Auswahl der wissenschaftlichen Literatur zum Thema „Staff-less opening hours“

BackgroundService evaluation requires a detailed understanding of the services studied.MethodCommunity mental health services evaluated in the PRiSM Psychosis Study in south London are described. The intensive sector and standard sector services are contrasted.ResultsThe intensive sector had two teams with extended opening hours: a psychiatric acute care and emergency (PACE) team, and a psychiatric assertive continuing care (PACT) team focusing on care for people with chronic illness. In the standard sector there was a generic community team providing office-hour assessments, case management of the severely mentally ill and close liaison with in-patient services. The team made use of the local psychiatric emergency clinic and of other local resources. The intensive sector was characterised by: more admissions to fewer beds, more non-hospital residential places, extended hours, on-call rota, wider range of interventions, more medical and nursing staff, a lower nursing grade mix and higher staff turnover. The standard sector had a less highly resourced generic community psychiatric service.ConclusionsChange in services has been more marked in the intensive sector.

BackgroundFollowing a medication safety initiative proposed by the PICU Safety Strategy group a pilot was set up to extend the presence of a PICU trained pharmacist in the clinical area.One of the main safety initiatives was to assess whether increased pharmacist exposure decreased drug omission of time critical medicines, which was highlighted from incident reporting patterns on PICU.AimTo assess what impact extending a pharmacist with specific PICU training would have on the medicines management of the PICU patients.MethodThe pilot involved attendance on the afternoon ward round, review of all new admissions and follow up of priority patients as highlighted by the “day” PICU pharmacists. The pilot “late” PICU pharmacist was resident in the hospital, on PICU, for an hour longer than the pharmacy opening hours. A rota ofA basic data collection form was set up on Microsoft Excel. Data collected included start and finish times of the ward round, time leaving PICU, clinical interventions made, queries by staff on PICU and outside of PICU, supplies made, drug omissions prevented, number of times the presence on the unit prevented need to call in the on call pharmacist and interpretation of drug assays reported after pharmacy hours. Follow up of specific medicines management issues highlighted by the “day” pharmacists as requiring action prior to following day pharmacy visit were recorded.ResultsDuring the 74 days data were collected there was 395 drug related queries by PICU staff (252 by nursing staff, 143 by prescribers). The “late” PICU pharmacist was contacted for advice regarding non-PICU patients by the on call or dispensary pharmacist on 7 occasions and 11 times from clinical staff outside of PICU.The “late” pharmacist intervened on 412 prescriptions, some of the interventions arose from the 260 follow up reviews requested by the “day” pharmacists. Of the 236 drug assays reported after pharmacy hours, 126 required intervention by pharmacist.Omission of time critical medicines was prevented on 17 occasions following 79 supplies of non-stock medicines. Calling out the on-call pharmacist was circumvented 11 times.ConclusionThe Safety Strategy teams’ request for increased access to a “late” PICU pharmacist resulted in a number of clinical interventions, appropriate dosing advice on late-in-day reported drugs assays and prevention of delays in medicines, including time critical drugs. Benefits of the specialist pharmacist being on-site to the pharmacy service included less need to access the on call pharmacist for either advice or supplies of medicines. During a pharmacy 7 day working review these data were used to secure the increased clinical pharmacy service to PICU.

153 Background: The importance of involving PC early in the disease process of oncology patients is well documented. Decreased symptom burden, increased quality of life, and extended survival are proven outcomes; however, the provision of PC has largely been limited to the acute care setting in most institutions. Bon Secours St. Francis Health System, a community based healthcare system in Greenville, South Carolina, opened a comprehensive cancer center in late 2014. Our established inpatient PC team began seeing outpatients at the cancer center shortly after its opening. Methods: PC at the cancer center is provided in an “embedded” model of care. PC appointments were initiated at 20 hours/week and have been expanded to 28 hours/week, currently provided by NPs 24 hrs, MD 4 hrs, all of whom are certified in hospice and palliative care. Patients are seen during medical oncology, radiation oncology, or infusion appointments. In August 2015, the PC team began to participate in an interdisciplinary team meeting, reviewing new oncology patients and their expected or known needs. Results: Total visits for 2015: 559/158 new patients seen. Informal interviews from patients, oncology, and PC staff revealed the following benefits: better communication regarding treatment plans; improved symptom management; flexibility and convenience in meeting patients anywhere in the cancer center and; providing resources for staff regarding pain and symptom management and communication techniques. Barriers identified were: scheduling conflicts for patients with multiple appointments; less than full-time coverage by PC prohibits some patients from being seen during their oncology appointments; PC and oncology being separate administrative entities has required creative solutions in billing and staffing. Conclusions: Despite some barriers, the benefits of embedding a PC clinic in a community-based oncology center are clear and worthwhile. This clinic improves coordination of care between inpatient and outpatient services, which results in positive patient experiences. It is hoped that the early integration of PC in the ambulatory setting will result in a decrease in avoidable emergency room visits and hospital admissions.

