clothes, highly-visible jewellery associated with an exaggerated sporting lifestyle, stands as a symbol of disposable income and physical prowess, a way of ‘fronting up’ to labels of poverty, criminality and lack of social and cultural capital.As my charting process comes to a conclusion, with the exclusion of the studies conducted by Young, Kehily and Nayak, Chav is solely discussed as an “Othering” label, vastly different from the self-determined identities of other youth subcultures. As a matter of fact, a number of studies portray the angry reactions to such labelling (Hollingworth and Williams; Bennett; Mason and Wigley). So are Chavs vilified because of their whiteness, their class, or their consumption choices? More likely, they are vilified because of a combination of all of the above. Therefore, we would not be mistaken in identifying Chavs as completely lacking in identity capital. What is apparent from the literature discussed is that the Chav exists in an anomalous “no man's land”. ReferencesAdams, Matthew, and Jayne Raisborough. "The Self-Control Ethos and the Chav: Unpacking Cultural Representations of the White Working Class." Culture & Psychology 17.1 (2011): 81-97.Bennett, Joe. "‘And What Comes Out May Be a Kind of Screeching’: The Stylisation of Chavspeak in Contemporary Britain." Journal of Sociolinguistics 16.1 (2012): 5-27.———. "Chav-Spotting in Britain: The Representation of Social Class as Private Choice." Social Semiotics 23.1 (2013): 146-162.Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Boston: Harvard UP, 1984.Foucault, Michel. “The Subject and Power." Michel Foucault: Beyond Structuralism and Hermeneutics. Eds. Hubert L. Dreyfus and Paul Rabinow. Brighton: Harvester, 1982. 777-795.Hayward, Keith, and Majid Yar. "The Chavphenomenon: Consumption, Media and the Construction of a New Underclass." Crime, Media, Culture 2.1 (2006): 9-28.Hebdige, Dick. Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London: Methuen, 1979. Heeney, Joanne. "Disability Welfare Reform and the Chav Threat: A Reflection on Social Class and ‘Contested Disabilities’." Disability & Society 30.4 (2015): 650-653.Hollingworth, Sumi, and Katya Williams. "Constructions of the Working-Class ‘Other’ among Urban, White, Middle-Class Youth: ‘Chavs’, Subculture and the Valuing of Education." Journal of Youth Studies 12.5 (2009): 467-482.Johnson, Paul. "’Rude Boys': The Homosexual Eroticization of Class." Sociology 42.1 (2008): 65-82.Kehily, Mary Jane, and Anoop Nayak. "Charver Kids and Pram-Face Girls: Working-Class Youth, Representation and Embodied Performance." Youth Cultures in the Age of Global Media. Eds. Sara Bragg and Mary Jane Kehily. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014. 150-165.Maffesoli, Michel. The Time of the Tribes: The Decline of Individualism in Mass Society. London: SAGE, 1995.Martin, Greg. "Subculture, Style, Chavs and Consumer Capitalism: Towards a Critical Cultural Criminology of Youth." Crime, Media, Culture 5.2 (2009): 123-145.Mason, Roger B., and Gemma Wigley. “The Chav Subculture: Branded Clothing as an Extension of the Self.” Journal of Economics and Behavioural Studies 5.3: 173-184.McCulloch, Ken, Alexis Stewart, and Nick Lovegreen. "‘We Just Hang Out Together’: Youth Cultures and Social Class." Journal of Youth Studies 9.5 (2006): 539-556.Murray, Charles. The Emerging British Underclass. London: IEA Health and Welfare Unit, 1990.Nayak, Anoop. "Displaced Masculinities: Chavs, Youth and Class in the Post-Industrial City." Sociology 40.5 (2006): 813-831.Oxford English Dictionary. "Chav." 20 Apr. 2015.Renouf, Antoinette. “Tracing Lexical Productivity and Creativity in the British Media: The Chavs and the Chav-Nots.” Lexical Creativity, Texts and Contexts. Ed. Judith Munat. Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing, 2007. 61-93. Spencer, Sarah, Judy Clegg, and Joy Stackhouse. "Language, Social Class and Education: Listening to Adolescents’ Perceptions." Language and Education 27.2 (2013): 129-143.Thornton, Sarah. Club Cultures: Music, Media and Subcultural Capital. Cambridge: Polity, 1995.Tyler, Imogen. “Chav Scum: The Filthy Politics of Social Class in Contemporary Britain”. M/C Journal 9.5 (2006). 7 July 2020 <http://www.journal.media-culture.org.au/0610/09-tyler.php>.Tyler, Imogen, and Bruce Bennett. "‘Celebrity Chav’: Fame, Femininity and Social Class." European Journal of Cultural Studies 13.3 (2010): 375-393.Webster, Colin. "Marginalized White Ethnicity, Race and Crime." Theoretical Criminology 12.3 (2008): 293-312.Young, Robert. "Can Neds (or Chavs) Be Non-Delinquent, Educated or Even Middle Class? Contrasting Empirical Findings with Cultural Stereotypes." Sociology 46.6 (2012): 1140-1160.