The author has studied the main problems of operational-search support for the finding missing children. Achieving the article’s objective (to identify the current problems of operational search support for finding missing children) required the use of a sociological method of research (interrogation). To collect empirical data, 228 criminal police officers were questioned as the main investigators for missing children. The analysis and generalization of the respondents' answers enabled the author to come to the following conclusions: 1. The effectiveness of the search for missing children is considered sufficient. The level of operational search support for missing children is estimated to be average. 2. The main common reasons (factors) that affect the effectiveness of the operational-search support for missing children include: the quality of the organization of operational-search support for missing children; logistics. Specific reasons (factors) that affect the effectiveness of the operational-search support of finding missing children are: the quality of regulatory support; the quality of information and analytical support; officer’s experience; timely conduct of search operations; correct assessment of available information; correct presentation of versions; ignoring one or separate versions; the number of officers involved. 3. The timely establishment of the whereabouts of missing children is mainly carried out within 24 hours during criminal proceedings (prior to the initiation of the operational-search case) or without the initiation of an operational-search Case and the opening of criminal proceedings, ie before registration of the notification in a single register of pre-trial investigations, with subsequent registration in the single record. 4. Instruction on the organization of the search of accused, defendants, persons evading criminal punishment, missing persons and identification of an unidentified corpse (order of the Ministry of Internal Affairs of Ukraine dated 05.01.2005 No. 3 "for use only by staff") needs updating and bringing in compliance with practical requirements. 5. Current accounting capabilities for the search for missing children imply a limited choice of information and have the disadvantage of lacking a unified information search system. 6. The most significant problems of operational search support of missing children include: complicated legal and organizational mechanisms of urgent conduct of operational search activities (operational and technical measures) to determine the location of the child; insufficient level of technical support for conducting operational-search measures (operational-technical measures). In this regard, it is advisable to simplify the procedure for deciding whether to conduct an operational-technical (covered investigative (search) action. Less decisive problems are the following: imperfection of agent security; unskilled juvenile prevention officers and poor quality of operational records. 7. The interaction of criminal police units with the public in the search for missing children is insufficient.

BackgroundViolence in and around premises licensed for the on-site sale and consumption of alcohol continues to burden the NHS with assault-related injuries.Trial designA randomised controlled trial with licensed premises as the unit of allocation, with additional process and cost-effectiveness evaluations.MethodsPremises were eligible (n = 837) if they were licensed for on-site sale and consumption of alcohol, were within 1 of the 22 local authorities (LAs) in Wales and had previously experienced violence. Data were analysed using Andersen–Gill recurrent event models in an intention-to-treat analysis. An embedded process evaluation examined intervention implementation, reach, fidelity, dose and receipt. An economic evaluation compared costs of the intervention with benefits.InterventionPremises were randomised to receive a violence-reduction intervention, Safety Management in Licensed Environments (SMILE), which was delivered by an environmental health practitioner (EHP; the agent). SMILE consisted of an initial risk audit to identify known risks of violence, a follow-up audit scheduled to enforce change for premises in which serious risks had been identified, structured advice from EHPs on how risks could be addressed in premises and online materials that provided educational videos and related material.ObjectiveTo develop intervention materials that are acceptable and consistent with EHPs’ statutory remit; to determine the effectiveness of the SMILE intervention in reducing violence; to determine reach, fidelity, dose and receipt of the intervention; and to consider intervention cost-effectiveness.OutcomeDifference in police-recorded violence between intervention and control premises over a 455-day follow-up period.RandomisationA minimum sample size of 274 licensed premises per arm was required, rounded up to 300 and randomly selected from the eligible population. Licensed premises were randomly assigned by computer to intervention and control arms in a 1 : 1 ratio. Optimal allocation was used, stratified by LA. Premises opening hours, volume of previous violence and LA EHP capacity were used to balance the randomisation. Premises were dropped from the study if they were closed at the time of audit.ResultsSMILE was delivered with high levels of reach and fidelity but similar levels of dose to all premises, regardless of risk level. Intervention premises (n = 208) showed an increase in police-recorded violence compared with control premises (n = 245), although results are underpowered. An initial risk audit was less effective than normal practice (hazard ratio = 1.34, 95% confidence interval 1.20 to 1.51) and not cost-effective. Almost all eligible intervention premises (98.6%) received the initial risk audit; nearly 40% of intervention practices should have received follow-up visits but fewer than 10% received one. The intervention was acceptable to EHPs and to some premises staff, but less so for smaller independent premises.ConclusionsSMILE was associated with an increase in police-recorded violence in intervention premises, compared with control premises. A lack of follow-up enforcement visits suggests implementation failure for what was seen as a key mechanism of action. There are also concerns as to the robustness of police data for targeting and assessing outcome effectiveness, while intervention premises may have received greater attention from statutory agencies and, therefore, the identification of more violence than control premises. Although SMILE had high reach and was feasible and acceptable to EHPs, it was found to be ineffective and associated with increased levels of violence, compared with normal practice and it requires additional work to promote the implementation of follow-up enforcement visits. Future work will aim to better understand the role of intervention dose on outcomes and seek more objective measures of violence for use in similar trials.Trial registrationCurrent Controlled Trials ISRCTN78924818.FundingThis project was funded by the NIHR Public Health Research programme and will be published in full inPublic Health Research; Vol. 3, No. 10. See the NIHR Journals Library website for further project information.

Abstract The communication structures of the Ministry of National Defense have a considerable seniority and have played an important role both in different historical, critical periods for the country (wars, political crises) or institutional building (the forming of the Romanian army, of the modern command structures, etc.) as well as during the transition period after 1989. The first military publication, Observatorul Militar, (Military Observer), was released in 1859, being followed by a few thousands of magazines, newsletters, specialized directories, or during the war years of information and opinion journals such as Romania, organ of the General Headquarters, in the years of World War I, or Soldatul (The Soldier), Santinela (The Sentry), during the years of World War II. One after another, others followed such as: since 1916 Studioul Cinematografic al Armatei (Army Cinema Studio), originally, a photo-cinema structure, then specialized in the documentary film: history, presentation or training, and, since 1940, on public radio frequencies Ora Ostaşului (Ora Armatei), (Soldier’s Hour, Army’s Hour), then since 1968, a television broadcast on public television station broadcasting frequencies, since 1996 the web products (the first web site of an army in Eastern Europe, the first site of a ministry within the Government of Romania). The force and the role of the structures varied from period to period Studioul cinematografic (The Cinematographic Studio) had in 1989, 217 employed people, military and civilians, today there are less than 15), according to the budgets and the importance of what they were given by the management structures. The revolution of December 1989 marked the depoliticization of the communication act and the switch to the professionalization of the specialized structures, transforming their propaganda tools into products and means of Public Relations. The years 1990-1995 have marked this process through: (a) the establishment of structures, (b), staff training (in France, Switzerland, Germany, but especially in the United States), (c) the completion of the first guides, instructions, procedures for the field, (d) the opening of the first course for specialists, (e) the initiation of a quarterly specialized magazine Panoramic militar, (Military Panorama), (f) a code of ethics for practitioners.

James Tait Goodrich was born on April 16, 1946 in Portland, Oregon, United States, the son of Richard Goodrich and Gail (Josselyn) Goodrich. Dr. Goodrich served as a Marine officer during the Vietnam War, during which time he decided his next step would be to pursue a medical career. Not only was he an elite surgeon, but over the years he was also a generous mentor and teacher who shared his craft with many young surgeons who wanted to follow in his footsteps. During the Tet Offensive, he spotted a Vietnamese surgeon in a medical tent opening up a soldier’s head. “Cool,” he thought. “I want to do that” (1). Upon return to the USA, Jim married Judy Loudin on December 27, 1970, the love of his life who gave him the confidence and support to pursue his dreams. Dr. Goodrich completed his undergraduate work at the University of California, Irvine and his graduate studies at the School of Arts and Sciences of Columbia University (1972), receiving his Masters and Doctor of Philosophy degrees in 1978 and 1980, respectively. He received his Medical Degree from Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons. After an internship at Columbia- Presbyterian Medical Center (1980-1981), he completed his residency training at the Presbyterian Hospital in New York City and the New York Neurological Institute (1981-1986). He also holds the rank of Professor Contralto of Neurological Surgery at the University of Palermo in Palermo, Italy. He was Director of the Division of Pediatric Neurosurgery at the Children’s Hospital of Montefiore Health System and he served as a Professor of Clinical Neurological Surgery, Pediatrics, Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery at the Albert Einstein College of Medicine since 1998 (2). Dr. James T. Goodrich dedicated his life to saving children with complex neurological conditions. He had a particular interest in the treatment of craniofacial abnormalities. He was a pioneer in this field and developed a multi-stage approach for separating