Why do politicians wear what they wear? Social conventions and parliamentary rules largely shape how politicians dress. Clothing is about power, especially if we think about clothing as uniforms. Uniforms of judges and police are easily recognised as symbols of power. Similarly, the business suit of a politician is recognised as a form of authority. But what if you are a female politician: what do you wear to work or in public? Why do we expect politicians to wear suits and ties? While we do expect a certain level of behaviour of our political leaders, why does the professionalised suit and tie signal this? And what happens if a politician challenges this convention? Female politicians, and largely any women in a position of power in the public sphere, are judged when they don’t conform to the social conventions of appropriate dress. Arguably, male politicians are largely not examined for their suit preferences (unless you are Paul Keating wearing Zenga suits or Anthony Albanese during an election make-over), so why are female politicians’ clothes so scrutinised and framed as reflective of their abilities or character? This article interrogates the political uniform and its gendered contestations. It does so via the ways female politicians are challenging gender norms and power relations in how they dress in public, political, and parliamentary contexts. It considers how rules and conventions around political clothing are political in themselves, through a discussion on how female politicians and political figures choose to adhere to or break these rules. Rules about what dress is worn by parliamentarians are often archaic, often drawn from rules set by parliaments largely made up of men. But even with more women sitting in parliaments, dress rules still reflect a very masculine idea of what is appropriate. Dress standards in the Australian federal parliament are described as a “matter for individual judgement”, however the Speaker of the House of Representatives can make rulings on members’ attire. In 1983, the Speaker ruled dress was to be neat, clean, and decent. In 1999, the Speaker considered dress to be “formal” and “similar to that generally accepted in business and professional circles”. This was articulated by the Speaker to be “good trousers, a jacket, collar and tie for men and a similar standard of formality for women”. In 2005, the Speaker reinforced this ruling that dress should be “formal” in keeping with business and professional standards, adding there was no “dignity of the House for Members to arrive in casual or sportswear” (“Dress”). Clothes with “printed slogans” are not considered acceptable and result in a warning from the Speaker for Australian MPs to “dress more appropriately”. Previous dress rulings also include that members should not remove their jackets in parliament, “tailored safari suits without a tie were acceptable, members could wear hats in parliament but had to remove them while entering or leaving the chamber and while speaking”. The safari suit rule likely refers to the former Foreign Affairs Minister Gareth Evans’s wearing of the garment during the 1980s and 1990s. The Speaker can also rule on what a member of the federal parliament can’t do. While in parliament, members can’t smoke, can’t read a newspaper, can’t distribute apples, may not climb over seats, and can’t hit or kick their desks. Members of parliament can however use their mobile phones for text messaging, and laptops can be used for emails (“Dress”). These examples suggest an almost old-fashioned type of school rules juxtaposed with modern sensibilities, positing the ad-hoc nature of parliamentary rules, with dress rules further evidence of this. While a business suit is considered the orthodoxy of the political uniform for male politicians, this largely governs rules about what female politicians wear. The business suit, the quasi-political uniform for male MPs, is implicit and has social consensus. The suit, which covers the body, is comprised of trousers to the ankle, well cut in muted colours of blue, grey, brown, and black, with contrasting shirts, often white or light colours, ties that may have a splash of colour, often demonstrating allegiances or political persuasions, mostly red or blue, as in the case of Labor and Liberal or Republicans and Democrats. The conventions of the suit are largely proscribed onto women, who wear a female version of the male suit, with some leeway in colour and pattern. Dress for female MPs should be modest, as with the suit, covering much of the body, and especially have a modest neckline and be at least knee length. In the American Congress, the dress code requires “men to wear suit jackets and ties ... and women are not supposed to wear sleeveless tops or dresses without a sweater or jacket” (Zengerle). In 2017, this prompted US Congresswomen