craniopagus twins who have their brain and skull conjoined. In 2016, he famously led a team of 40 doctors in a 27-hour procedure to separate the McDonald twins. Throughout his distinguished career, he became known as the world’s leading expert on this lifesaving procedure. He has been consulted on hundreds of cases, and he routinely traveled the world sharing his vast knowledge and expertise with colleagues (3,4). In Brazil, Dr. Goodrich played a very important role in leading the processes to successfully separate craniopagus sets in Ribeirao Preto (2017-2018), and in Brasilia (2019). A classical multistage surgery was performed to separate the Ribeirao Preto conjoined twins, and Dr. Goodrich participated on all the neurosurgical procedures as a great mentor. In the final operation, on October 28, 2019, some members of Montefiore Hospital medical staff (Dr. Oren Tepper, plastic surgeon, Dr. Carlene Broderick, pediatric anesthesiologist and Kamilah A. Dowling, nurse) also worked alongside Jim and the Brazilian team. An extraordinary and humble man, his words after the first surgical step, during an interview for a TV channel, were that in “this particular surgery we were able to do more than we expected because the anatomy was very good and the team had exceptional skills that made the difference”. Dr. Goodrich was a chief supporter of the Latin American Pediatric Neurosurgery Course (LACPN), having participated in all editions since 2004. In these events, he did not hesitate to share his knowledge during the hands-on sessions and, likewise, his wonderful conferences. Prof. Goodrich was officially honored by the Brazilian Society for Pediatric Neurosurgery during the “XII Brazilian Congress of Pediatric Neurosurgery”, in Florianopolis, Brazil. Dr. Goodrich was a gentle and truly caring man. He did not crave the limelight and was beloved by his colleagues and staff. He has authored numerous book chapters and articles on Pediatric Neurosurgery and is known worldwide as a prominent lecturer in this field. Outside his work, he was also known for his passion for historical artifacts, travelling, wine, and surfing. Dr. Goodrich was an incredible human being. In March 30th, 2020, he passed away after complications due to Covid-19 (5). In that day the world has become a little less bright without Jim. Our sympathy and prayers go to his wife Judy, his three sisters, and all those who were close to him

Background: Coolers in food service establishments should ideally operate at 4°C or less. However in restaurant environments cooler doors are continually being opened and closed as food workers gather and store items. These actions may lead to temperature fluctuations in coolers which may pose a health risk towards the storage of potentially hazardous foods. This study measured and analyzed temperature fluctuations in coolers and quantified the risk they presented by modelling Listeria monocytogenes growth in response to these temperatures. Method: ACR Systems Inc. Smart Buttons were placed near the opening of restaurant coolers and recorded temperatures over a 1-week span. Food Spoilage and Safety Predictor (FSSP) was used to model L. monocytogenes growth in response to the collected cooler temperatures. Results: Coolers spend significantly less than 50% of the time above 4°C. The magnitude of temperature fluctuations during open business hours was found to be insignificant in comparison to fluctuations during closed business hours. However, fluctuations were significantly greater in reach-in coolers than in walk-in coolers. With respect to modeled L. monocytogenes growth, it was inconclusive on whether growth would be more or less than Health Canada’s 100cfu/g policy in smoked salmon. However growth was significantly less than this limit in ready-to-eat ham. Conclusions: More restaurant coolers need to be analyzed to confirm whether the defrost cycles of coolers have a greater impact on temperature fluctuations above 4°C than the daily activities of staff members. In addition, more coolers need to be analyzed to determine whether L. monocytogenes growth in smoked salmon stored in coolers for a week grow significantly more than 100cfu/g. However, it can be concluded L. monocytogenes growth will be significantly less than 100cfu/g in ready-to-eat ham and will pose a lower risk for listeriosis than smoked salmon.