to wear sleeveless dresses as a “right to bare arms” (Deutch and Karl). In these two Australian and American examples of a masculine parliamentary wear it is reasonable to suppose a seeming universality about politicians’ dress codes. But who decides what is the correct mode of political uniform? Sartorial rules about what are acceptable clothing choices are usually made by the dominant group, and this is the case when it comes to what politicians wear. Some rules about what is worn in parliament are archaic to our minds today, such as the British parliament law from 1313 which outlaws the wearing of armour and weaponry inside the chamber. More modern rulings from the UK include the banning of hats in the House of Commons (although not the Lords), and women being permitted handbags, but not men (Simm). This last rule reveals how clothing and its performance is gendered, as does the Australian parliament rule that a “Member may keep his hands in his pockets while speaking” (“Dress”), which assumes the speaker is likely a man wearing trousers. Political Dress as Uniform While political dress may be considered as a dress ‘code’ it can also be understood as a uniform because the dress reflects their job as public, political representatives. When dress code is considered as a uniform, homogenisation of dress occurs. Uniformity, somewhat ironically, can emphasise transgressions, as Jennifer Craik explains: “cultural transgression is a means of simultaneously undermining and reinforcing rules of uniforms since an effective transgressive performance relies on shared understandings of normative meanings, designated codes of conduct and connotations” (Craik 210). Codified work wear usually comes under the umbrella of uniforms. Official uniforms are the most obvious type of uniforms, clearly denoting the organisation of the wearer. Military, police, nurses, firefighters, and post-office workers often have recognisable uniforms. These uniforms are often accompanied by a set of rules that govern the “proper” wearing of these items. Uniforms rules do not just govern how the clothing is worn, they also govern the conduct of the person wearing the uniform. For example, a police officer in uniform, whether or not on duty, is expected to maintain certain codes of behaviour as well as dress standards. Yet dress, as Craik notes, can also be transgressive, allowing the wearer to challenge the underpinning conventions of the dress codes. Both Australian Senator Sarah Hanson-Young and US Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, to name just two, leveraged social understandings of uniforms when they used their clothing to communicate political messages. Fashion as political communication or as ‘fashion politics’ is not a new phenomenon (Oh 374). Jennifer Craik argues that there are two other types of uniform; the unofficial and the quasi-uniform (17). Unofficial uniforms are generally adopted in lieu of official uniforms. They generally arise organically from group members and function in similar ways to official uniforms, and they tend to be identical in appearance, even if hierarchical. Examples of these include the yellow hi-vis jackets worn by the French Gilets Jaunes during the 2018 protests against rising costs of living and economic injustice (Coghlan). Quasi-uniforms work slightly differently. They exist where official and unofficial rules govern the wearing of clothes that are beyond the normal social rules of clothing. For example, the business suit is generally considered appropriate attire for those working in a conservative corporate environment: some workplaces restrict skirt, trouser, and jacket colours to navy, grey, or black, accompanied by a white shirt or blouse. In this way we can consider parliamentary dress to be a form of “quasi-uniform”, governed by both official and unofficial workplaces rules, but discretionary as to what the person chooses to wear in order to abide by these rules, which as described above are policed by the parliamentary Speaker. In the Australian House of Representatives, official rules are laid down in the policy “Dress and Conduct in the Chamber” which allows that “the standard of dress in the Chamber is a matter for the individual judgement of each Member, [but] the ultimate discretion rests with the Speaker” (“Dress”). Clothing rules within parliamentary chambers may establish order but also may seem counter-intuitive to the notions of democracy and free speech. However, when they are subverted, these rules can make clothing statements seem even more stark. Jennifer Craik argues that “wearing a uniform properly ... is more important that the items of clothing and decoration themselves” (4) and it is this very notion that makes transgressive use of the uniform so powerful. As noted