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

A Site for the Study of Ambience Deep in Melbourne’s subterranean belly lies a long, dark space dedicated to screen-based art. Built along disused train platforms, it’s even possible to hear the ghostly rumblings and clatter of trains passing alongside the length of the gallery on quiet days. Upon descending the single staircase leading into this dimly-lit space, visitors encounter a distinctive sensory immersion. A flicker of screens dapple the windowless vastness ahead, perhaps briefly highlighting entrances into smaller rooms or the faintly-outlined profiles of visitors. This space often houses time-based moving image artworks. The optical flicker and aural stirrings of adjacent works distract, luring visitors’ attention towards an elsewhere. Yet on other occasions, this gallery’s art is bounded by walls, private enclosures which absorb perceptions of time into the surrounding darkness. Some works lie dormant awaiting visitors’ intervention, while others rotate on endless loops, cycling by unheeded, at times creating an environment of visual and aural collision. A weak haze of daylight falls from above mid-way through the space, marking the gallery’s only exit – an escalator fitted with low glowing lights. This is a space of thematic and physical reinvention. Movable walls and a retractable mezzanine enable the 110 metre long, 15 metre wide and almost 10 metre high space to be reformed with each exhibition, as evidenced by the many exhibitions that this Screen Gallery has hosted since opening as a part of the Australian for the Moving Image (ACMI) in 2002. ACMI endured controversial beginnings over the public funds dedicated to its gallery, cinemas, public editing and games labs, TV production studio, and screen education programs. As media interrogation of ACMI’s role and purpose intensified, several pressing critical and public policy questions surfaced as to how visitors were engaging with and valuing this institution and its spaces. In this context, I undertook the first, in depth qualitative study of visitation to ACMI, so as to address these issues and also the dearth of supporting literature into museum visitation (beyond broad, quantitative analyses). Of particular interest was ACMI’s Screen Gallery, for it appeared to represent something experientially unique and historically distinctive as compared to museums and galleries of the past. I therefore undertook an ethnographic study of museum visitation to codify the expression of ACMI’s institutional remit in light of the modalities of its visitors’ experiences in the Gallery. This rich empirical material formed the basis of my study and also this article, an ethnography of the Screen Gallery’s ambience. My study was undertaken across two exhibitions, World without End and White Noise (2005). While WWE was thematically linear in its charting of the dawn of time, globalisation and apocalypse, visitor interaction was highly non-linear. The moving image was presented in a variety of forms and spaces, from the isolation of works in rooms, the cohabitation of the very large to very small in the gallery proper, to enclosures created by multiple screens, laser-triggered interactivity and even plastic bowls with which visitors could ‘capture’ projections of light. Where heterogeneity was embraced in WWE, WN offered a smoother and less rapturous environment. It presented works by artists regarded as leaders of recent practices in the abstraction of the moving image. Rather than recreating the free exploratory movement of WWE, the WN visitor was guided along one main corridor. Each work was situated in a room or space situated to the right-hand side of the passageway. This isolation created a deep sense of immersion and intimacy with each work. Low-level white noise was even played across the Gallery so as to absorb the aural ‘bleed’ from neighbouring works. For my study, I used qualitative ethnographic techniques to gather phenomenological material, namely longitudinal participant observation and interviews. The observations were conducted on a fortnightly basis for seven months. I typically spent two to three hours shadowing visitors as they moved through the Gallery, detailing patterns of interaction; from gross physical movement and speech, to the very subtle modalities of encounter: a faint smile, a hesitation, or lapsing into complete stillness. I specifically recruited visitors for interviews immediately after their visit so as to probe further into these phenomenological moments while their effects were still fresh. I also endeavoured to capture a wide cross-sample of responses by recruiting on the basis of age, gender and reason for visitation. Ten in-depth interviews (between 45 minutes and one hour) were undertaken, enquiring into the factors influencing impressions of the Gallery, such as previous museum and art experiences, and opinions about media art and technology. In this article, I particularly draw upon my interviews with Steven, Fleur, Heidi, Sean, Trevor and Mathew. These visitors’ commentaries were selected as they reflect upon the overall ambience of the Gallery–intimate recollections of moving through darkness and projections of light–rather than engagement with individual works. When referring to ambience, I borrow from Brian Eno’s 1978 manifesto of Ambient Music, as it offers a useful analogy for assessing the complexity within subtle aesthetic experiences, and more specifically, in a spatial environment generated by electronic means. An ambience is defined as an atmosphere, or a surrounding influence: a tint…Whereas the extant canned music companies proceed from the basis of regularizing environments by blanketing their acoustic and atmospheric idiosyncrasies, Ambient Music is intended to enhance these. Whereas conventional background music is produced by stripping away all sense of doubt and uncertainty (and thus all genuine interest) from the music, Ambient Music retains these qualities. And whereas their intention is to ‘brighten’ the environment by adding stimulus to it… Ambient Music is intended to induce calm and a space to think…Ambient Music must be able to