by Coghlan, what we wear is a powerful tool of political struggle. French revolutionaries rejected the quasi-uniforms of the French nobility and their “gold-braided coat, white silk stockings, lace stock, plumed hat and sword” (Fairchilds 423), and replaced it with the wearing of the tricolour cockade, a badge of red, blue, and white ribbons which signalled wearers as revolutionaries. Uniforms in this sense can be understood to reinforce social hierarchies and demonstrate forms of power and control. Coghlan also reminds us that the quasi-uniform of women’s bloomers in the 1850s, often referred to as “reform dress”, challenged gender norms and demonstrated women’s agency. The wearing of pants by women came to “symbolize the movement for women’s rights” (Ladd Nelson 24). The wearing of quasi-political uniforms by those seeking social change has a long history, from the historical examples already noted to the Khadi Movement led by Gandhi’s “own sartorial choices of transformation from that of an Englishman to that of one representing India” (Jain), to the wearing of sharecropper overalls by African American civil rights activists to Washington to hear Martin Luther King in 1963, to the Aboriginal Long March to Freedom in 1988, the Tibetan Freedom Movement in 2008, and the 2017 Washington Pink Pussy Hat March, just to name a few (Coghlan). Here shared dress uniforms signal political allegiance, operating not that differently from the shared meanings of the old-school tie or tie in the colour of political membership. Political Fashion Clothing has been used by queens, female diplomats, and first ladies as signs of power. For members of early royal households, “rank, wealth, magnificence, and personal virtue was embodied in dress, and, as such, dress was inherently political, richly materialising the qualities associated with the wearer” (Griffey 15). Queen Elizabeth I (1558-1603), in order to subvert views that she was unfit to rule because of her sex, presented herself as a virgin to prove she was “morally worthy of holding the traditionally masculine office of monarch” (Howey 2009). To do this she dressed in ways projecting her virtue, meaning her thousands of gowns not only asserted her wealth, they asserted her power as each gown featured images and symbols visually reinforcing her standing as the Virgin Queen (Otnes and Maclaren 40). Not just images and symbols, but colour is an important part of political uniforms. Just as Queen Elizabeth I’s choice of white was an important communication tool to claim her right to rule, Queen Victoria used colour to indicate status and emotion, exclusively wearing black mourning clothes for the 41 years of her widowhood and thus “creating a solemn and pious image of the Queen” (Agnew). Dress as a sign of wealth is one aspect of these sartorial choices, the other is dress as a sign of power. Today, argues Mansel, royal dress is as much political as it is performative, embedded with a “transforming power” (Mansel xiiv). With the “right dress”, be it court dress, national dress, military or civil uniform, royals can encourage loyalty, satisfy vanity, impress the outside world, and help local industries (Mansel xiv). For Queen Elizabeth II, her uniform rendered her visible as The Queen; a brand rather than the person. Her clothes were not just “style choices”; they were “steeped with meaning and influence” that denoted her role as ambassador and figurehead (Atkinson). Her wardrobe of public uniforms was her “communication”, saying she was “prepared, reliable and traditional” (Atkinson). Queen Elizabeth’s other public uniform was that of the “tweed-skirted persona whose image served as cultural shorthand for conservative and correct manner and mode” (Otnes and Maclaren 19). For her royal tours, the foreign dress of Queen Elizabeth was carefully planned with a key “understanding of the political semantics of fashion … with garments and accessories … pay[ing] homage to the key symbols of the host countries” (Otnes and Maclaren 49). Madeline Albright, former US Secretary of State, engaged in sartorial diplomacy not with fashion but with jewellery, specifically pins (Albright). She is quoted as saying on good days, when I wanted to project prosperity and happiness, I'd put on suns, ladybugs, flowers, and hot-air balloons that signified high hopes. On bad days, I'd reach for spiders and carnivorous animals. If the progress was slower than I liked during a meeting in the Middle East, I'd wear a snail pin. And when I was dealing with crabby people, I put on a crab. Other ambassadors started to notice, and whenever they asked me what I was up to on any given day, I would tell them, “Read my pins”. (Burack) Two American first ladies, Hillary Rodham Clinton and Michelle Obama, demonstrate how