accommodate many levels of listening attention without enforcing one in particular; it must be as ignorable as it is interesting. (Eno, "Ambient Music")While Eno’s definition specifically discusses a listening space, it is comparable to the predominantly digital and visual gallery environment as it elicits similar states of attention, such as calm reflection, or even a peaceful emptying of thoughts. I propose that ACMI’s darkened Screen Gallery creates an exploratory space for such intimate, bodily, subjective experiences. I firstly locate this study within the genealogical context of visitor interaction in museum exhibition environments. We then follow the visitors through the Gallery. As the nuances of their journey are presented, I assess the significance of an alternate model for presenting art which encourages ‘active’ aesthetic experience by privileging ambiguity and subtlety–yet heightened interactivity–and is similar to the systemic complexity Eno accords his Ambient Music. Navigating Museums in the Past The first public museums appeared in the context of the emerging liberal democratic state as both a product and articulation of the early stages of modernity in the nineteenth century. Museum practitioners enforced boundaries by prescribing visitors’ routes architecturally, by presenting museum objects within firm knowledge categories, and by separating visitors from objects with glass cabinets. By making their objects publicly accessible and tightly governing visitors’ parameters of spatial interaction, museums could enforce a pedagogical regulation of moral codes, an expression of ‘governmentality’ which constituted the individual as both a subject and object of knowledge (Bennett "Birth", Culture; Hooper-Greenhill). The advent of high modernism in the mid-twentieth century enforced positivist doctrines through a firm direction of visitor movement, exemplified by Le Corbusier’s Musée à Croissance Illimitée (1939) and Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim Museum in New York (1959) (Davey 36). In more recent stages of modernity, architecture has attempted to reconcile the singular authority imposed by a building’s design. Robert Venturi, a key theorist of post-modern architecture, argued that the museum’s pedagogical failure to achieve social and political reforms was due to the purist and universalist values expressed within modern architecture. He proposed that post-modern architecture could challenge aesthetic modernism with a playful hybridity which emphasises symbolism and sculptural forms in architecture, and expresses a more diverse set of pluralist ideologies. Examples might include Hans Hollein’s Abteiberg Museum (1972-1982), or the National Museum of Australia in Canberra (2001). Contemporary attempts to design museum interactions reflect the aspirations of the ‘new museum.’ They similarly address a pluralist agenda, but mediate increasingly individualised forms of participation though highly interactive technological interfaces (Message). Commenting about art galleries, Lev Manovich greets this shift with some pessimism. He argues that the high art of the ‘white cube’ gallery is now confronting its ‘ideological enemy’, the ‘black box’, a historically ‘lower’ art form of cinema theatre (10). He claims that the history of spatial experimentation in art galleries is being reversed as much moving image art has been exhibited using a video projection in a darkened room, thereby limiting visitor participation to earlier, static forms of engagement. However, he proposes that new technologies could have an important presence and role in cultural institutions as an ‘augmented space’, in which layers of data overlay physical space. He queries whether this could create new possibilities for spatial interaction, such that cultural institutions might play a progressive role in exploring new futures (14). The Screen Gallery at ACMI embodies the characteristics of the ‘new museum’ as far as it demands multiple modalities of participation in a technological environment. It could perhaps also be regarded an experimental ‘black box’ in that it houses multiple screens, yet, as we shall see, elicits participation unbefitting of a cinema. We therefore turn now to examine visitors’ observations of the Gallery’s design, thereby garnering the experiential significance of passage through a moving image art space. Descending into Darkness Descending the staircase into the Gallery is a process of proceeding into shadows. The blackened cavity (fig. 1) therefore looms ahead as a clear visceral departure from the bustle of Federation Square above (fig. 2), and the clean brightness of ACMI’s foyer (fig. 3). Figure 1: Descent into ACMI's Screen Gallery Figure 2: ACMI at Federation Square, Melbourne Figure 3: ACMI’s foyer One visitor, Fleur, described this passage as a sense of going “deep underground,” where the affective power of darkness overwhelmed other sensory details: “I can’t picture it in my mind – sort of where the gallery finishes… And it’s perfect, it’s dark, and it’s… quiet-ish.” Many visitors found that an entrance softened by shadows added a trace of suspense to the beginnings of their journey. Heidi described how, “because it’s dark and you can’t actually see the people walking about… it’s a little bit more mysterious.” Fleur similarly remarked that “you’re not quite sure what you’re going to meet when you go around. And there’s a certain anticipation.” Steven found that the ambiguity surrounding the conventions of procedure through Gallery was “quite interesting, that experience of being a little bit unsure of where you’re going or not being able to see.” He attributed feelings of disorientation to the way the deep shadows of the Gallery routinely obscured measurement of time: “it’s that darkness that makes it a place where it’s like a time sync… You could spend hours in there… You sort of lose track of time… The darkness kind of contributes to that.” Multiple Pathways The ambiguity of the Gallery compelled visitors to actively engage with the space by developing their own rules for procedure. For example, Sean described how darkness and minimal use of signage generated multiple possibilities for passage: “you kind of need to wander through and guide yourself. It’s fairly dark as well and there aren’t any signs saying ‘Come this way,’ and it was only by sort of accident we found some of the spaces down the very back. Because, it’s very dark… We could very well have missed that.” Katrina similarly explained how she developed a participatory journey through movement: “when you first walk in, it just feels like empty space, and not exactly sure what’s going on and what to look at… and you think nothing is going on, so you have to kind of walk around and get a feel for it.” Steven used this participatory movement to navigate. He remarked that “there’s a kind of basic ‘what’s next?’