their fashion acted as a political uniform to challenge the ideal notions of American womanhood that for generations were embedded in the first lady (Rall et al.). While modern first ladies are now more political in their championing of causes and play an important role in presidential election, there are lingering expectations that the first lady be the mother of the nation (Caroli). First Lady Hillary Rodham Clinton’s eclectic style challenged the more conservative tone set by prior Republican first ladies, notably Barbara Bush. Rodham Clinton is a feminist and lawyer more interested in policy that the domesticity of White House functions and décor. Her fashion reflects her “independence, individuality and agency”, providing a powerful message to American women (Rall et al. 274). This was not that much of a shift from her appearance as the wife of a Southern Governor who wouldn’t wear makeup and kept her maiden name (Anderson and Sheeler 26). More recently, as Democratic Presidential nominee, Rodham Clinton again used fashion to tell voters that a woman could wear a suit and become president. Rodham Clinton’s political fashion acted to contest the gender stereotypes about who could sit in the White House (Oh 374). Again, the pantsuit was not new for Rodham Clinton; “when I ran for Senate in 2000 and President in 2008, I basically had a uniform: a simple pantsuit, often black” (Mejia). Rodham Clinton says the “benefit to having a uniform is finding an easy way to fit in … to do what male politicians do and wear more or less the same thing every day”. As a woman running for president in 2016, the pantsuit acted as a “visual cue” that she was “different from the men but also familiar” (Mejia). Similarly, First Lady Michelle Obama adopted a political uniform to situate her role in American society. Gender but also race and class played a role in shaping her performance (Guerrero). As the first black First Lady, in the context of post-9/11 America which pushed a “Buy American” retail campaign, and perhaps in response to the novelty of a black First Lady, Obama expressed her political fashion by returning the First Lady narrative back to the confines of family and domesticity (Dillaway and Paré). To do this, she “presented a middle-class casualness by wearing mass retail items from popular chain stores and the use of emerging American designers for her formal political appearances” (Rall et al. 274). Although the number of women elected into politics has been increasing, gender stereotypes remain, and female representation in politics still remains low in most countries (Oh 376). Hyland argues that female politicians are subject to more intense scrutiny over their appearance … they are held to higher standards for their professional dress and expected to embody a number of paradoxes — powerful yet demure, covered-up but not too prim. They’re also expected to keep up with trends in a way that their male counterparts are not. Sexism can too easily encroach upon critiques of what they wear. How female politicians dress is often more reported than their political or parliamentary contributions. This was the case for Australia’s first female Prime Minister Julia Gillard. Jansens’s 2019 research well demonstrates the media preoccupation with political women’s fashion in a number of ways, be it the colours they choose to wear, how their clothing reveals their bodies, and judgements about the professionalism of their sartorial choices and the number of times certain items of clothing are worn. Jansens provides a number of informative examples noting the media’s obsession with Gillard’s choices of jackets that were re-worn and tops that showed her cleavage. One Australian Financial Review columnist reported, I don’t think it’s appropriate for a Prime Minister to be showing her cleavage in Parliament. It’s not something I want to see. It is inappropriate to be in Parliament, it is disrespectful to yourself and to the Australian community and to the parliament to present yourself in a manner that is unprofessional. (Jansens) The media preoccupation with female politicians’ clothing is noted elsewhere. In the 2012 Korean presidential election, Geun-hye Park became the first female president of Korea, yet media reports focussed largely on Park’s fashion: a 2013 newspaper published a four-page analysis titled “Park Geun-hye Fashion Project”. Another media outlet published a review of the 409 formal function outfits worn by Park (Oh 378). The larger focus, however, remains on Park’s choice to wear a suit, referred to as her “combat uniform” (Cho), for her daily parliamentary and political duties. This led Oh to argue that Korean female politicians, including Park, wear a “male suit as a means for benefit and survival”; however, with such media scrutiny “female politicians are left under constant surveillance” (382). As Jansens argues, clothing can act as a “communicative barrier between the body and society”, and a narrative that focusses on how clothes fit and look “illustrates women’s bodies as exceptional to the uniform of the political sphere, which is a masculine aesthetic” (212). Drawing on Entwistle, Jansens maintains that the the uniform “serves the purpose in policing the boundaries of sexual difference”, with “uniforms of gender, such as the suit, enabl[ing] the repetitious production of gender”. In this context, female politicians are in a double bind. Gillard, for example, in changing her aesthetic illustrates the “false dichotomy, or the ‘double bind’ of women’s competency and femininity that women can be presented with regarding their agency to conform, or their agency to deviate from the masculine aesthetic norm” (Jansens 212). This was likely also the experience of Jeannette Rankin, with media reports focusing on Rankin’s “looks and “personal habits,” and headlines such “Congresswoman Rankin Real Girl; Likes Nice Gowns and Tidy Hair” (“Masquerading”). In this article, however, the focus is not on the media preoccupation with female politicians’ political fashion; rather, it is on how female politicians, rather than conforming to masculine aesthetic norms of wearing suit-like attire, are increasingly contesting the political uniform and in doing so are challenging social and political boundaries As Yangzom puts it, how the “embodiment of dress itself alters political space and civic discourse is imperative to understanding how resistance is performed in creating social change” (623). This is a necessary socio-political activity because the “way the media talks about women affects the way women are perceived in society. If women’s appearances are consistently highlighted in the media, inequality of opportunity will follow from this inequality of treatment” (Jansens 215). Contesting the Political Uniform Breaking fashion norms, or as Entwistle argues, “bodies which flout the conventions of their culture and go without the appropriate clothes are subversive of the most basic social codes and risk exclusion, scorn and ridicule” (7), hence the price may be high to pay for a public figure. American Vice-President Kamala Harris’s penchant for comfy sneakers earned her the nickname “the Converse candidate”. Her choice to wear sneakers rather than a more conventional low-heel shoe didn’t necessarily bring about a backlash; rather, it framed her youthful image (possibly to contrast against Trump and Biden) and posited a “hit the ground running” approach (Hyland). Or, as Devaney puts it, “laced up and ready to win … [Harris] knew her classic American trainers signalled a can-do attitude and a sense of purpose”. Increasingly, political women, rather than being the subject of social judgments about their clothing, are actively using their dressed bodies to challenge and contest a range of political discourses. What a woman wears is a “language through which she can send any number of pointed messages” (Weiss). In 2021, US Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez wore a ‘Tax the rich’ dress to the Met Gala. The dress was designed by social activist designers Brother Vellies and loaned to Ocasio-Cortez to attend the $30,000 ticket event. For Ocasio-Cortez, who has an Instagram following of more than eight million people, the dress is “about having a real conversation about fairness and equity in our system, and I think this conversation is particularly relevant as we debate the budget” (“Alexandria”). For Badham, “in the blood-spattered garments of fighting class war” the “backlash to Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’s … dress was instant and glorious”. At the same event, Congresswomen Carolyn Maloney wore an ‘Equal Rights for Women’ suffragette-themed floor length dress in the suffragette colours of purple, white, and gold. Maloney posted that she has “long used fashion as a force 4 change” (Chamlee). US Senator Kyrsten Sinema is known for her “eccentric hipster” look when sitting in the chamber, complete with “colourful wigs, funky glasses, gold knee-high boots, and a ring that reads ‘Fuck off”’ (Hyland). Simena has been called a “Prada Socialist” and a “fashion revolutionary” (Cauterucci). Similarly, UK politician Harriet Harmen received backlash for wearing a t-shirt which read “This is what a feminist looks like” when meeting PM David Cameron (Pilote and Montreuil). While these may be exceptions rather than the rule, the agency demonstrated by these politicians speaks to the patriarchal nature of masculine political environments and the conventions and rules that maintain gendered institutions, such as parliaments. When