… When you got down you could see maybe about four works immediately... There’s a kind of choice about ‘this is the one I’ll pay attention to first’, or ‘look, there’s this other one over there – that looks interesting, I might go and come back to this’. So, there’s a kind of charting of the trip through the exhibition.” Therefore while ambiguous rules for procedure undermine traditional forms of interaction in the museum, they prompted visitors to draw upon their sensory perception to construct a self-guided and exploratory path of engagement. However, mystery and ambiguity can also complicate visitors’ sense of self determination. Fleur noted how crossing the threshold into a space without clear conventions for procedure could challenge some visitors: “you have to commit yourself to go into a space like that, and I think the first time, when you’re not sure what’s down there… I think people going there for the first time would probably… find it difficult.” Trevor found this to be the case, objecting that “the part that doesn’t work, is that it doesn’t work as a space that’s easy to get around.” These comments suggest that an ‘unintended consequence’ (Beck) of relaxing contemporary museum conventions to encourage greater visitor autonomy, can be the contrary effect of making navigation more difficult. Visitors struggling to negotiate these conditions may find themselves subject to what Daniel Palmer terms the ‘paradox of user control’, in which contemporary forms of choice prove to be illusory, as they inhibit an individual’s freedom through ‘soft’ forms of domination. The ambiguity created by the Gallery’s darkness therefore brings two disparate – if not contradictory – tendencies together, as concluded by Fleur: “The darkness is – it’s both an advantage and a disadvantage… You can’t sort of see each other as well, but there’s also a bit of freedom in that. In that it sort of goes both ways.” A Journey of Subtle Cues Several strategies to ameliorate disorienting navigation experiences were employed in the Screen Gallery, attempting to create new possibilities for meaningful interaction. Some reflect typical curatorial conventions, such as mounting didactic panels along walls and strategically placing staff as guides. However, visitors frequently eschewed these markers and were instead drawn powerfully to affective conventions, including the shadings of light and sound. Sean noted how small beacons of light at foot level were prominent features, as they illuminated the entrances to rooms and corridors: “That’s your over-whelming impression, because it’s dark and there’s just these feature spotlights… and they’re an interesting device, because they sort of lead your eye through the space as well, and say ‘oh that’s where the next event is, there’s a spotlight over there’.” The luminescence of artworks served a similar purpose, for within “the darkness, the boundaries are less visible, and… you’re drawn to the light, you know, you’re drawn to those screens.” He found that directional sound above artworks also created a comparable effect: “I was aware of the fact that things were quiet until you approached the right spot and obviously it’s where the sound was focussed.” These conventions reflect what Trini Castelli calls ‘soft design’, by which space is made cohesively sensual (Glibb in Mitchell 87-88). The Gallery uses light and sound to fashions this visceral ‘feeling’ of spatial continuity, a seamless ambience. Paul described how this had a pleasurable effect, where the “atmosphere of the space” created “a very nice place to be… Lots of low lighting.” Fleur similarly recalled lasting somatic impressions: “It’s a bit like a cave, I suppose… The atmosphere is so different… it’s warm, I find it quite a relaxing place to be, I find it quite calm…Yeah, it has that feeling of private space to it.” Soft design therefore tempers the spatial severity of museums past through this sensuous ‘participatory environment.’ Interaction with art therefore becomes, as Steven enthused, “an exhibition experience” where “it’s as much (for me) the experience of moving between works as attending to the work itself… That seems really prominent in the experience, that it’s not these kind of isolated, individual works, they’re in relation to each other.” Disruptions to this experiential continuity – what Eno had described as a ‘stimulus’ – were subject to harsh judgement. When asked why he preferred to stand against the back wall of a room, rather than take a seat on the chairs provided, Matthew protested that “the spotlight was on those frigging couches, who wants to sit there? That would’ve been horrible.” Visitors clearly expressed a preference towards a form of spatial interaction in which curatorial conventions heighten, rather than detract from, the immersive dynamic of the museum environment. They showed how the feelings of ambiguity and suspense which absorbed them in the Gallery’s entrance gradually began to dissipate. In their place, a preference arose for conventions which maintained the Gallery’s immersive continuity, and where cues such as focused sound and footlights had a calming effect, and created a cohesive sensual journey through the dark. The Ambience of Art Space Visitors’ comments acquire an additional significance when examined in light of Eno’s earlier definition of what he called Ambient Music. He suggested that even in relative stillness, there exists a capacity for active forms of listening