US Vice-President Kamala Harris was sworn in, she was “not only … the first woman, Black woman, and South Asian-American woman elected to the position, but also … the first to take the oath of office wearing something other than a suit and tie”, instead wearing a feminised suit consisting of a purple dress and coat designed by African-American designer Christopher John Rogers (Naer). Harris is often photographed wearing Converse sneakers, as already noted, and Timberland work boots, which for Naer is “quietly rebellious” because with them “Harris subverts expectations that women in politics should appear in certain clothing (sleek heels, for instance) in order to compete with men — who are, most often, in flats”. For Elan, the Vice-President’s sneakers may be a “small sartorial detail, but it is linked to the larger cultural moment in which we live. Sneakers are a form of footwear finding their way into many women’s closets as part of a larger challenge to outmoded concepts of femininity” as well as a nod to her multiracial heritage where the “progenitors of sneaker culture were predominantly kids of colour”. Her dress style can act to disrupt more than just gender meanings; it can be extended to examine class and race. In 2022, referencing the Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez 2021 Met dress, Claudia Perkins, the wife of Australian Greens leader Adam Bandt, wore a “white, full-length dress covered in red and black text” that read “coal kills” and “gas kills”, with slick, long black gloves. Bandt wore a “simple tux with a matching pocket square of the same statement fabric” to the federal parliament Midwinter Ball. Joining Perkins was Greens Senator Sarah Hanson-Young, wearing an “hourglass white dress with a statement on the back in black letters” that read: “end gas and coal”. The trim on the bottom was also covered in the same text. Hanson-Young posted on social media that the “dress is made from a 50-year-old damask table cloth, and the lettering is made from a fast fashion handbag that had fallen apart” (Bliszczyk). Federal MP Nicolle Flint posted a video on Twitter asking a political commentator what a woman in politics should wear. One commentator had taken aim at Flint’s sartorial choices which he described “pearl earrings and a pearly smile” and a “vast wardrobe of blazers, coats and tight, black, ankle-freezing trousers and stiletto heels”. Ending the video, Flint removes her black coat to reveal a “grey bin bag cinched with a black belt” (Norman). In 2018, Québec politician Catherine Dorian was criticised for wearing casual clothes, including Dr Marten boots, in parliament, and again in 2019 when Dorian wore an orange hoodie in the parliamentary chamber. The claim was that Dorian “did not respect decorum” (Pilote and Montreuil). Dorian’s response was “it’s supposed to be the people’s house, so why can’t we look like normal people” (Parrillo). Yet the Québec parliament only has dress rules for men — jacket, shirt and ties — and has no specifics for female attire, meaning a female politician can wear Dr Martens or a hoodie, or meaning that the orthodoxy is that only men will sit in the chamber. The issue of the hoodie, somewhat like Kamala Harris’s wearing of sneakers, is also a class and age issue. For Jo Turney, the hoodie is a “symbol of social disobedience” (23). The garment is mass-produced, ordinary, and democratic, as it can be worn by anyone. It is also a sign of “criminality, anti-social behaviour and out of control youth”. If the media are going to focus on what female politicians are wearing rather than their political actions, it is unsurprising some will use that platform to make social and political comments on issues relating to gender, but also to age, class, and policies. While this may maintain a focus on their sartorial choices, it does remind us of the double bind female politicians are in. With parliamentary rules and social conventions enamoured with the idea of a ‘suit and tie’ being the appropriate uniform for political figures, instances when this ‘rule’ is transgressed will risk public ridicule and social backlash. However, in instances were political women have chosen to wear garments that are not the conventional political uniform of the suit and tie, i.e. a dress or t-shirt with a political slogan, or a hoodie or sneakers reflecting youth, class, or race, they are challenging the customs of what a politician should look like. Politicians today are both men and women, different ages, abilities, sexualities, ethnicities, religions, and demographics. To narrowly suppose what a politician is by what they wear narrows public thinking about a person’s contribution or potential contribution to public life. 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