which create a “space to think” and generate a “quiet interest.” In addition, and perhaps most importantly, these active forms of listening are augmented by the “atmospheric idiosyncrasies” which are derived from conditions of uncertainty. As I have shown, the darkened Screen Gallery obscures the rules for visitor participation and consequently elicits doubt and hesitation. Visitors must self-navigate and be guided by sensory perception, responding to the kinaesthetic touch of light on skin and the subtle drifts of sound to constructing a journey through the enveloping darkness. This spatial ambience can therefore be understood as the specific condition which make the Gallery a fertile site for new exchanges between visitors, artworks and curation within the museum. Arjun Mulder defines this kind of dynamism in architectural space as a form of systemic interactivity, the “default state of any living system,” in the way that any system can be considered interactive if it links into, and affects change upon another (Mulder 332). Therefore while museums have historically been spaces for interaction, they have not always been interactive spaces in the sense described by Mulder, where visitor participation and processes of exchange are heightened by the conditions of ambience, and can compel self-determined journeys of visitor enquiry and feelings of relaxation and immersion. ACMI’s Screen Gallery has therefore come to define its practices by heightening these forms of encounter, and elevating the affective possibilities for interacting with art. Traditional museum conventions have been challenged by playing with experiential dynamics. These practices create an ambience which is particular to the gallery, and historically unlike the experiential ecologies of preceding forms of museum, gallery or moving space, be it the white cube or a simple ‘black box’ room for video projections. This perhaps signifies a distinctive moment in the genealogy of the museum, indicating how one instance of an art environment’s ambience can become a rubric for new forms of visitor interaction. References Beck, Ulrich. “The Reinvention of Politics: Towards a Theory of Reflexive Modernization.” Reflexive Modernization: Politics, Tradition and Aesthetics in the Modern Social Order. Eds. Ulrich Beck, Anthony Giddens, and Scott Lash. Cambridge: Politics, 1994. 1-55. Bennett, Tony. The Birth of the Museum: History, Theory, Politics. London; New York: Routledge. 1995. ———. “Culture and Governmentality.” Foucault, Cultural Studies and Governmentality. Eds. J.Z. Bratich, J. Packer, and C. McCarthy. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2003. 47-64. Davey, Peter. “Museums in an N-Dimensional World.” The Architectural Review 1242 (2000): 36-37. Eno, Brian. “Resonant Complexity.” Whole Earth Review (Summer 1994): 42-43. ———. “Ambient Music.” A Year with Swollen Appendices: The Diary of Brian Eno. London: Faber and Faber, 1996. 293-297. Hooper-Greenhill, Eileen. “Museums and Education for the 21st Century.” Museum and Gallery Education. London: Leicester University Press, 1991. 187-193. Manovich, Lev. “The Poetics of Augmented Space: Learning from Prada.” 27 April 2010 ‹http://creativetechnology.salford.ac.uk/fuchs/modules/creative_technology/architecture/manovich_augmented_space.pdf›. Message, Kylie. “The New Museum.” Theory, Culture and Society: Special Issue on Problematizing Global Knowledge. Eds. Mike Featherstone, Couze Venn, and Ryan Bishop, John Phillips. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2006. 603-606. Mitchell, T. C. Redefining Designing: From Form to Experience. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1993. Mulder, Arjun. “The Object of Interactivity.” NOX: Machining Architecture. London: Thames and Hudson, 2004. 332-340. Palmer, Daniel. “The Paradox of User Control.” Melbourne Digital Art and Culture 2003 Conference Proceedings. Melbourne: RMIT, 2003. 167-172. Venturi, Robert. Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1966.

In 2017, the City of Gothenburg implemented its first more-open unstaffed self-service library station. The following year, the first more-open library was implemented. The purpose of this thesis has been to increase the understanding of more-open library services and to investigate how they are presented in public documents and by representatives of the City of Gothenburg's cultural administration and culture committee. The theoretical framework consists of elements from neo-institutional organisational theory. The starting point is the view of organisations as part of an institutional context where the understanding of organisational development and change is analysed by looking at factors surrounding the organisation. Concepts such as legitimacy, organisational isomorphism and organisational fields are central to the work. The study has been conducted through a mixed-method approach and consists of a document study of public documents and a semi-structured interview study with three library managers, the chairperson for the culture committee and an official from the culture administration. The material has then been analysed through a qualitative content analysis where themes have been identified in the data collection. The study concludes that more-open library services are considered a complement to regular library activities. Above all, more-open library services are justified by increased accessibility to libraries and culture for members of the public. Even though not everyone can use more-open libraries, the more-open services are considered to increase the total accessibility in the city. The study has found some perceived prerequisites for more-open libraries, which can be summarized as follows: a suitable library facility, a quiet local environment with the library placed within a certain context, time for planning activities, technical resources, a pedagogical approach, and independent users who can handle self-service technique. More-open library services can both gain legitimacy and be legitimized with reference to increased availability and efficient use of tax funds. This is a two-year master’s thesis in Library and Information Science.